THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

by Anthony Trollope

CHAPTER I - THREE EDITORS

Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character anddoings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, asshe sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house inWelbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, and wrotemany letters wrote also very much beside letters. She spoke of herselfin these days as a woman devoted to Literature, always spelling theword with a big L. Something of the nature of her devotion may belearned by the perusal of three letters which on this morning she hadwritten with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was rapid ineverything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of letters. Here is Letter No. 1

 Thursday, Welbeck Street. 

 DEAR FRIEND, 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. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! 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. I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens. " The sketch of Semiramis is at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII and his sinful but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. 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. 

 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. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving. 

 Yours gratefully and faithfully, MATILDA CARBURY. 

 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. 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. I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?

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 importantof the three. Mr Broune was a man powerful in his profession, --and hewas fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself anold woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no oneelse regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to thereader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr Broune, it hadnever been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her years sowell, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossibleto deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she used her beautynot only to increase her influence, --as is natural to women who arewell-favoured, --but also with a well-considered calculation that shecould obtain material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to Her, by a prudent adaptation to herpurposes of the good things with which providence had endowed her. Shedid not fall in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commitherself; but she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, andlooked out of her own eyes into men's eyes as though there might besome mysterious bond between her and them--if only mysteriouscircumstances would permit it. But the end of all was to induce someone to do something which would cause a publisher to give her goodpayment for indifferent writing, or an editor to be lenient when, uponthe merits of the case, he should have been severe. Among all herliterary friends, Mr Broune was the one in whom she most trusted; andMr Broune was fond of handsome women. It may be as well to give ashort record of a scene which had taken place between Lady Carbury andher friend about a month before the writing of this letter which hasbeen produced. 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 forremuneration above rate No. 2, or possibly even No. 3. So she hadlooked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a momentin his. A man in such circumstances is so often awkward, not knowingwith any accuracy when to do one thing and when another! Mr Broune, ina moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist andhad kissed her. To say that Lady Carbury was angry, as most womenwould be angry if so treated, would be to give an unjust idea of hercharacter. It was a little accident which really carried with it noinjury, unless it should be the injury of leading to a rupture betweenherself and a valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. Whatdid it matter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm hadbeen done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made atonce to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, andthen made him an excellent little speech. 'Mr Broune, how foolish, howwrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put anend to the friendship between us!'

'Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that. '

'Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my daughter, --both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--so much sufferedand so little deserved. No one knows them so well as you do. Think ofmy name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! Saythat you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten. '

When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him tosay the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It isas much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation. Mr Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quiteexpect it. 'You know that for world I would not offend you, ' he said. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and a promisewas given that the articles should be printed--and with generousremuneration. 

When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having beenquite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hardwork done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a streetcab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has aprivate carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to havebeen kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr Broune the affair was moreserious. 'Confound them all, ' he said to himself as he left the house;'no amount of experience enables a man to know them. ' As he went awayhe almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss heragain, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had not doneso. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeatedthe offence. 

We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressedto the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to MrBooker, of the 'Literary Chronicle. ' Mr Booker was a hard-workingprofessor of literature, by no means without talent, by no meanswithout influence, and by no means without a conscience. But, from thenature of the struggles in which he had been engaged, by compromiseswhich had gradually been driven upon him by the encroachment ofbrother authors on the one side and by the demands on the other ofemployers who looked only to their profits, he had fallen into aroutine of work in which it was very difficult to be scrupulous, andalmost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a literary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with a large family ofdaughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on him with two littlechildren. He had five hundred a year for editing the 'LiteraryChronicle, ' which, through his energy, had become a valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out some book of his own almostannually. He kept his head above water, and was regarded by those whoknew about him, but did not know him, as a successful man. He alwayskept up his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that hecould hold his own. But he was driven by the stress of circumstancesto take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly affordto be independent. It must be confessed that literary scruple had longdeparted from his mind. Letter No. 2 was as follows;--

 Welbeck Street, 25th February, 187-. 

 DEAR MR BOOKER, I have told Mr Leadham [Mr Leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs. Leadham and Loiter] to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens. " I have already settled with my friend Mr Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table. " Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold. 

 Yours sincerely, MATILDA CARBURY. 

 ALFRED BOOKER, ESQ. , "Literary Chronicle" Office, Strand. 

There was nothing in this which shocked Mr Booker. He laughedinwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of LadyCarbury dealing with his views of Protestantism, --as he thought alsoof the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady mustinevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her toknow nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourablenotice in the 'Breakfast Table' of his very thoughtful work, calledthe 'New Tale of a Tub, ' would serve him, even though written by thehand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunctionas to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the 'LiteraryChronicle. ' He would not probably say that the book was accurate, buthe would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that thefeminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with amasterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly makeits way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work, and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's 'CriminalQueens, ' without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He couldalmost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposesof after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr Booker was an honestman, and had set his face persistently against many literarymalpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the Frenchhabit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had beenrebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to berather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was hecould not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. 'Bad;of course it is bad, ' he said to a young friend who was working withhim on his periodical. 'Who doubts that? How many very bad things arethere that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad waysat once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong enough toput the world straight, and I doubt if you are. ' Such was Mr Booker. 

Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr Ferdinand Alf. Mr Alf managed, and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the 'Evening Pulpit, ' which duringthe last two years had become 'quite a property, ' as men connectedwith the press were in the habit of saying. The 'Evening Pulpit' wassupposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and doneup to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in themetropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be thesayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was effectedwith an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently with anignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing wasclever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, ifnot logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of the paper had thegift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he cateredwould like to read, and how to get his subjects handled so that thereading should be pleasant. Mr Booker's 'Literary Chronicle' did notpresume to entertain any special political opinions. The 'BreakfastTable' was decidedly Liberal. The 'Evening Pulpit' was much given topolitics, but held strictly to the motto which it had assumed;--

 Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri

and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusingwhat was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaperthat wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns andweary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull, --afact that Mr Alf had discovered and had utilized. 

Mr Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those whooccasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and theywho give personal offence will sometimes make the world too hot tohold them. But censure from those who are always finding fault isregarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to beobjectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is heldto be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man'sface and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him tovilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series ofportraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, hewould certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr Alf never madeenemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of hisnewspaper went, was satisfied with nothing. 

Personally, Mr Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came orwhat he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew; andcertain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue theslightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded to himthat he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During thelast year or two he had 'come up' as the phrase goes, and had come upvery thoroughly. He had been blackballed at three or four clubs, buthad effected an entrance at two or three others, and had learned amanner of speaking of those which had rejected him calculated to leaveon the minds of hearers a conviction that the societies in questionwere antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He was never weary ofimplying 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 andhow he might he was always to be recognized as a desirableacquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. And that which heso constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around him began atlast to believe, --and Mr Alf became an acknowledged something in thedifferent worlds of politics, letters, and fashion. 

He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himselfas though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, withdark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for thedyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on hismouth the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharpseverity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost simplicity, but alsowith the utmost care. He was unmarried, had a small house of his ownclose to Berkeley Square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn£6, 000 a year out of the 'Evening Pulpit' and to spend about half ofthat income. He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had beenunwearied. Her letter to Mr Alf was as follows:

 DEAR MR ALF, Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully deserved. 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. 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. 

 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? It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as myself. 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. 

 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. ' I venture to think that the book, --though I wrote it myself, --has an importance of its own which will secure for it some notice. 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. 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. 

 I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or the week following. And pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile. 

 Most sincerely yours, MATILDA CARBURY. 

Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back inher chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though about torest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life did notadmit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and began scribblingfurther notes. 

CHAPTER II - THE CARBURY FAMILY

Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader inthe letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added. Shehas declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shownthat she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken withmuch confidence. If the reader does not understand so much from herletters to the three editors they have been written in vain. She hasbeen made to say that her object in work was to provide for the needof her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she wasstruggling to make for herself a career in literature. Detestablyfalse as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely andabominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouringto achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had beencarried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which shehad lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself weresubstantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was true to her children, --especially devoted to one of them--andwas ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance theirinterests. 

She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since haddone great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereuponcreated a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, hadoccasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill-used her. Indoing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faults hadnever been that of even incipient, --not even of sentimental--infidelityto her husband. When as a lovely and penniless girl of eighteen shehad consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of alarge income, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of thatsort of love which poets describe and which young people generallydesire to experience. Sir Patrick at the time of his marriage wasred-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in money, suspiciousin temper, and intelligent. He knew how to govern men. He could readand understand a book. There was nothing mean about him. He had hisattractive qualities. He was a man who might be loved, --but he washardly a man for love. The young Lady Carbury had understood herposition and had determined to do her duty. She had resolved beforeshe went to the altar that she would never allow herself to flirt andshe had never flirted. For fifteen years things had gone tolerablywell with her, --by which it is intended that the reader shouldunderstand that they had so gone that she had been able to toleratethem. They had been home in England for three or four years, and thenSir Patrick had returned with some new and higher appointment. Forfifteen years, though he had been passionate, imperious, and oftencruel, he had never been jealous. A boy and a girl had been born tothem, to whom both father and mother had been over indulgent, --but themother, according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her duty bythem. But from the commencement of her life she had been educated indeceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceitnecessary to her. Her mother had run away from her father, and she hadbeen tossed to and fro between this and that protector, sometimesbeing in danger of wanting any one to care for her, till she had beenmade sharp, incredulous, and untrustworthy by the difficulties of herposition. But she was clever, and had picked up an education and goodmanners amidst the difficulties of her childhood, --and had beenbeautiful to look at. 

To marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, tolive in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition, --and duringthe first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidstgreat difficulties. She would smile within five minutes of violentill-usage. Her husband would even strike her, --and the first effort ofher mind would be given to conceal the fact from all the world. Inlatter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first toprevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the ill effects ofthe evil. But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and lived alife of manoeuvres. Then, at last, when she felt that she was nolonger quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt to formfriendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the othersex. If fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship, if themarried state does not exact from a woman the necessity of debarringherself from all friendly intercourse with any man except her lord, Lady Carbury was not faithless. But Sir Carbury became jealous, spokewords which even she could not endure, did things which drove even herbeyond the calculations of her prudence, --and she left him. But eventhis she did in so guarded a way that, as to every step she took, shecould prove her innocence. Her life at that period is of little momentto our story, except that it is essential that the reader should knowin what she had been slandered. For a month or two all hard words hadbeen said against her by her husband's friends, and even by SirPatrick himself. But gradually the truth was known, and after a year'sseparation they came again together and she remained the mistress ofhis house till he died. She brought him home to England, but duringthe short period left to him of life in his old country he had been aworn-out, dying invalid. But the scandal of her great misfortune hadfollowed her, and some people were never tired of reminding othersthat in the course of her married life Lady Carbury had run away fromher husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted oldgentleman. 

Sir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no meansgreat wealth. To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he had left£1, 000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision that afterher death the latter sum should be divided between his son anddaughter. It therefore came to pass that the young man, who hadalready entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolvedno necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequentlylived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with whichhis mother and sister were obliged to maintain a roof over their head. Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldom at the ageof forty, had no idea at all of passing her future life amidst theordinary penances of widowhood. She had hitherto endeavoured to do herduty, knowing that in accepting her position she was bound to take thegood and the bad together. She had certainly encountered hitherto muchthat was bad. To be scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by acholeric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by theviolence of his ill-usage; to be taken back as a favour with theassurance that her name would for the remainder of her life beunjustly 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 dyingdebauchee, was a high price to pay for such good things as she hadhitherto enjoyed. Now at length had come to her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness. She thought muchabout herself, and resolved on one or two things. The time for lovehad gone by, and she would have nothing to do with it. Nor would shemarry again for convenience. But she would have friends, --real friends;friends who could help her, --and whom possibly she might help. Shewould, too, make some career for herself, so that life might not bewithout an interest to her. She would live in London, and would becomesomebody at any rate in some circle. Accident at first rather thanchoice had thrown her among literary people, but that accident had, during the last two years, been supported and corroborated by thedesire which had fallen upon her of earning money. She had known fromthe first that economy would be necessary to her, --not chiefly orperhaps not at all from a feeling that she and her daughter could notlive comfortably together on a thousand a year, --but on behalf of herson. She wanted no luxury but a house so placed that people mightconceive of her that she lived in a proper part of the town. Of herdaughter's prudence she was as well convinced as of her own. She couldtrust Henrietta in everything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not verytrustworthy. And yet Sir Felix was the darling of her heart. 

At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story issupposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felix wasthen twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had altogetherwasted the property which his father had left him. So much the motherknew, --and knew, therefore, that with her limited income she mustmaintain not only herself and daughter, but also the baronet. She didnot know, however, the amount of the baronet's obligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. A baronet, holding a commission inthe 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 useof all his privileges. His life had been in every way bad. He hadbecome a burden on his mother so heavy, --and on his sister also, --thattheir life had become one of unavoidable embarrassments. But not for amoment, had either of them ever quarrelled with him. Henrietta hadbeen taught by the conduct of both father and mother that every vicemight be forgiven in a man and in a son, though every virtue wasexpected from a woman, and especially from a daughter. The lesson hadcome to her so early in life that she had learned it without thefeeling of any grievance. She lamented her brother's evil conduct asit affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it affectedherself. That all her interests in life should be made subservient tohim was natural to her; and when she found that her little comfortswere discontinued, and her moderate expenses curtailed, because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up also all thatwas his mother's, she never complained. Henrietta had been taught tothink that men in that rank of life in which she had been born alwaysdid eat up everything. 

The mother's feeling was less noble. --or perhaps, it might better besaid, more open to censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which herheart had riveted itself. Even during the career of his folly she hadhardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of stopping himon his road to ruin. In everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and ineverything she still spoilt him as a man. She was almost proud of hisvices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings which if not viciousof themselves had been ruinous from their extravagance. She had soindulged him that even in her own presence he was never ashamed of hisown selfishness or apparently conscious of the injustice which he didto others. 

From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literaturewhich had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure inthe work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted intohard work by which money if possible might be earned. So that LadyCarbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggleswas speaking the truth. Tidings had reached her of this and the otherman's success, and, --coming near to her still, --of this and that otherwoman's earnings in literature. And it had seemed to her that, withinmoderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes. Why shouldshe not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might againlive like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady Carbury'slook-out into the future, was destined to make all things straight!Who was so handsome as her son? Who could make himself more agreeable?Who had more of that audacity which is the chief thing necessary tothe winning of heiresses?

And then he could make his wife Lady Carbury. If only enough moneymight be earned to tide over the present evil day, all might be well. 

The one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all thiswas probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was to be obtainednot by producing good books, but by inducing certain people to saythat her books were good. She did work hard at what she wrote, --hardenough at any rate to cover her pages quickly; and was, by nature, aclever woman. She could write after a glib, commonplace, sprightlyfashion, and had already acquired the knack of spreading all she knewvery thin, so that it might cover a vast surface. She had no ambitionto write a good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book thatthe critics should say was good. Had Mr Broune, in his closet, toldher that her book was absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the sametime to have it violently praised in the 'Breakfast Table', it may bedoubted whether the critic's own opinion would have even wounded hervanity. The woman was false from head to foot, but there was much ofgood in her, false though she was. 

Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by badtraining, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardlypossible that he should not have been better had he been taken away asan infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. And yetagain it is hardly possible that any training or want of trainingshould have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling forothers as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unlessthey touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemed that helacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though thefuturity to be considered was divided from the present but by a singlemonth, a single week, --but by a single night. He liked to be kindlytreated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; andthey who so treated him were his chosen friends. He had in this theinstincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to theextent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one'sbehalf. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to lock at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He was very dark, with that soft olivecomplexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance ofaristocratic breeding. His hair, which was never allowed to becomelong, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint ofgrease which is so common with silken-headed darlings. His eyes werelong, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch ofthe perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was due more tothe finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than tohis other features. On his short upper lip he had a moustache as wellformed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of hischin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness ofexpression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. He was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figureas in face. It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by womenthat no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and itwas admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. Hehad given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poorfool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of hisarmy standing till he lost it; and especially on the score ofsuperiority in fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough todress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance ofthought about his outward man. As yet the little world of hisassociates had hardly found out how callous were his affections, --orrather how devoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even theviciousness of his life. In one matter he had marred his name, and bya moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends morethan he had done by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrelbetween 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 producedmanly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the whitefeather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived theevil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had cowered. 

It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well aware that itwas so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lackedsomething in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the mannersof a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and hadno feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel. But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even ayoung girl believe that he felt it. When he talked of love, he notonly thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thoughtso. From this fault he had already failed with one young lady reputedto have £40, 000, who had refused him because, as she naively said, sheknew 'he did not really care. ' 'How can I show that I care more thanby wishing to make you my wife?' he had asked. 'I don't know that youcan, but all the same you don't care, ' she said. And so that younglady escaped the pitfall. Now there was another young lady, to whomthe reader shall be introduced in time, whom Sir Felix was instigatedto pursue with unremitting diligence. Her wealth was not defined, ashad been the £40, 000 of her predecessor, but was known to be very muchgreater than that. It was, indeed, generally supposed to befathomless, bottomless, endless. It was said that in regard to moneyfor ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of thisyoung lady. He had great concerns;--concerns so great that the paymentof ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing tohim, --as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it matterslittle whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops. Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that toanyone marrying his daughter during the present season of hisoutrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. LadyCarbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been oncewrecked, was very anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a properuse of the intimacy which he had effected in the house of this toppingCroesus of the day. 

And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Ofcourse she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who wasa baronet, the head of that branch of the Carburys, and her mother'sdarling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice. She also was verylovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less dark and withfeatures less absolutely regular. But she had in her countenance afull measure of that sweetness of expression which seems to imply thatconsideration of self is subordinated to consideration for others. This sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother. And her face wasa true index of her character. Again, who shall say why the brotherand sister had become so opposite to each other; whether they wouldhave been thus different had both been taken away as infants fromtheir father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's virtueswere owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in herparent's heart? She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, bythe command of money, and by the temptations of too early acquaintancewith the world. At the present time she was barely twenty-one yearsold, and had not seen much of London society. Her mother did notfrequent balls, and during the last two years there had grown uponthem a necessity for economy which was inimical to many gloves andcostly dresses. Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spentmost of her time at home with her mother in Welbeck Street. Occasionally the world saw her, and when the world did see her theworld declared that she was a charming girl. The world was so farright. 

But for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already commenced inreal earnest. There was another branch of the Carburys, the headbranch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of CarburyHall. 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 waspassionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom Henriettahad seen. 

CHAPTER III - THE BEARGARDEN

Lady Carbury's house in Welbeck Street was a modest house enough, --with no pretensions to be a mansion, hardly assuming even to be aresidence; 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 thatin spite of the hardness of her position she had comfortablebelongings around her when her literary friends came to see her on herTuesday evenings. Here she was now living with her son and daughter. The back drawing-room was divided from the front by doors that werepermanently closed, and in this she carried on her great work. Hereshe wrote her books and contrived her system for the inveigling ofeditors and critics. Here she was rarely disturbed by her daughter, and admitted no visitors except editors and critics. But her son wascontrolled by no household laws, and would break in upon her privacywithout remorse. She had hardly finished two galloping notes aftercompleting her letter to Mr Ferdinand Alf, when Felix entered the roomwith a cigar in his mouth and threw himself upon the sofa. 

'My dear boy, ' she said, 'pray leave your tobacco below when you comein here. '

'What affectation it is, mother, ' he said, throwing, however, thehalf-smoked cigar into the fire-place. 'Some women swear they likesmoke, others say they hate it like the devil. It depends altogetheron whether they wish to flatter or snub a fellow. '

'You don't suppose that I wish to snub you?'

'Upon my word I don't know. I wonder whether you can let me havetwenty pounds?'

'My dear Felix!'

'Just so, mother;--but how about the twenty pounds?'

'What is it for, Felix?'

'Well;--to tell the truth, to carry on the game for the nonce tillsomething is settled. A fellow can't live without some money in hispocket. I do with as little as most fellows. I pay for nothing that Ican help. I even get my hair cut on credit, and as long as it waspossible I had a brougham, to save cabs. '

'What is to be the end of it, Felix?'

'I never could see the end of anything, mother. I never could nurse ahorse when the hounds were going well in order to be in at the finish. I never could pass a dish that I liked in favour of those that were tofollow. What's the use?' The young man did not say 'carpe diem, ' butthat was the philosophy which he intended to preach. 

'Have you been at the Melmottes' to-day?' It was now five o'clock on awinter afternoon, the hour at which ladies are drinking tea, and idlemen playing whist at the clubs, --at which young idle men are sometimesallowed to flirt, and at which, as Lady Carbury thought, her son mighthave been paying his court to Marie Melmotte the great heiress. 

'I have just come away. '

'And what do you think of her?'

'To tell the truth, mother, I have thought very little about her. Sheis not pretty, she is not plain; she is not clever, she is not stupid;she is neither saint nor sinner. '

'The more likely to make a good wife. '

'Perhaps so. I am at any rate quite willing to believe that as wifeshe would be good enough for me. '

'What does the mother say?'

'The mother is a caution. I cannot help speculating whether, if Imarry the daughter, I shall ever find out where the mother came from. Dolly Longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a BohemianJewess; but I think she's too fat for that. '

'What does it matter, Felix?'

'Not in the least'

'Is she civil to you?'

'Yes, civil enough. '

'And the father?'

'Well, he does not turn me out, or anything of that sort. Of coursethere are half-a-dozen after her, and I think the old fellow isbewildered among them all. He's thinking more of getting dukes to dinewith him than of his daughter's lovers. Any fellow might pick her upwho happened to hit her fancy. '

'And why not you?'

'Why not, mother? I am doing my best, and it's no good flogging awilling horse. Can you let me have the money?'

'Oh, Felix, I think you hardly know how poor we are. You have stillgot your hunters down at the place!'

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

There was an apparent truth in this argument which the poor woman wasunable to answer. Before the interview was over the money demanded wasforthcoming, though at the time it could be but ill afforded, and theyouth went away apparently with a light heart, hardly listening to hismother's entreaties that the affair with Marie Melmotte might, ifpossible, be brought to a speedy conclusion. 

Felix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to which henow belonged. Clubs are pleasant resorts in all respects but one. Theyrequire ready money or even worse than that in respect to annualpayments, --money in advance; and the young baronet had been absolutelyforced to restrict himself. He, as a matter of course, out of those towhich he had possessed the right of entrance, chose the worst. It wascalled the Beargarden, and had been lately opened with the expressview of combining parsimony with profligacy. Clubs were ruined, sosaid certain young parsimonious profligates, by providing comforts forold fogies who paid little or nothing but their subscriptions, andtook out by their mere presence three times as much as they gave. Thisclub was not to be opened till three o'clock in the afternoon, beforewhich hour the promoters of the Beargarden thought it improbable thatthey and their fellows would want a club. There were to be no morningpapers taken, no library, no morning-room. Dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would suffice for the Beargarden. Everything was to be provided by a purveyor, so that the club shouldbe cheated only by one man. Everything was to be luxurious, but theluxuries were to be achieved at first cost. It had been a happythought, and the club was said to prosper. Herr Vossner, the purveyor, was a jewel, and so carried on affairs that there was no trouble aboutanything. He would assist even in smoothing little difficulties as tothe settling of card accounts, and had behaved with the greatesttenderness to the drawers of cheques whose bankers had harshlydeclared them to have 'no effects. ' Herr Vossner was a jewel, and theBeargarden was a success. Perhaps no young man about town enjoyed theBeargarden more thoroughly than did Sir Felix Carbury. The club was inthe close vicinity of other clubs, in a small street turning out ofSt. James's Street, and piqued itself on its outward quietness andsobriety. Why pay for stone-work for other people to look at;--why layout money in marble pillars and cornices, seeing that you can neithereat such things, nor drink them, nor gamble with them? But theBeargarden had the best wines--or thought that it had--and the easiestchairs, and two billiard-tables than which nothing more perfect hadever been made to stand upon legs. Hither Sir Felix wended on thatJanuary afternoon as soon as he had his mother's cheque for £20 in hispocket. 

He found his special friend, Dolly Longestaffe, standing on the stepswith a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the dull brick houseopposite. 'Going to dine here, Dolly?' said Sir Felix. 

'I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhereelse. I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to getting homeand dressing. By George! I don't know how fellows do that kind ofthing. I can't. '

'Going to hunt to-morrow?'

'Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall. I was going to hunt every daylast week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. I can't tellwhy it is that things are done in such a beastly way. Why shouldn'tfellows begin to hunt at two or three, so that a fellow needn't get upin the middle of the night?'

'Because one can't ride by moonlight, Dolly. '

'It isn't moonlight at three. At any rate I can't get myself to EustonSquare by nine. I don't think that fellow of mine likes getting uphimself. He says he comes in and wakes me, but I never remember it. '

'How many horses have you got at Leighton, Dolly?'

'How many? There were five, but I think that fellow down there soldone; but then I think he bought another. I know he did something. '

'Who rides them?'

'He does, I suppose. That is, of course, I ride them myself, only I soseldom get down. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two ofthem last week. I don't think I ever told him he might. I think hetipped that fellow of mine; and I call that a low kind of thing to do. I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that I had lent them. Perhaps I didwhen I was tight, you know. '

'You and Grasslough were never pals. '

'I don't like him a bit. He gives himself airs because he is a lord, and is devilish ill-natured. I don't know why he should want to ridemy horses. '

'To save his own. '

'He isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell youwhat, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I'llstick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellowswant horses let them buy them. '

'But some fellows haven't got any money, Dolly. '

'Then they ought to go tick. I don't think I've paid for any of mineI've bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday--'

'What! here at the club?'

'Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! Itwas horses, I think because of the fellow's trousers. '

'What did you say?'

'Me! Oh, I didn't say anything. '

'And how did it end?'

'When he'd done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was bitingoff the end went upstairs. I suppose he went away when he was tired ofwaiting. '

'I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours fora couple of days, --that is, of course, if you don't want them yourself. You ain't tight now, at any rate. '

'No; I ain't tight, ' said Dolly, with melancholy acquiescence. 

'I mean that I wouldn't like to borrow your horses without yourremembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfullydone up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeezein the meantime. There's nobody I'd ask such a favour of except you. '

'Well, you may have them;--that is, for two days. I don't know whetherthat fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe Grasslough, and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the stables. That'swhat somebody told me. '

'You could write a line to your groom. '

'Oh my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could dothat. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. Ithink I'll have a little drop of curacoa before dinner. Come along andtry it. It'll give us an appetite. '

It was then nearly seven o'clock. Nine hours afterwards the same twomen, with two others--of whom young Lord Grasslough, DollyLongestaffe's peculiar aversion, was one--were just rising from acard-table in one of the upstairs rooms of the club. For it wasunderstood that, though the Beargarden was not to be open before threeo'clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during the day wasto be given freely during the night. No man could get a breakfast atthe Beargarden, but suppers at three o'clock in the morning were quitewithin the rule. Such a supper, or rather succession of suppering, there had been to-night, various devils and broils and hot toastshaving been brought up from time to time first for one and then foranother. But there had been no cessation of gambling since the cardshad first been opened about ten o'clock. At four in the morning DollyLongestaffe was certainly in a condition to lend his horses and toremember nothing about it. He was quite affectionate with LordGrasslough, as he was also with his other companions, --affection beingthe normal state of his mind when in that condition. He was by nomeans helplessly drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than whenhe was sober; but he was willing to play at any game whether heunderstood it or not, and for any stakes. When Sir Felix got up andsaid he would play no more, Dolly also got up, apparently quitecontented. When Lord Grasslough, with a dark scowl on his face, expressed his opinion that it was not just the thing for men to breakup like that when so much money had been lost, Dolly as willingly satdown again. But Dolly's sitting down was not sufficient. 'I'm going tohunt to-morrow, ' said Sir Felix--meaning that day, --'and I shall play nomore. A man must go to bed at some time. '

'I don't see it at all, ' said Lord Grasslough. 'It's an understoodthing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay. '

'Stay how long?' said Sir Felix, with an angry look. 'That's nonsense;there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of this for meto-night. '

'Oh, if you choose, ' said his lordship. 

'I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we'll settle this next time we meet. I've got it all entered. '

The night had been one very serious in its results to Sir Felix. Hehad sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of his mother'scheque, a poor £20, and now he had, --he didn't at all know how much inhis pockets. He also had drunk, but not so as to obscure his mind. Heknew that Longestaffe owed him over £300, and he knew also that he hadreceived more than that in ready money and cheques from LordGrasslough and the other player. Dolly Longestaffe's money, too, wouldcertainly be paid, though Dolly did complain of the importunity of histradesmen. As he walked up St. James's Street, looking for a cab, hepresumed himself to be worth over £700. When begging for a small sumfrom Lady Carbury, he had said that he could not carry on the gamewithout some ready money, and had considered himself fortunate infleecing his mother as he had done. Now he was in the possession ofwealth, --of wealth that might, at any rate, be sufficient to aid himmaterially in the object he had in hand. He never for a moment thoughtof paying his bills. Even the large sum of which he had become sounexpectedly possessed would not have gone far with him in such aquixotic object as that; but he could now look bright, and buypresents, and be seen with money in his hands. It is hard even to makelove in these days without something in your purse. 

He found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent tothe trouble of walking home. There was something so joyous in thefeeling of the possession of all this money that it made the night airpleasant to him. Then, of a sudden, he remembered the low wail withwhich his mother had spoken of her poverty when he demanded assistancefrom her. Now he could give her back the £20. But it occurred to himsharply, with an amount of carefulness quite new to him, that it wouldbe foolish to do so. How soon might he want it again? And, moreover, he could not repay the money without explaining to her how he hadgotten it. It would be preferable to say nothing about his money. Ashe let himself into the house and went up to his room he resolved thathe would not say anything about it. 

On that morning he was at the station at nine, and hunted down inBuckinghamshire, riding two of Dolly Longestaffe's horses for the useof which he paid Dolly Longestaffe's 'fellow' thirty shilling. 

CHAPTER IV - MADAME MELMOTTE'S BALL

The next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at theBeargarden, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a ballon a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about ever sinceParliament met, now about a fortnight since. Some people had expressedan opinion that such a ball as this was intended to be could not begiven successfully in February. Others declared that the money whichwas to be spent, --an amount which would make this affair quite new inthe annals of ball-giving, --would give the thing such a character thatit would certainly be successful. And much more than money had beenexpended. Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain thecooperation of great people, and these efforts had at last beengrandly successful. The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from CastleAlbury herself to be present at it and to bring her daughters, thoughit has never been her Grace's wont to be in London at this inclementseason. No doubt the persuasion used with the Duchess had been verystrong. Her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be in greatdifficulties, which, --so people said, --had been considerably modified byopportune pecuniary assistance. And then it was certain that one ofthe young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son, had been appointed tosome mercantile position, for which he received a salary which hismost intimate friends thought that he was hardly qualified to earn. Itwas certainly a fact that he went to Abchurch Lane, in the City, fouror five days a week, and that he did not occupy his time in sounaccustomed a manner for nothing. Where the Duchess of Stevenage wentall the world would go. And it became known at the last moment, thatis to say only the day before the party, that a prince of the bloodroyal was to be there. How this had been achieved nobody quiteunderstood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels hadbeen rescued from the pawnbroker's. Everything was done on the samescale. The Prime Minister had indeed declined to allow his name toappear on the list; but one Cabinet Minister and two or threeunder-secretaries had agreed to come because it was felt that thegiver of the ball might before long be the master of considerableparliamentary interest. It was believed that he had an eye topolitics, and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's ownside. There had at one time been much solicitude about the ball. Manyanxious thoughts had been given. When great attempts fail, the failureis disastrous, and may be ruinous. But this ball had now been putbeyond the chance of failure. 

The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, Esq. , the father of thegirl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of thelady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. It was thus that thegentleman chose to have himself designated, though within the last twoyears he had arrived in London from Paris, and had at first been knownas M. Melmotte. But he had declared of himself that he had been bornin England, and that he was an Englishman. He admitted that his wifewas a foreigner, --an admission that was necessary as she spoke verylittle English. Melmotte himself spoke his 'native' language fluently, but with an accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation. MissMelmotte, --who a very short time since had been known as MademoiselleMarie, --spoke English well, but as a foreigner. In regard to her it wasacknowledged that she had been born out of England, --some said in NewYork; but Madame Melmotte, who must have known, had declared that thegreat event had taken place in Paris. 

It was at any rate an established fact that Mr Melmotte had made hiswealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in othercountries, as to which stories were told which must surely have beenexaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, thathe had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up allthe iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying orselling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. Allthis was said of him in his praise, --but it was also said that he wasregarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived;that he had made that City too hot to hold him; that he hadendeavoured to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned awayby the police; and that he had at length found that British freedomwould alone allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of hisindustry. He was now established privately in Grosvenor Square andofficially in Abchurch Lane; and it was known to all the world that aRoyal Prince, a Cabinet Minister, and the very cream of duchesses weregoing to his wife's ball. All this had been done within twelve months. 

There was but one child in the family, one heiress for all thiswealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers andrough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of powerabout his mouth and chin. This was so strong as to redeem his facefrom vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the man were onthe whole unpleasant, and, I may say, untrustworthy. He looked asthough he were purse-proud and a bully. She was fat and fair, --unlike incolour to our traditional Jewesses; but she had the Jewish nose andthe Jewish contraction of the eyes. There was certainly very little inMadame Melmotte to recommend her, unless it was a readiness to spendmoney on any object that might be suggested to her by her newacquaintances. It sometimes seemed that she had a commission from herhusband to give away presents to any who would accept them. The worldhad received the man as Augustus Melmotte, Esq. The world so addressedhim on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so inscribedhim among the directors of three dozen companies to which he belonged. But his wife was still Madame Melmotte. The daughter had been allowedto take her rank with an English title. She was now Miss Melmotte onall occasions. 

Marie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to hismother. She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not asaint. But then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, asinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, veryunlike her father or mother, having no trace of the Jewess in hercountenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her ownposition. With such people as the Melmottes things go fast, and it wasvery well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who hadbeen nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off. In this'going off' no one imputed to the young lady blame or even misfortune. It was not supposed that she had either jilted or been jilted. As inroyal espousals interests of State regulate their expedience with anacknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed impossibility, ofpersonal predilections, so in this case was money allowed to have thesame weight. Such a marriage would or would not be sanctioned inaccordance with great pecuniary arrangements. The young LordNidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offeredto take the girl and make her Marchioness in the process of time forhalf a million down. Melmotte had not objected to the sum, --so it wassaid, --but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have itfree in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms. Melmottehad been anxious to secure the Marquis, --very anxious to secure theMarchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with theDuchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked hislordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such asum of money to such a man. 'You are willing to trust your only childto him, ' said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled at the man for a fewseconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his answerhad nothing in it, and marched out of the room. So that affair wasover. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love toMarie Melmotte, --or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destinyhad no doubt been explained to her. 

Others had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same fashion. Each had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake, --at avery great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, asprinces and duchesses were obtained by other means, --costly no doubt, but not so ruinously costly, --the immediate disposition of Marie becameless necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutelyrejected Lord Grasslough, whose father indeed was in a state ofbankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. She had had experience since Lord Nidderdale, with a half laugh, hadtold her that he might just as well take her for his wife, and was nowtempted from time to time to contemplate her own happiness and her owncondition. People around were beginning to say that if Sir FelixCarbury managed his affairs well he might be the happy man. 

There was a considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of thatJewish-looking woman. Enquiries had been made, but not successfully, as to the date of the Melmotte marriage. There was an idea abroad thatMelmotte had got his first money with his wife, and had gotten it notvery long ago. Then other people said that Marie was not his daughterat all. Altogether the mystery was rather pleasant as the money wascertain. Of the certainty of the money in daily use there could be nodoubt. There was the house. There was the furniture. There were thecarriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powderedheads, and the servants with the black coats and unpowdered heads. There were the gems, and the presents, and all the nice things thatmoney can buy. There were two dinner parties every day, one at twoo'clock called lunch, and the other at eight. The tradesmen hadlearned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in the City MrMelmotte's name was worth any money, --though his character was perhapsworth but little. 

The large house on the south side of Grosvenor Square was all ablazeby ten o'clock. The broad verandah had been turned into aconservatory, had been covered with boards contrived to look liketrellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at somefabulous price. A covered way had been made from the door, down acrossthe pathway, to the road, and the police had, I fear, been bribed tofrighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound to goround. The house had been so arranged that it was impossible to knowwhere you were, when once in it. The hall was a paradise. Thestaircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. Walls had been knocked away and arches had been constructed. The leadsbehind had been supported and walled in, and covered and carpeted. Theball had possession of the ground floor and first floor, and the houseseemed to be endless. 'It's to cost sixty thousand pounds, ' said theMarchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess ofMid-Lothian. The Marchioness had come in spite of her son's misfortunewhen she heard that the Duchess of Stevenage was to be there. 'Andworse spent money never was wasted, ' said the Countess. 'By allaccounts it was as badly come by, ' said the Marchioness. Then the twoold noblewomen, one after the other, made graciously flatteringspeeches to the much-worn Bohemian Jewess, who was standing infairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatnessof the occasion. 

The three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been preparedfor dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess had howeverundertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and shehad commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman whonow frequented the City, to give directions to the band and to makehimself generally useful. Indeed, there had sprung up a considerableintimacy between the Grendall family, --that is Lord Alfred's branch ofthe Grendalls, --and the Melmottes; which was as it should be, as eachcould give much and each receive much. It was known that Lord Alfredhad not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was aduchess, and for the last thirty years there had been one continualanxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunatemarriage without a shilling, had spent his own moderate patrimony, hadthree sons and three daughters, and had lived now for a very long timeentirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feelingthe burden;--and why should he not? There had once been an idea thatMiles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been foundexpedient to abandon it. Miles had no title, no position of his own, and was hardly big enough for the place. It was in all respects betterthat the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildlythe whole Grendall family;--and so Miles went into the city. 

The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, theeldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. Various arrangementshad been made, and this among them. We may say that it had been a partof the bargain. Lord Buntingford had objected mildly, being a youngman devoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and notgiven to dancing. But he had allowed his mother to prevail. 'Of coursethey are vulgar, ' the Duchess had said, --'so much so as to be no longerdistasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say hehasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know howthey can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose. It's allvery well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do aboutAlfred's children? Miles is to have £500 a-year. And then he is alwaysabout the house. And between you and me they have got up those billsof Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suitsyour uncle to pay them. '

'They will lie there a long time, ' said Lord Buntingford. 

'Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girlonce. ' Lord Buntingford disapproved mildly, and did as his motherasked him. 

The affair went off very well. There were three or four card-tables inone of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendalland Mr Melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting in and outat the end of each rubber. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's onlyaccomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He beganit daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing till twoin the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his dinner. This he did during ten months of the year, and during the other two hefrequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did notgamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and bets. He gaveto the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who weregenerally opposed to him. But so obdurate was fortune to Lord Alfredthat he could not make money even of whist. Melmotte was very anxiousto get into Lord Alfred's club, --The Peripatetics. It was pleasant tosee the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacywith which he called his lordship Alfred. Lord Alfred had a remnant offeeling left, and would have liked to kick him. Though Melmotte was byfar the bigger man, and was also the younger, Lord Alfred would nothave lacked the pluck to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of hishabitual idleness and vapid uselessness, had still left about him adash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte andhave done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills inMelmotte's safe. And then Melmotte lost his points so regularly, andpaid his bets with such absolute good humour! 'Come and have a glassof champagne, Alfred, ' Melmotte said, as the two cut out together. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went healmost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man. 

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

'It is the first great ball I ever was at in London, ' said HettaCarbury to Paul Montague. 

'And how do you like it?'

'Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don'tunderstand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing. '

'Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introducedbackwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast asthey like. If you would wish to dance why don't you dance with me?'

'I have danced with you, --twice already. '

'Is there any law against dancing three times?'

'But I don't especially want to dance, ' said Henrietta. 'I think I'llgo and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her. ' Justat this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretchedcondition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief. 

Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and roundthroughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of themusic and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise mightbe his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physicalactivity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with ananimation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not ofthought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And MarieMelmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all herheart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. 

She had been warned especially as to some men, --that she should notdance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale'sarms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. Butshe had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had onlynot been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she hadan identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself shouldhave a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with LordNidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at firstshe had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxiousto her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she hadbeen commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. Butshe did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury. It was not only that theman was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression ofhis countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his realdisposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment camein which he had really to expose his heart, --or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing about it. But in the approaches tointimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had alreadynearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no meansquick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like agod. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and togive herself to him, she thought that she would be contented. 

'How well you dance, ' said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath forspeaking. 

'Do I?' She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a littleprettiness to her speech. 'I was never told so. But nobody ever toldme anything about myself. '

'I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from thebeginning to the end. '

'Ah, --but you don't know. '

'I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tellyou what you would like best in all the world. '

'What is that?'

'Somebody that liked you best in all the world. '

'Ah, --yes; if one knew who?'

'How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?'

'That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked mebetter than any other girl, I should not know it, just because shesaid so. I should have to find it out. '

'And if a gentleman told you so?'

'I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. ButI should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself. '

'So should I. '

'Have you no particular friend?'

'I mean a girl whom I could love, --oh, ten times better than myself. '

'Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix, ' said Miss Melmotte. 

'I wonder whether that will come to anything?' said Paul Montague toMiss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had beenwatching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening. 

'You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, MrMontague. '

'It would be a magnificent chance for him. '

'To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she willhave a great deal of money? He can't care for her really, --because sheis rich. '

'But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is noother condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but bybeing the husband of an heiress. '

'What a dreadful thing to say!'

'But isn't it true? He has beggared himself. '

'Oh, Mr Montague. '

'And he will beggar you and your mother. '

'I don't care about myself. '

'Others do though. ' As he said this he did not look at her, but spokethrough his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her. 

'I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix. '

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

Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplainingsolitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of MrFerdinand Alf. 'You here?' she said. 

'Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers. '

'I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you. '

'I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and theirdaughters without number. They expect Prince George!'

'Do they?'

'And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke tohim in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutessince. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, LadyCarbury?'

'I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest. '

'I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spendingthousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and allthey want in return is a little countenance. '

'Do you mean to give it then?'

'I am giving it them. '

'Ah, --but the countenance of the "Evening Pulpit. " Do you mean to givethem that?'

'Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names andto record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our hosthimself that he should be kept out of the newspapers. '

'Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr Alf?' said the ladyafter a pause. 

'We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're goingto make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!'

'Poor Prince!' said Lady Carbury. 

'Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothingto trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?'

Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room whereMarie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once madeto understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. Theintroduction was managed in a very business-like manner. MilesGrendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchessfollowed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on herlegs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowedto take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, butthat was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. Intwo minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with hisaunt, the Duchess, as vis-à-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, aboutthe middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to takehis place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were stillpresent two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. SirFelix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made todance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There werefour other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intendedthat this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the 'EveningPulpit, ' in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter waspresent in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as thedance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quiteunderstand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for himhad so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably knewnothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or theconsiderable subscription to St. George's Hospital which had beenextracted from Mr Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as thoughthe burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, andlooked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But thetrouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince said aword or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work ofeasing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for themoment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed toescape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drunk in thepresence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping thepresence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till thePrince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass ofwine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, andwould probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendallhad understood all this and had managed the affair very well. 'Blessmy soul;--his Royal Highness come and gone!' exclaimed Melmotte. 'Youand my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to getyou away, ' said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it had been thought better that he should notspeak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it shouldbe so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was veryuseful to him, and he would not quarrel with Miles, at any rate asyet. 

'Have another rubber, Alfred?' he said to Miles's father as thecarriages were taking away the guests. 

Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a momentforgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys werereceiving. 'Damn that kind of nonsense, ' he said. 'Call people bytheir proper names. ' Then he left the house without a further word tothe master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotterequired from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially ofMarie's conduct. 'Marie, ' Madame Melmotte said, 'had behaved well, buthad certainly preferred "Sir Carbury" to any other of the young men. 'Hitherto Mr Melmotte had heard very little of Sir Carbury, except thathe was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always open, though heattended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he didnot yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or oneabsolutely in possession himself. Sir Felix, he had learned, was onlya baronet; but then he was in possession. He had discovered also thatSir Felix's son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. He wasnot therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positiveorders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girlin such words as Felix had in truth used when they parted. 'You knowwho it is, ' he whispered, 'likes you better than any one else in theworld. '

'Nobody does;--don't, Sir Felix. '

'I do, ' he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into herface and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as alesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He didit well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweetconviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love. 

CHAPTER V - AFTER THE BALL

'It's weary work, ' said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with hismother and sister. 

'What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?' said hismother. 

'It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I gohome. ' So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped thedriver. 

'It is two o'clock, Felix, ' said his mother. 

'I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps; Ihad none. '

'Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in themorning?'

'I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night. ' Then he jumped outof the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to theBeargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think itmean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed hisplay on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe owedhim now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also inhis debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club after theball, and he was determined that they should not think that he hadsubmitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So he arguedwith himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within hisbosom; 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 couldnot keep himself from the card-table. 

Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and hadgot upstairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest toher heart at the moment. 'Do you think he gambles?'

'He has got no money, mamma. '

'I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambleseverything is lost. '

'I suppose they all do play more or less. '

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

'He has been so long his own master, mamma. '

'Yes, --his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he werebut a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to PaulMontague. '

'No, mamma that is unjust. '

'He was always with you. '

'I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I dancedwith him twice. ' Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to herforehead, and shook her head. 'If you did not want me to speak to Paulyou should not have taken me there. '

'I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want. 'Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night. 'I think Iam the unhappiest woman in all London, ' she said, sobbinghysterically. 

'Is it my fault, mamma?'

'You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and Inever spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself, --nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix neverthinks of me for a moment. '

'I think of you, mamma. '

'If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have youto refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man. '

'No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin verymuch;--but that is all. Good night, mamma. ' Lady Carbury just allowedherself to be kissed, and then was left alone. 

At eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men whohad just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The Beargardenwas so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to itsbeing closed, --the only law being that it should not be opened beforethree in the afternoon. A sort of sanction had, however, been given tothe servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in themorning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be tooheavy even for juvenile constitutions. The party consisted of DollyLongestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury, andthe four had amused themselves during the last six hours with variousinnocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had culminatedduring the last half-hour with blind hookey. But during the wholenight Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been anexpressed opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would beboth profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of thelast two nights. The two men had played with the same object, andbeing young had shown their intention, --so that a certain feeling ofhostility had been engendered. The reader is not to understand thateither of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained anysuspicion of foul play. But Felix had felt that Grendall andGrasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly forsympathy and friendship. Dolly, however, was very tipsy. 

At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, thoughno money then passed. The ready-money transactions had not lasted longthrough the night. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the figures andscraps of paper which had been passed over to Carbury, when countedup, amounted to nearly £2, 000. His lordship contested the factbitterly, but contested it in vain. There were his own initials andhis own figures, and even Miles Grendall, who was supposed to be quitewide awake, could not reduce the amount. Then Grendall had lost over£400 to Carbury, --an amount, indeed, that mattered little, as Milescould, at present, as easily have raised £40, 000. However, he gave hisI. O. U. To his opponent with an easy air. Grasslough, also, wasimpecunious; but he had a father, --also impecunious, indeed; but withthem the matter would not be hopeless. Dolly Longestaffe was so tipsythat he could not even assist in making up his own account. That wasto be left between him and Carbury for some future occasion. 

'I suppose you'll be here to-morrow, --that is to-night, ' said Miles. 

'Certainly, --only one thing, ' answered Felix. 

'What one thing?'

'I think these things should be squared before we play any more!'

'What do you mean by that?' said Grasslough angrily. 'Do you mean tohint anything?'

'I never hint anything, my Grassy, ' said Felix. 'I believe when peopleplay cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But I'm notgoing to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your revengeto-night. '

'That's all right, ' said Miles. 

'I was speaking to Lord Grasslough, ' said Felix. 'He is an old friend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night, MrGrendall. '

'Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?'

'And I think it will be as well that our account should be settledbefore we begin again. '

'A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to, ' saidGrendall. 

There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on goodterms. Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if hecould realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again withhorses, servants, and all luxuries as before. If all were paid, hewould have over £3, 000!

CHAPTER VI - ROGER CARBURY AND PAUL MONTAGUE

Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property inSuffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been inSuffolk a great many years, --certainly from the time of the War of theRoses, --and had always held up their heads. But they had never held themvery high. It was not known that any had risen ever to the honour ofknighthood before Sir Patrick, going higher than that, had been made abaronet. They had, however, been true to their acres and their acrestrue to them through the perils of civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Carbury of the day hadalways owned, and had always lived at, Carbury Hall. At the beginningof the present century the squire of Carbury had been a considerableman, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. Theincome of the estate had sufficed to enable him to live plenteouslyand hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and tokeep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when she wentavisiting. He had an old butler who had never lived anywhere else, anda boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the butler. There was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes, and acouple of young women;--while the house was kept by Mrs Carbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own preserves, andlooked to the curing of her own hams. In the year 1800 the Carburyproperty was sufficient for the Carbury house. Since that time theCarbury property has considerably increased in value, and the rentshave been raised. Even the acreage has been extended by the enclosureof commons. But the income is no longer comfortably adequate to thewants of an English gentleman's household. If a moderate estate inland be left to a man now, there arises the question whether he is notdamaged unless an income also be left to him wherewith to keep up theestate. Land is a luxury, and of all luxuries is the most costly. Nowthe Carburys never had anything but land. Suffolk has not been maderich and great either by coal or iron. No great town had sprung up onthe confines of the Carbury property. No eldest son had gone intotrade or risen high in a profession so as to add to the Carburywealth. No great heiress had been married. There had been no ruin, --nomisfortune. But in the days of which we write the Squire of CarburyHall had become a poor man simply through the wealth of others. Hisestate was supposed to bring him in £2, 000 a year. Had he been contentto let the Manor House, to live abroad, and to have an agent at hometo deal with the tenants, he would undoubtedly have had enough to liveluxuriously. But he lived on his own land among his own people, as allthe Carburys before him had done, and was poor because he wassurrounded by rich neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham, --of whichfamily Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son and hope, --had the name ofgreat wealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor ofLondon and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne. TheHepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, hadmarried into new money. The Primeros, --though the goodnature of thecountry folk had accorded to the head of them the title of SquirePrimero, --had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had boughtthe Bundlesham property from a great duke. The estates of those threegentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around theCarbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their ownersaltogether to overshadow our squire. The superior wealth of a bishopwas nothing to him. He desired that bishops should be rich, and wasamong those who thought that the country had been injured when theterritorial possessions of our prelates had been converted intostipends by Act of Parliament. But the grandeur of the Longestaffesand the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though hewas a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into theear even of his dearest friend. It was his opinion, --which he did notcare to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be hisopinion by those with whom he lived intimately, --that a man's standingin the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. The Primeroswere undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the youngPrimeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasantsannually at about 10s. A head. Hepworth of Eardly was a very goodfellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties as acountry gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with Carburyof Carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy £7, 000 a year. TheLongestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in thecountry, had powdered hair. They had a house in town, --a house of theirown, --and lived altogether as magnates. The lady was Lady PomonaLongestaffe. The daughters, who certainly were handsome, had beendestined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had, afortune of his own. They were an oppressive people in a countryneighbourhood. And to make the matter worse, rich as they were, theynever were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They continuedto live with all the appurtenances of wealth. The girls always hadhorses to ride, both in town and country. The acquaintance of Dollythe reader has already made. Dolly, who certainly was a poor creaturethough good-natured, had energy in one direction. He would quarrelperseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest in theestate. The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven months ofthe year full of servants, if not of guests, and all the tradesmen inthe little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and Harlestone, were awarethat the Longestaffes were the great people of that country. Thoughoccasionally much distressed for money, they would always execute theLongestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, because there was anidea that the Longestaffe property was sound at the bottom. And, then, the owner of a property so managed cannot scrutinise bills veryclosely. 

Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay, orhis father before him. His orders to the tradesmen at Beccles were notextensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied wereneither overcharged nor unnecessary. The tradesmen, consequently, ofBeccles did not care much for Carbury of Carbury;--though perhaps one ortwo of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence forthe family. Roger Carbury, Esq. , was Carbury of Carbury, --a distinctionof itself which, from its nature, could not belong to the Longestaffesand Primeros, which did not even belong to the Hepworths of Eardly. The very parish in which Carbury Hall stood, --or Carbury Manor House, asit was more properly called, --was Carbury parish. And there was CarburyChase, partly in Carbury parish and partly in Bundlesham, --butbelonging, unfortunately, in its entirety to the Bundlesham estate. 

Roger Carbury himself was all alone in the world. His nearestrelatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were nomore than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since beenmarried and had gone away into the world with their husbands, one toIndia, and another to the far west of the United States. At present hewas not much short of forty years of age, and was still unmarried. Hewas a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, withfeatures finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and well-formed chin. His hair was red, curling round his head, which was now partly bald atthe top. He wore no other beard than small, almost unnoticeablewhiskers. His eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when hishumour was good. He was about five feet nine in height, having theappearance of great strength and perfect health. A more manly man tothe eye was never seen. And he was one with whom you wouldinstinctively wish at first sight to be on good terms, --partly becausein looking at him there would come on you an unconscious convictionthat he would be very stout in holding his own against his opponents;partly also from a conviction equally strong, that he would be verypleasant to his friends. 

When Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger Carburyhad hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him allkindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to go downto the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care a straw forthe old place in the country, and so told his cousin in almost thosevery words. There had not, therefore, been much friendship during SirPatrick's life. But when the violent ill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and again offered hospitality to the widowand her daughter, --and to the young baronet. The young baronet had justjoined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk;but Lady Carbury and Henrietta had spent a month there, and everythinghad been done to make them happy. The effort as regarded Henrietta hadbeen altogether successful. As regarded the widow, it must beacknowledged that Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. Shehad already begun to sigh for the glories of a literary career. Acareer of some kind, --sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of herearly life, --she certainly desired. 'Dear cousin Roger, ' as she calledhim, had not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her inthese views. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms. She had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the bishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for her. ThePrimeros had been odious; the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes, --shehad endeavoured to make up a little friendship with Lady Pomona, --insufferably supercilious. She had declared to Henrietta 'that CarburyHall was very dull. '

But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed heropinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor aftera few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-factoffer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that timethirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool;--somemight have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making. Henriettadeclared to her mother that she had not in the least expected it. Buthe was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady Carbury was eager on hisside. Though the Carbury Manor House did not exactly suit her, itwould do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking, shebeing then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young enough for anygirl. But Henrietta had an opinion of her own. She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him and praised the house so loudly to her mother, --having in her innocence never dreamed of such a proposition as this, --sothat now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for herrefusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in that way. She did refuse the offervery plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency. WhenRoger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it, andher mother supported Roger's suggestion, she could say nothingstronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not doany good. Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. Inthe following February she went there again, --much against the grain asfar as her own wishes were concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost dumb in the presence of her cousin. Before theyleft the offer was renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could notdo as they would have her. She could give no reason, only she did notlove her cousin in that way. But Roger declared that he by no meansintended to abandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, andlove with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full yearbefore the beginning of our present story. 

But something else happened also. While that second visit was beingmade at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom RogerCarbury had said much to his cousins, --one Paul Montague, of whom someshort account shall be given in this chapter. The squire, --Roger Carburywas always called the squire about his own place, --had anticipated noevil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins to his housethat they must of necessity meet Paul Montague there. But great harmhad come of it. Paul Montague had fallen into love with his cousin'sguest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness. 

Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, andPaul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thusspoke to the guest who had last arrived. 'I've got to tell yousomething, Paul. '

'Anything serious?'

'Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own lifecan approach it in importance. ' He had unconsciously assumed thatlook, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating hisresolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight iffighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half awarethat he had done something, he knew not what, militating against thisserious resolve of his friend. He looked up, but said nothing. 'I haveoffered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta, ' said Roger, verygravely. 

'Miss Carbury?'

'Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refusedme twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no rightto hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life tome depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy. '

'Why did you not tell me before?' said Paul Montague in a hoarsevoice. 

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

The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montaguepacked up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway stationby Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. There had beenvery hot words between the men, but the last words which Roger spoketo the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in theirnature. 'God bless you, old fellow, ' he said, pressing Paul's hands. Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning thepressure. 

Paul Montague's father and mother had long been dead. The father hadbeen a barrister in London, having perhaps some small fortune of hisown. He had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others, a sufficiency with which to begin the world. Paul when he had come ofage had found himself possessed of about £6, 000. He was then atOxford, and was intended for the bar. An uncle of his, a youngerbrother of his father, had married a Carbury, the younger sister oftwo, though older than her brother Roger. This uncle many years sincehad taken his wife out to California, and had there become anAmerican. He had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, andfruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not alwaysbeen plain to the Montagues and Carburys at home. The intercoursebetween the two families had, in the quite early days of PaulMontague's life, created an affection between him and Roger, who, aswill be understood by those who have carefully followed the abovefamily history, were not in any degree related to each other. Roger, when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education, andhad sent him to Oxford. But the Oxford scheme, to be followed by thebar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of thecountry, had not succeeded. Paul had got into a 'row' at Balliol, andhad been rusticated, --had then got into another row, and was sent down. Indeed he had a talent for rows, --though, as Roger Carbury alwaysdeclared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them. Paul wasthen twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea, --based on veryinsufficient grounds, --that rows are popular in California. At the endof three years he found that he did not like farming life inCalifornia, --and he found also that he did not like his uncle. So hereturned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to get his£6, 000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed he had been compelled tocome away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take himhome, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his unclethat an income amounting to ten per cent, upon his capital should beremitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. The clock alluded tomust have been one of Sam Slick's. It had gone very badly. At the endof the first quarter there came the proper remittance, --then half theamount, --then there was a long interval without anything; then somedropping payments now and again;--and then a twelvemonth withoutanything. At the end of that twelvemonth he paid a second visit toCalifornia, having borrowed money from Roger for his journey. He hadnow again returned, with some little cash in hand, and with theadditional security of a deed executed in his favour by one HamiltonK. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who hadadded a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. In accordance withthis deed he was to get twelve per cent, on his capital, and hadenjoyed the gratification of seeing his name put up as one of thefirm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague, and Montague. A businessdeclared by the two elder partners to be most promising had beenopened at Fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty miles from SanFrancisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the elder Montague were veryhigh. Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, andwould willingly have got back his £6, 000 had he been able. But he wasnot able, and returned as one of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, notaltogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in obtaining enough of hisback income to pay what he owed to Roger, and to live for a fewmonths. He was intent on considering how he should bestow himself, consulting daily with Roger on the subject, when suddenly Roger hadperceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom hehimself loved. What then occurred has been told. 

Not a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real causeof Paul's sudden disappearance. It had been necessary that he shouldgo to London. Each of the ladies probably guessed something of thetruth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject Beforethey left the Manor the squire again pleaded his cause with Henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. Henrietta was colder than ever, --but she madeuse of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all the effect which hercoldness might have had. She said that she was too young to think ofmarrying yet. She had meant to imply that the difference in their ageswas too great, but had not known how to say it. It was easy to tellher that in a twelve-month she would be older;--but it was impossible toconvince her that any number of twelvemonths would alter the disparitybetween her and her cousin. But even that disparity was not now herstrongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry RogerCarbury. 

Within a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor House, Paul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. He hadpromised before he went that he would not see Henrietta again forthree months, but he would promise nothing further. 'If she won't takeyou, there is no reason why I shouldn't try. ' That had been hisargument. Roger would not accede to the justice even of this. Itseemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly becausehe had got no income, partly because of Roger's previous claim, --partlyno doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said aword. If Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not such a man as hisfriend had taken him to be. 

Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should hisfriend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once to RogerCarbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of them. Indeed hecould have no chance if the girl were disposed to take Roger for herhusband. Roger had all the advantage of Carbury Manor at his back, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business ofFisker, Montague, and Montague, in a wretched little town 250 milesfurther off than San Francisco! But if with all this, Roger could notprevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about want of moneywas mere nonsense. Paul was sure that his friend would have created nosuch difficulty had not he himself been interested. Paul declared tohimself that he had money, though doubtful money, and that hecertainly would not give up Henrietta on that score. 

He came up to London at various times in search of certain employmentwhich had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of thethree months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But fromtime to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that hewould not declare his passion, --now for two months, then for six weeks, then for a month. In the meantime the two men were fast friends, --sofast that Montague spent by far the greater part of his time as hisfriend's guest, --and all this was done with the understanding that RogerCarbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever receivethe privilege to call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, butthat everything was to be smooth between them should Henrietta bepersuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall. So things went on upto the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte'sball. The reader should also be informed that there had been already aformer love affair in the young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs Hurtle, whom he had beendesperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California;--but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of RogerCarbury. 

CHAPTER VII - MENTOR

Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter wasgreatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. SinceRoger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad toworse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment. Ifher daughter could but be settled in the world, Lady Carbury said toherself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her son. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she didknow that she had paid so much money for him, and would have so muchmore extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that shewould be unable to keep a home for her daughter. In all these troublesshe constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice, --which, however, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her house in town, to find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also for Felix if hewould consent to follow her. Should he not so consent, then let theyoung man bear the brunt of his own misdoings. Doubtless, when hecould no longer get bread in London he would find her out. Roger wasalways severe when he spoke of the baronet, --or seemed to Lady Carburyto be severe. 

But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she mightfollow it. She had plans in her head with which she knew that Rogerwould not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom andburst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of agreat heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was proud of him inthat anticipation. When he succeeded in obtaining from her money, asin the case of that £20, --when, with brazen-faced indifference to herremonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning, whenwith impudent drollery he almost boasted of the hopelessness of hisdebts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weephysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping. But could hemarry Miss Melmotte, and thus conquer all his troubles by means of hisown personal beauty, --then she would be proud of all that had passed. With such a condition of mind Roger Carbury could have no sympathy. Tohim it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed money to atradesman which he could not pay. And Lady Carbury's heart was highwith other hopes, --in spite of her hysterics and her fears. The'Criminal Queens' might be a great literary success. She almostthought that it would be a success. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, thepublishers, were civil to her. Mr Broune had promised. Mr Booker hadsaid that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from MrAlf's caustic and cautious words that the book would be noticed in the'Evening Pulpit. ' No;--she would not take dear Roger's advice as toleaving London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice. Men liketo have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would arrange themarriage. What country retirement could be so suitable for a LadyCarbury when she wished to retire for awhile, --as Carbury Manor, theseat of her own daughter? And then her mind would fly away intoregions of bliss. If only by the end of this season Henrietta could beengaged to her cousin, Felix be the husband of the richest bride inEurope, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest book ofthe year, what a Paradise of triumph might still be open to her afterall her troubles. Then the sanguine nature of the woman would bear herup almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be happy in spiteof everything. 

A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was up in town and wascloseted with her in her back drawing-room. The declared cause of hiscoming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and theindispensable necessity, --so Roger thought, --of taking some steps bywhich at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought toan end. It was horrible to him that a man who had not a shilling inthe world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing and neverthought of earning anything should have hunters! He was very much inearnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his mind to the youngman himself, --if he could get hold of him. 'Where is he now, LadyCarbury, --at this moment?'

'I think he's out with the Baron. ' Being 'out with the Baron. ' meantthat the young man was hunting with the staghounds some forty milesaway from London. 

'How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for them?'

'Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do to prevent it?'

'I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while hecontinues in such courses. '

'My own son!'

'Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed toruin you and Hetta? It can't go on long. '

'You wouldn't have me throw him over. '

'I think he is throwing you over. And then it is so thoroughlydishonest, --so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on fromday to day. I suppose you don't supply him with ready money?'

'He has had a little. '

Roger frowned angrily. 'I can understand that you should provide himwith bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices bygiving him money. ' This was very plain speaking, and Lady Carburywinced under it. 'The kind of life that he is leading requires a largeincome of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with all Ihave in the world I could not do it myself. '

'You are so different. '

'I am older of course, --very much older. But he is not so young that heshould not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you givehim?'

Then Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun toentertain during the last day or two. 'I think he has been playing. '

'That is the way to lose money, --not to get it. ' said Roger. 

'I suppose somebody wins, --sometimes. '

'They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I wouldsooner that he were a fool than a knave. '

'O Roger, you are so severe!'

'You say he plays. How would he pay, were he to lose?'

'I know nothing about it. I don't even know that he does play; but Ihave reason to think that during the last week he has had money at hiscommand. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of hoursand sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and did notwake him. There were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever so much. '

'Why did you not take them?'

'What; rob my own boy?'

'When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay yourown bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! Whydoes he not repay you what he has borrowed?'

'Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were papersthere;--I. O. U. 's signed by other men. '

'You looked at them. '

'I saw as much as that. It is not that I am curious but one does feelabout one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A groom camehere and said something about it to the servants. '

'Oh dear oh dear!'

'If you could only induce him to stop the gambling! Of course it isvery bad whether he wins or loses, --though I am sure that Felix would donothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money, itwould be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it, --for totell the truth. I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can saythat I spend it on myself. '

Then Roger again repeated his advice. There could be no use inattempting to keep up the present kind of life in Welbeck Street. Welbeck Street might be very well without a penniless spendthrift suchas Sir Felix but must be ruinous under the present conditions. If LadyCarbury felt, as no doubt she did feel, bound to afford a home to herruined son in spite of all his wickedness and folly, that home shouldbe found far away from London. If he chose to remain in London, lethim do so on his own resources. The young man should make up his mindto do something for himself. A career might possibly be opened for himin India. 'If he be a man he would sooner break stones than live onyou. ' said Roger. Yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow and speak tohim;--that is if he could possibly find him. "Young men who gamble allnight, and hunt all day are not easily found. " But he would come attwelve as Felix generally breakfasted at that hour. Then he gave anassurance to Lady Carbury which to her was not the least comfortablepart of the interview. In the event of her son not giving her themoney which she at one once required he, Roger, would lend her ahundred pounds till her half year's income should be due. After thathis voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on anothersubject. 'Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?'

'Certainly;--why not? She is at, home now, I think. '

'I will wait till to-morrow, --when I call to see Felix. I should like herto know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. Hewas here, I suppose?'

'Yes;--he called. '

'Was that all you saw of him?'

'He was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him;--and we werethere. Has he gone down to Carbury?'

'No;--not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners atLiverpool. There is another case of a young man without anything todo. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix. ' This he was induced tosay by the spirit of honesty which was always strong within him. 

'Don't be too hard upon poor Felix. ' said Lady Carbury. Roger, as hetook his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hardupon Sir Felix Carbury. 

The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he wasup, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger wascoming to lecture him. 'What the devil's the use of it?' said Felixfrom beneath the bedclothes. 

'If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room. '

'But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he has got tosay just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons togood people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain'tgood. '

'Why shouldn't you be good?'

'I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. Ican play my hand better than he can play for me. If you'll go now I'llget up. ' She had intended to ask him for some of the money which shebelieved he still possessed; but her courage failed her. If she askedfor his money, and took it, she would in some fashion recognise andtacitly approve his gambling. It was not yet eleven, and it was earlyfor him to leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get out ofthe house before that horrible bore should be upon him with hissermon. To do this he must be energetic. He was actually eating hisbreakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in his mindhow he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into the street, --towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would certainly notcome. He left the house at ten minutes before twelve, cunningly turnedaway, dodging round by the first corner, --and just as he had turned itencountered his cousin. Roger, anxious in regard to his errand, withtime at his command, had come before the hour appointed and hadstrolled about, thinking not of Felix but of Felix's sister. Thebaronet felt that he had been caught, --caught unfairly, but by no meansabandoned all hope of escape. 'I was going to your mother's house onpurpose to see you, ' said Roger. 

'Were you indeed? I am so sorry. I have an engagement out here with afellow which I must keep. I could meet you at any other time, youknow. '

'You can come back for ten minutes, ' said Roger, taking him by thearm. 

'Well;--not conveniently at this moment. '

'You must manage it. I am here at your mother's request, and can'tafford to remain in town day after day looking for you. I go down toCarbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along. ' Hisfirmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake hiscousin off violently, and to go his way. But as he returned hefortified himself with the remembrance of all the money in his pocket, --for he still had his winnings, --remembered too certain sweet words whichhad passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolvedthat he would not be sat upon by Roger Carbury. The time was coming, --hemight almost say that the time had come, --in which he might defy RogerCarbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the words which were now to bespoken to him with a craven fear. 

'Your mother tells me, ' said Roger, 'that you still keep hunters. '

'I don't know what she calls hunters. I have one that I didn't partwith when the others went. '

'You have only one horse?'

'Well;--if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the horse Iride. '

'And another up here in town?'

'Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying atsome stables which, has been sent for me to look at. '

'Who pays for all these horses?'

'At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them. '

'No;--you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in askingyour mother, though you should force her to come to me or to otherfriends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of yourown, and now you are ruining her. '

'That isn't true. I have money of my own. '

'Where did you get it?'

'This is all very well. Roger; but I don't know that you have anyright to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I canpay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe alot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, andyou needn't frighten yourself. '

'Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when youhave money not pay it back to her?'

'She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that. '

'I mean that, and a good deal more than that. I suppose you have beengambling. '

'I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I won't doit. If you have nothing else to say, I'll go about my own business. '

'I have something else to say, and I mean to say it. ' Felix had walkedtowards the door, but Roger was before him, and now leaned his backagainst it. 

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

'You have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still. Do you wishto be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?'

'Oh;--go on!'

'That is what it will be. You have spent every shilling of your own, --and because your mother is affectionate and weak you are now spendingall that she has, and are bringing her and your sister to beggary. '

'I don't ask her to pay anything for me. '

'Not when you borrow her money?'

'There is the £20. Take it and give it her. ' said Felix, counting thenotes out of the pocket-book. 'When I asked, her for it, I did notthink she would make such a row about such a trifle. ' Roger took upthe notes and thrust them into his pocket. 'Now, have you done?' saidFelix. 

'Not quite. Do you purpose that your mother should keep you and clotheyou for the rest of your life?'

'I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much betterthan it has ever been done before. The truth is, Roger, you knownothing about it. If you'll leave me to myself you'll find that Ishall do very well. '

'I don't know any young man who ever did worse or one who had lessmoral conception of what is right and wrong. '

'Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't allthink alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go. '

Roger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he hardlyknew how to get it said. And of what use could it be to talk to a youngman who was altogether callous and without feeling? The remedy for theevil ought to be found in the mother's conduct rather than the son's. She, were she not foolishly weak, would make up her mind to divideherself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and to leavehim to suffer utter penury. That would bring him round. And then whenthe agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread andmeat from her hand and would be humble. At present he had money in hispocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free frominconvenience for the moment. While this prosperity remained it wouldbe impossible to touch him. 'You will ruin your sister, and break yourmother's heart. ' said Roger, firing a last harmless shot after theyoung reprobate. 

When Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as thefront door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that agreat success had been achieved because the £20 had been recovered. 'Iknew he would give it me back, if he had it. ' she said. 

'Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?'

'I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he gotit by--playing?'

'No, --he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. You may takeit for granted that he did get it by gambling. How else should he haveit? And you may take it for granted also that he will lose all that hehas got. He talked in the wildest way, --saying that he would soon have ahome for you and Hetta. '

'Did he, --dear boy!'

'Had he any meaning?'

'Oh; yes. And it is quite on the cards that it should be so. You haveheard of Miss Melmotte. '

'I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here, andwho is buying his way into society. '

'Everybody visits them now, Roger. '

'More shame for everybody. Who knows anything about him, --except that heleft Paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue? Butwhat of him?'

'Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix ishandsome; isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? Theysay she'll have half a million of money. '

'That's his game;--is it?'

'Don't you think he is right?'

'No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree with each otherabout that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?'

CHAPTER VIII - LOVE-SICK

Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and hiscousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to theexpedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that theyshould ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect of aunion between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy andtriumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should berich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penalsettlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealth evenin that case would certainly carry the day, against the disgrace, andLady Carbury would find reasons why poor Marie should not be punishedfor her father's sins even while enjoying the money which those sinshad produced. But how different were the existing facts? Mr Melmottewas not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in GrosvenorSquare. People said that Mr Melmotte had a reputation throughoutEurope as a gigantic swindler, --as one who in the dishonest andsuccessful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. People said ofhim that he had framed and carried out long premeditated anddeeply-laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that hehad swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;--but what was allthis to Lady Carbury? If the duchesses condoned it all, did it becomeher to be prudish? People also said that Melmotte would yet get afall, --that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could longkeep his head up. But he might keep his head up long enough to giveMarie her fortune. And then Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was soexactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carburythere was no second way of looking at the matter. 

And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it. That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world, isoften vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which inducespeople to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outsidethe general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever theworld shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashioned ideathat the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him. Hewas a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter thehouse of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchesses in thepeerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions orinduce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would be uselessfor him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however, that oneof the family might be taught to appreciate the difference betweenhonour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turnof mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil. Asfor Felix, --he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be dirt all over. Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a life could cleansehim. 

He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. 'Have you seen Felix?'she said, as soon as they had greeted each other. 

'Yes. I caught him in the street. '

'We are so unhappy about him. '

'I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that yourmother indulges him foolishly. '

'Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on. '

'Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The factis that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on. '

'What can mamma do?'

'Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf. '

'What would Felix do in the country?'

'If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does intown? You would not like him to become a professional gambler. '

'Oh, Mr Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!'

'It seems cruel to say such things to you, --but in a matter of suchimportance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence overyour mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has notthe slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; butI am anxious, for the sake of--for the sake of the family. '

'I am sure you are. '

'Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over. '

'You would not ask me to throw him over. '

'But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already beentaken into the house of that man Melmotte. '

'I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind, 'said Henrietta drawing herself up. 

'Pardon me if I seem to interfere. '

'Oh, no;--it is no interference from you. '

'Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is doneto you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man. Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him; notbecause she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply becausethere is a rich daughter. '

'Everybody goes there, Mr Carbury. '

'Yes, --that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficientreason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place, towhich we are told that a great many are going, simply because the roadhas become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling that youought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own? I admitthere is one reason here. They have a great deal of money, and it isthought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to agirl that he loves her. After what you have heard, are the Melmottespeople with whom you would wish to be connected?'

'I don't know. '

'I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A socialconnection with the first crossing-sweeper would be lessobjectionable. ' He spoke with a degree of energy of which he washimself altogether unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were extended. Of course she thought of his own offerto herself. Of course, her mind at once conceived, --not that theMelmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt surethat she would never accept his offer, --but that he might think that hewould be so affected. Of course he resented the feeling which she thusattributed to him. But, in truth, he was much too simple-minded forany such complex idea. 'Felix, ' he continued, 'has already descendedso far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he mayfrequent. But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seenat Mr Melmotte's. '

'I think, Mr Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not takenwhere I ought not to be taken. '

'I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper foryou. '

'I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not. '

'I am old-fashioned, Hetta. '

'And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it isso. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you canchange us, now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma werehardly fit for each other. '

'I have thought that you and I were, --or possibly might be fit for eachother. '

'Oh, --as for me. I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses togo to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that iscontamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'mto consider myself better than any one else. '

'I have always thought that you were better than any one else. '

'That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have alteredyour opinion now. Indeed you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours. '

He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceivethe working of her mind. He was so true to himself that he did notunderstand that there should be with her even that violet-colouredtinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm. Could she really have thought that he was attending to his ownpossible future interests when he warned her as to the making of newacquaintances?

'For myself. ' he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vaineffort to get hold of hers, 'I have only one wish in the world; andthat is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you oughtto wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When I spokeof the Melmottes did you believe that I was thinking of myself?'

'Oh no;--how should I?'

'I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as anelder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make youother to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even were youin truth disgraced could disgrace touch one so pure as you it would bethe same. I love you so well that I have already taken you for betteror for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn for suchchanges. Have you a word to say to comfort me?' She turned away herhead, but did not answer him at once. 'Do you understand how much I amin need of comfort?'

'You can do very well without comfort from me. '

'No, indeed. I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well. Asit is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody, andill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you. '

'I suppose you mean something. '

'I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That isit. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstaticjoy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married tosome one else. '

'What can I say, Mr Carbury?'

'That you will love me. '

'But if I don't?'

'Say that you will try. '

'No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. Idon't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. Ilike you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing. '

'It would not be terrible to me, dear. '

'Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes. '

'I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this, --that if youpromise your hand to another man you will let me know at once?'

'I suppose I may promise that, ' she said, after pausing for a moment. 

'There is no one as yet?'

'There is no one. But, Mr Carbury, you have no right to question me. Idon't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody elsecould say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you somuch. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for anyone. '

'Are you angry with me?'

'No. '

'If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly. '

'I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman. I don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody allthat happens. '

'Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it youwill forgive me. Good-bye now. ' She put out her hand to him andallowed it to remain in his for a moment. 'When I walk about the oldshrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am alwaysasking myself what chance there is of your walking there as themistress. '

'There is no chance. '

'I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, and mayGod bless you. '

The man had no poetry about him. He did not even care for romance. Allthe outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men andwhich to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they reallyrelish, were nothing to him. There are both men and women to whom eventhe delays and disappointments of love are charming, even when theyexist to the detriment of hope. It is sweet to such persons to bemelancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretchedafter a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and heroines ofwhose sufferings they have read in poetry. But there was nothing ofthis with Roger Carbury. He had, as he believed, found the woman thathe really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixedhis heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing. He hadspoken the simple truth when he declared that life had becomeindifferent to him without her. No man in England could be less likelyto throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his brains. But hefelt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow. He could notmake one thing bear upon another, so as to console himself after anyfashion. There was but one thing for him;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her. And should the latter be his fate, ashe began to fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man. 

He felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved thatother younger man. That she had never owned to such love he was quitesure. The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured him on thispoint, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone tobelieve. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her, and thatit was Paul's intention to cling to his love. Sorrowfully lookingforward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw thatHenrietta would become Paul's wife. Were it so, what should he do?Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world wasconcerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity, andtheir joys? Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though theagony of his own disappointment should never depart from him? Shouldhe do this and be blessed by them, --or should he let Paul Montague knowwhat deep resentment such ingratitude could produce? When had a fatherbeen kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had been toPaul? His home had been the young man's home, and his purse the youngman's purse. What right could the young man have to come upon him justas he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of all that he had in theworld? He was conscious all the while that there was a something wrongin his argument, --that Paul when he commenced to love the girl knewnothing of his friend's love, --that the girl, though Paul had never comein the way, might probably have been as obdurate as she was now to hisentreaties. He knew all this because his mind was clear. But yet theinjustice, --at any rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it andto reward it would be weak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury didnot quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries. If you pardon allthe evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil! If you giveyour cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be, beforeyour shirt and trousers will go also? Roger Carbury, returned thatafternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout thejourney, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if PaulMontague should become his cousin's husband. 

CHAPTER IX - THE GREAT RAILWAY TO VERA CRUZ

'You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's aboutas good as done. ' These words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasaltwang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in one of thesmartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at Liverpool, andthey were addressed to a young Englishman who was sitting opposite tohim. Between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules, andprinted programmes. The American was smoking a very large cigar, whichhe kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which was insidehis teeth. The Englishman had a short pipe. Mr Hamilton K. Fisker, ofthe firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, was the American, and theEnglishman was our friend Paul, the junior member of that firm. 

'But I didn't even speak to him, ' said Paul. 

'In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you inintroducing me. We are not going to ask your friend to do us a favour. We don't want to borrow money. '

'I thought you did. '

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

'Mr Fisker, ' said Paul mysteriously, 'as we are partners, I think Iought to let you know that many people speak very badly of MrMelmotte's honesty. '

Mr Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his mouth, and then closed one eye. 'There is always a want of charity, ' hesaid, 'when a man is successful. '

The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South CentralPacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from the Salt Lake City, thus branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago line, --and passdown through the fertile lands of New Mexico and Arizona into theterritory of the Mexican Republic, run by the city of Mexico, andcome out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr Fisker admitted atonce that it was a great undertaking, acknowledged that the distancemight be perhaps something over 2000 miles, acknowledged that nocomputation had or perhaps could be made as to the probable cost ofthe railway; but seemed to think that questions such as these werebeside the mark and childish. Melmotte, if he would go into the matterat all, would ask no such questions. 

But we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegramfrom his partner, Hamilton K. Fisker, sent on shore at Queenstown fromone of the New York liners, requesting him to meet Fisker at Liverpoolimmediately. With this request he had felt himself bound to comply. Personally he had disliked Fisker, --and perhaps not the less so becausewhen in California he had never found himself able to resist the man'sgood humour, audacity, and cleverness combined. He had found himselftalked into agreeing with any project which Mr Fisker might have inhand. It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet by his ownconsent, that the flour-mill had been opened at Fiskerville. Hetrembled for his money and never wished to see Fisker again; butstill, when Fisker came to England, he was proud to remember thatFisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and went down toLiverpool. 

If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present projecthave done! Fisker explained that he had come with two objects, --first toask the consent of the English partner to the proposed change in theirbusiness, and secondly to obtain the cooperation of Englishcapitalists. The proposed change in the business meant simply theentire sale of the establishment at Fiskerville, and the absorption ofthe whole capital in the work of getting up the railway. 'If you couldrealise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway, ' saidPaul. Mr Fisker laughed at him. The object of Fisker, Montague, andMontague was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float acompany. Paul thought that Mr Fisker seemed to be indifferent whetherthe railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly his ideathat fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful ofearth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes might availanything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trainsrunning into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out of them onthe margin of sunlit lakes, Mr Fisker had certainly done much. ButPaul, when he saw all these pretty things, could not keep his mindfrom thinking whence had come the money to pay for them. Mr Fisker haddeclared that he had come over to obtain his partner's consent, but itseemed to that partner that a great deal had been done without anyconsent. And Paul's fears on this hand were not allayed by findingthat on all these beautiful papers he himself was described as one ofthe agents and general managers of the company. Each document wassigned Fisker, Montague, and Montague. References on all matters wereto be made to Fisker, Montague, and Montague, --and in one of thedocuments it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded toLondon with the view of attending to British interests in the matter. Fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would expressunbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus falling uponhim. A certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant, wasproduced, but at the same time there was another conviction forcedupon Montague's mind, not altogether pleasant, that his, money wasbeing made to disappear without any consent given by him, and that itbehoved him to be cautious lest such consent should be extracted fromhim unawares. 

'What has become of the mill?' he asked

'We have put an agent into it. '

'Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?'

'He pays us a fixed sum sir. But, my word! when there is such a thingas this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of. '

'You haven't sold it?'

'Well;--no. But we've arranged a price for a sale. '

'You haven't taken the money for it?'

'Well;--yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see youweren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed. '

'And about my own income?'

'That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won'tmatter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousanddollars a year. We've got the concession from the United StatesGovernment through the territories, and we're in correspondence withthe President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an officeopen already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz. '

'Where's the money to come from?'

'Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from inall these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll comein quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stockourselves. '

'Six hundred thousand pounds!' said Montague. 

'We take them at par, of course, --and as we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them upeven to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'lldo better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You hadbetter write a letter now. '

'I don't know the man. '

'Never mind. Look here I'll write it, and you can sign it. ' WhereuponMr Fisker did write the following letter:--

 Langham Hotel, London. March 4, 18--. 

 DEAR SIR

 I have the pleasure of informing you that my partner Mr Fisker, -- of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, of San Francisco, --is now in London with the view of allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying out perhaps the greatest work of the age, --namely, the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give direct communication between San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico. He is very anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your co-operation would be desirable. We feel assured that with your matured judgment in such matters, you would see, at once, the magnificence of the enterprise. If you will name a day and an hour, Mr Fisker will call upon you. 

 I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant evening spent at your house last week. 

 Mr Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain here, superintending the British interests which may be involved. 

 I have the honour to be, Dear Sir, Most faithfully yours. 

'But I have never said that I would superintend the interests, ' saidMontague. 

'You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John BullEnglishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life asshould serve to make an additional fortune. '

After some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter andsigned it. He did it with doubt, --almost with dismay. But he toldhimself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretchedAmerican, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had sofar got the upper hand of Paul's uncle as to have been allowed to dowhat he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stopit. On the following morning they went up to London together, and inthe course of the afternoon Mr Fisker presented himself in AbchurchLane. The letter written at Liverpool, but dated from the LanghamHotel, had been posted at the Euston Square Railway Station at themoment of Fisker's arrival. Fisker sent in his card, and was asked towait. In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the greatman's presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall. 

It has been already said that Mr Melmotte was a big man with largewhiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on aharsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presenceunless attracted to him by some internal consideration. He wasmagnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful inhis business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled. Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man, --perhaps aboutforty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at the top, good-looking if his features wereanalysed, but insignificant in appearance. He was gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat, and chains, and he carried a little stick. Onewould 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 wassomething in Fisker. He was troubled by no shyness, by no scruples, and by no fears. His mind was not capacious, but such as it was it washis own, and he knew how to use it. 

Abchurch Lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchantprince. Here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass plateon a swing door, bearing the words 'Melmotte & Co. ' Of whom the Co wascomposed no one knew. In one sense Mr Melmotte might be said to be incompany with all the commercial world, for there was no business towhich he would refuse his co-operation on certain terms. But he hadnever burdened himself with a partner in the usual sense of the term. Here Fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks, and wasdesired to walk upstairs. The steps were narrow and crooked, and therooms were small and irregular. Here he stayed for a while in a smalldark apartment in which 'The Daily Telegraph' was left for theamusement of its occupant till Miles Grendall announced to him that MrMelmotte would see him. The millionaire looked at him for a moment ortwo, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand whichFisker had projected. 

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

'I dare say not, Mr Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco, Imake acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't rememberafterwards. My partner I think told me that he went to your house withhis friend, Sir Felix Carbury. '

'I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury. '

'That's it. I could have got any amount of introductions to you if Ihad thought this would not have sufficed. ' Mr Melmotte bowed. 'Ouraccount here in London is kept with the City and West End Joint Stock. But I have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming toLondon is to see you, and as I met my partner, Mr Montague, inLiverpool, I took a note from him and came on straight. '

'And what can I do for you, Mr Fisker?'

Then Mr Fisker began his account of the Great South Central Pacificand Mexican Railway, and exhibited considerable skill by telling itall in comparatively few words. And yet he was gorgeous and florid. Intwo minutes he had displayed his programme, his maps, and his picturesbefore Mr Melmotte's eyes, taking care that Mr Melmotte should see howoften the names of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, reappeared uponthem. As Mr Melmotte read the documents, Fisker from time to time putin a word. But the words had no reference at all to the future profitsof the railway, or to the benefit which such means of communicationwould confer upon the world at large; but applied solely to theappetite for such stock as theirs, which might certainly be producedin the speculating world by a proper manipulation of the affairs. 

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

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

'How far have you got?'

'What we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the linefrom the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, thestations to be twenty-five miles apart. '

'And the land is to be made over to you, --when?'

'When we have made the line up to the station. ' Fisker understoodperfectly that Mr Melmotte did not ask the question in reference toany value that he might attach to the possession of such lands, but tothe attractiveness of such a prospectus in the eyes of the outsideworld of speculators. 

'And what do you want me to do, Mr Fisker?'

'I want to have your name there, ' he said. And he placed his fingerdown 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 thename hitherto blank. 

'Who are to be your directors here, Mr Fisker?'

'We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr Paul Montague should beone, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. Wecould get probably one of the Directors of the City and West End. Butwe would leave it all to you, --as also the amount of stock you wouldlike to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, MrMelmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out for along time. There would be such a mass of stock!'

'You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?'

'We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too closely byold-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, byhaving our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across thecontinent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at--'

'Never mind that, Mr Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to SanFrancisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to Vera Cruz. ButI will look at it, and you shall hear from me. ' The interview was over, and Mr Fisker was contented with it. Had Mr Melmotte not intended atleast to think of it, he would not have given ten minutes to thesubject. After all, what was wanted from Mr Melmotte was little morethan his name, for the use of which Mr Fisker proposed that he shouldreceive from the speculative public two or three hundred thousandpounds. 

At the end of a fortnight from the date of Mr Fisker's arrival inLondon, the company was fully launched in England, with a body ofLondon directors, of whom Mr Melmotte was the chairman. Among thedirectors were Lord Alfred Grendall, Sir Felix Carbury, SamuelCohenlupe, Esq. , Member of Parliament for Staines, a gentleman of theJewish persuasion, Lord Nidderdale, who was also in Parliament, and MrPaul Montague. It may be thought that the directory was not strong, and that but little help could be given to any commercial enterpriseby the assistance of Lord Alfred or Sir Felix, --but it was felt that MrMelmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that the fortune ofthe Company, --as a company, --was made. 

CHAPTER X - MR FISKER'S SUCCESS

Mr Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but henever quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the wholetransaction. Mr Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact inthe commercial world of London, that it was no longer possible forsuch a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmottehad the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as closeinquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake City had been suburbsof London. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, andhad had shares allocated to him, --or, as he said, to the house, --to theextent of two millions of dollars. But still there was a feeling ofdoubt, and a consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands. 

Paul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much inopposition to the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury, --and had comeup to live in town, that he might personally attend to the affairs ofthe great railway. There was an office just behind the Exchange, withtwo or three clerks and a secretary, the latter position being held byMiles Grendall, Esq. Paul, who had a conscience in the matter and waskeenly alive to the fact that he was not only a director but was alsoone of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague which wasresponsible for the whole affair, was grievously anxious to be reallyat work, and would attend most inopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker, who still lingered in London, did his best to put a stop tothis folly, and on more than one occasion somewhat snubbed hispartner. 'My dear fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself?In a thing of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there isnothing else to do. You may have to work your fingers off before youcan make it move, and then fail. But all that has been done for you. If you go there on the Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. You don't suppose that such a man as Melmotte would put up with anyreal interference. ' Paul endeavoured to assert himself, declaring thatas one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management;--thathis fortune, such as it was, had been embarked in the matter, and wasas important to him as was Mr Melmotte's fortune to Mr Melmotte. ButFisker got the better of him and put him down. 'Fortune! what fortunehad either of us? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worthtalking of, and barely sufficient to enable a man to look at anenterprise. And now where are you? Look here, sir;--there's more to begot out of the smashing-up of such an affair as this, if it shouldsmash up, than could be made by years of hard work out of suchfortunes as yours and mine in the regular way of trade. '

Paul Montague certainly did not love Mr Fisker personally, nor did herelish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be carriedaway by them. 'When and how was I to have helped myself?' he wrote toRoger Carbury. 'The money had been raised and spent before this mancame here at all. It's all very well to say that he had no right to doit; but he had done it. I couldn't even have gone to law with himwithout going over to California, and then I should have got noredress. ' Through it all he disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had onegreat merit which certainly recommended itself warmly to Montague'sappreciation. Though he denied the propriety of Paul's interference inthe business, he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in theexisting dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the money affairsof the firm he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well provided withmoney himself, and took care that his partner should be in the sameposition. He paid him all the arrears of his stipulated income up tothe present moment, and put him nominally into possession of a largenumber of shares in the railway, --with, however, an understanding thathe 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 thanthe amount of profit which would thus accrue. What Melmotte was to beallowed to do with his shares, he never heard. As far as Montaguecould understand, Melmotte was in truth to be powerful overeverything. All this made the young man unhappy, restless, andextravagant. He was living in London and had money at command, but henever could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumbleto pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as oneamong a gang of swindlers. 

We all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater proportionof a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that are offered tohim and the lesser proportion to the cares, sacrifices, and sorrows. Had this young director been describing to his intimate friend thecondition in which he found himself, he would have declared himself tobe distracted by doubts, suspicions, and fears till his life was aburden to him. And yet they who were living with him at this timefound him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement, anddisposed to make the most of all the good things which came in hisway. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member ofthe Beargarden, at which best of all possible clubs the mode ofentrance was as irregular as its other proceedings. When any young mandesired to come in who was thought to be unfit for its style ofliving, it was shown to him that it would take three years beforehis name could be brought up at the usual rate of vacancies; but inregard to desirable companions the committee had a power of puttingthem at the top of the list of candidates and bringing them in atonce. Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with considerablecommercial wealth and greater commercial influence. He sat at the sameBoard with Melmotte and Melmotte's men; and was on this accountelected at the Beargarden without any of that harassing delay to whichother less fortunate candidates are subjected. 

And, --let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart honestand well-conditioned, --he took to living a good deal at the Beargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that a man dinescheaper at his club than elsewhere. It was thus he reasoned withhimself. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He saw agood deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and LordNidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred more than once at the club, andhad twice dined with his great chairman amidst all the magnificence ofmerchant-princely hospitality in Grosvenor Square. It had indeed beensuggested to him by Mr Fisker that he also ought to enter himself forthe great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again declared hisintention of running, owing to considerable pressure put upon him bycertain interested tradesmen, and with this intention had become oneof the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. At the time, however, of which we are now writing, Sir Felix was the favourite for the raceamong fashionable circles generally. 

The middle of April had come, and Fisker was still in London. Whenmillions of dollars are at stake, --belonging perhaps to widows andorphans, as Fisker remarked, --a man was forced to set his ownconvenience on one side. But this devotion was not left withoutreward, for Mr Fisker had 'a good time' in London. He also was madefree of the Beargarden, as an honorary member, and he also spent agood deal of money. But there is this comfort in great affairs, thatwhatever you spend on yourself can be no more than a trifle. Champagneand ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or losethousands, --with this only difference, that champagne may havedeteriorating results which the more innocent beverage will notproduce. The feeling that the greatness of these operations relievedthem from the necessity of looking to small expenses operated in thechampagne direction, both on Fisker and Montague, and the result wasdeleterious. The Beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place thanCarbury Manor, but Montague found that he could not wake up on theseLondon mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attendedhis pillow at the old Manor House. 

On Saturday, the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London on hisreturn to New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be givento him at the club. Mr Melmotte was asked to meet him, and on such anoccasion all the resources of the club were to be brought forth. LordAlfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr Cohenlupe, who wentabout a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, andMiles Grendall were members of the club, and gave the dinner. Noexpense was spared. Herr Vossner purveyed the viands and wines, --andpaid for them. Lord Nidderdale took the chair, with Fisker on hisright hand, and Melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going younglord, was supposed to have done the thing well. There were only twotoasts drunk, to the healths of Mr Melmotte and Mr Fisker, and twospeeches were of course made by them. Mr Melmotte may have been heldto have clearly proved the genuineness of that English birth which heclaimed by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on theoccasion. He stood with his hands on the table and with his faceturned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating ofthis railway company would be one of the greatest and most successfulcommercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic. It was a great thing, --a very great thing;--he had no hesitation in sayingthat it was one of the greatest things out. He didn't believe agreater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humbleassistance to the furtherance of so great a thing, --and so on. Theseassertions, not varying much one from the other, he jerked out like somany separate interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in theface at each, and then turning his countenance back to his plate asthough seeking for inspiration for the next attempt. He was noteloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was thegreat Augustus Melmotte, that he might probably make them all richmen, and they cheered him to the echo. Lord Alfred had reconciledhimself to be called by his Christian name, since he had been put inthe way of raising two or three hundred pounds on the security ofshares which were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh hehad as yet seen nothing. Wonderful are the ways of trade! If one canonly get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie, what noblemorsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is extracted!

When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. Without giving it word for word, which would betedious, I could not adequately set before the reader's eye thespeaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmonywhich was to be produced by a railway from Salt Lake City to VeraCruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at largewhich might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the greatfirms of Melmotte & Co, of London, and Fisker, Montague, and Montagueof San Francisco. Mr Fisker's arms were waved gracefully about. Hishead was turned now this way and now that, but never towards hisplate. It was very well done. But there was more faith in oneponderous word from Mr Melmotte's mouth than in all the American'soratory. 

There was not one of them then present who had not after some fashionbeen given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not by theconstruction of the railway, but by the floating of the railwayshares. They had all whispered to each other their convictions on thishead. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he wasreally a director in a company to be employed in the making andworking of a railway. People out of doors were to be advertised intobuying shares, and they who were so to say indoors were to have theprivilege of manufacturing the shares thus to be sold. That was to betheir work, and they all knew it. But now, as there were eight of themcollected together, they talked of humanity at large and of the comingharmony of nations. 

After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went withhim. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain, being a man who enjoyedtobacco and soda-and-brandy, --but momentous days had come upon him, andhe thought well to cling to his Melmotte. Mr Samuel Cohenlupe alsowent, not having taken a very distinguished part in the entertainment. Then the young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that theyshould adjourn to the cardroom. It had been rather hoped that Fiskerwould go with the elders. Nidderdale, who did not understand muchabout the races of mankind, had his doubts whether the Americangentleman might not be a 'Heathen Chinee, ' such as he had read of inpoetry. But Mr Fisker liked to have his amusement as well as did theothers, and went up resolutely into the cardroom. Here they werejoined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly at work, havingchosen loo as their game. Mr Fisker made an allusion to poker as adesirable pastime, but Lord Nidderdale, remembering his poetry, shookhis head. 'Oh! bother, ' he said, 'let's have some game that Christiansplay. ' Mr Fisker declared himself ready for any game, --irrespective ofreligious prejudices. 

It must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone onwith very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix Carburykept his luck. There had of course been vicissitudes, but his star hadbeen in the ascendant. For some nights together this had been socontinual that Mr Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend LordGrasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, who had notmany good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and repudiated theidea. 'We'll keep an eye on him, ' Miles Grendall had said. 'You may doas you like, but I'm not going to watch any one, ' Grasslough hadreplied. Miles 'had watched, ' and had watched in vain, and it may aswell be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not asyet a blackleg. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum ofmoney, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present on thisoccasion. Latterly very little ready money had passed hands, --verylittle in proportion to the sums which had been written down on paper, --though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to feel himselfjustified in repudiating any caution that his mother might give him. 

When I. O. U. 's have for some time passed freely in such a company asthat now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is verydisagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for SanFrancisco on the following morning. If it could be arranged that thestranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be regarded asa godsend. Such strangers have ready money in their pockets, a portionof which would be felt to descend like a soft shower in a time ofdrought. When these dealings in unsecured paper have been going on fora considerable time real bank notes come to have a loveliness whichthey never possessed before. But should the stranger win, then theremay arise complications incapable of any comfortable solution. In sucha state of things some Herr Vossner must be called in, whose terms areapt to be ruinous. On this occasion things did not arrange themselvescomfortably. From the very commencement Fisker won, and quite a budgetof little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passedto him from the hands of Sir Felix, --bearing, however, a 'G' intended tostand for Grasslough, or an 'N' for Nidderdale, or a wonderfulhieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D. L. , --or DollyLongestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion. 

Then there was the M. G. Of Miles Grendall, which was a species ofpaper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercialoccasions. Paul Montague hitherto had never given an I. O. U. At theBeargarden, --nor of late had our friend Sir Felix. On the presentoccasion Montague won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost continually, and was almost the only loser. But Mr Fisker won nearly all that waslost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8. 30 a. M. , and at 6a. M. , he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner ofabout £600. 'I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix, ' hesaid, --handing the bundle across the table. 

'I dare say they did, but they are all good against these otherfellows. ' Then Fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted onefrom the mass which indicated Dolly Longestaffe's indebtedness to theamount of £50. 'That's Longestaffe, ' said Felix, 'and I'll change thatof course. ' Then out of his pocket-book he extracted other minutedocuments bearing that M. G. Which was so little esteemed among them, --and so made up the sum. 'You seem to have £150 from Grasslough, £145from Nidderdale, and £322 10s from Grendall, ' said the baronet. ThenSir Felix got up as though he had paid his score. Fisker, with smilinggood humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and lookedround upon the company. 

'This won't do, you know, ' said Nidderdale. 'Mr Fisker must have hismoney before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury. '

'Of course he has, ' said Grasslough. 

'As it happens, I have not, ' said Sir Felix, --'but what if I had?'

'Mr Fisker starts for New York immediately, ' said Lord Nidderdale. 'Isuppose we can muster £600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. Ithink Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn'texpect to have our I. O. U. 's brought up in this way. '

'Lord Nidderdale, ' said Sir Felix, 'I have already said that I havenot got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you, especially as I knew I had I. O. U. 's more than sufficient to meetanything I could lose when I sat down?'

'Mr Fisker must have his money at any rate, ' said Lord Nidderdale, ringing the bell again. 

'It doesn't matter one straw, my lord, ' said the American. 'Let it besent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord. ' And so he got up to takehis hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall. 

But the two young lords would not agree to this. 'If you must go thisvery minute I'll meet you at the train with the money, ' saidNidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Ofcourse he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair wasone of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day? Then HerrVossner came from his bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, andthere was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and MrGrendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for theamount due by the lords, but he was afraid that he had not money athis banker's sufficient for the greater claim. It was well understoodthat Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr Grendall unless otherswould pledge themselves for the amount. 

'I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America, ' said MilesGrendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in thesame boat with the lords. 

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

'Vossner must get the money, ' said Nidderdale. 'Let's have him upagain. '

'I don't think it's my fault, ' said Miles. 'Of course no one thoughthe was to be called upon in this sort of way. '

'Why shouldn't you be called upon?' said Carbury. 'You acknowledgethat you owe the money. '

'I think Carbury ought to have paid it, ' said Grasslough. 

'Grassy, my boy, ' said the baronet, 'your attempts at thinking arenever worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would beplaying among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if youhad lost it? I don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in mypocket;--nor do you!'

'It's no good jawing, ' said Nidderdale. 'let's get the money. ' ThenMontague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there weremoney transactions between him and his partner. But this could not beallowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealingin I. O. U. 's, and was the last man in the company who ought to be maderesponsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He, theimpecunious one, --the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolutewant of credit, --sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache. 

There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords, in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by whichMiles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner £450 at the end ofthree months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German produced £32210s. In notes and gold. This had taken some considerable time. Then acup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which Nidderdale, withMontague, started off to meet Fisker at the railway station. 'It'llonly be a trifle over £100 each, ' said Nidderdale, in the cab. 

'Won't Mr Grendall pay it?'

'Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?'

'Then he shouldn't play. '

'That'd be hard, on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle theduke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it rightfor you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd makeit square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!'

They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, andgreatcoats with silk linings. 'We've brought you the tin, ' saidNidderdale, accosting him on the platform. 

'Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble aboutsuch a trifle. '

'A man should always have his money when he wins. '

'We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, mylord. '

'You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up when wecan. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant. ' Fresh adieuswere made between the two partners, and between the American and thelord, --and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco. 

'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. 

CHAPTER XI - LADY CARBURY AT HOME

During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixeddepression and elevation. Her great work had come out, --the 'CriminalQueens, '--and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had beenby no means all pleasure, inasmuch as many very hard words had beensaid of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and MrAlf, one of Mr Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set uponher book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. Onewould have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have beenworthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid barewith merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must havehad all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the variousmistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had beenmisquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all theirbearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of thecriticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fullyprovided with books of reference, and having learned the art offinding in them what he wanted at a moment's notice, had, as he wenton with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanentknowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she countsso many sacks into the coal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of onewicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, withan assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all thesedetails abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast andvaried erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, buthis erudition was always there at the command of Mr Alf, --and hiscruelty. The greatness of Mr Alf consisted in this, that he always hada Mr Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a greatbusiness, 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 onespecial Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in hisreferences, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama. 

There is the review intended to sell a book, --which comes outimmediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it;the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, andwhich comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book outquietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a singlepeg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly tomake an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberantJones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush aman, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he hasaccomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the mostpopular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroad thatsome notable man has been actually crushed, --been positively driven overby an entire Juggernaut's car of criticism till his literary body be amere amorphous mass, --then a real success has been achieved, and the Alfof the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poorLady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective. Such a review will notmake all the world call for the 'Evening Pulpit', but it will causethose who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, theproprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their Alf to add alittle power to the crushing department. 

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

'Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury. '

'I can prove that I'm right. '

'And they can prove that you're wrong. '

'I've got all the facts--and the figures. '

Mr Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures, --had no opinionof his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knewvery well that the 'Evening Pulpit' would surely get the better of anymere author in such a contention. 'Never fight the newspapers, LadyCarbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing?It's their business, and you are not used to it. '

'And Mr Alf my particular friend! It does seem so hard, ' said LadyCarbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks. 

'It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury. '

'It'll stop the sale?'

'Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, youknow. The "Breakfast Table" gave it an excellent lift, and came justat the right time. I rather like the notice in the "Pulpit, " myself. '

'Like it!' said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of herself-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut's car-wheels. 

'Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great manypeople remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry awaynothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very goodadvertisement. '

'But to be told that I have got to learn the A B C of history afterworking as I have worked!'

'That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury. '

'You think the book has done pretty well?'

'Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know. '

'There'll be something coming to me, Mr Leadham?'

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

Mr Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr Broune, of the'Breakfast Table' and Mr Booker of the 'Literary Chronicle' had beentrue to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, 'done' MrBooker's 'New Tale of a Tub' in the 'Breakfast Table. ' That is, shehad been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr Broune's eyes, andlaying her soft hand on Mr Broune's sleeve, and suggesting to MrBroune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub MrBooker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion, --and to bepaid for her work. What had been said about his work in the 'BreakfastTable' had been very distasteful to poor Mr Booker. It grieved hisinner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrownupon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even therubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner towhich he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr Booker himselfwrote the article on the 'Criminal Queens' in the 'LiteraryChronicle, ' knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. 'Remarkable vivacity. ' 'Power of delineating character. ' 'Excellentchoice of subject. ' 'Considerable intimacy with the historical detailsof various periods. ' 'The literary world would be sure to hear of LadyCarbury again. ' The composition of the review, together with thereading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of MrBooker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and thereread those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such abook when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threwdown his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon himthat he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, todescend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflectthat in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty tobreak stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode ofcarrying on his career was open to him. 'If I didn't, somebody elsewould, ' he said to himself. 

But the review in the 'Morning Breakfast Table' was the making of LadyCarbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr Broune saw the ladyafter the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of thisTale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fullyperformed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and theworld had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusementand instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury's 'CriminalQueens. ' It was the very book that had been wanted for years. It was awork of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. Therehad been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. At that lastmeeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome, and verywinning; Mr Broune had given the order with good will, and it had beenobeyed in the same feeling. 

Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also beensome elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed to thinkthat her literary career might yet be a success. Mr Leadham's chequehad been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the way tosomething better. People at any rate were talking about her, and herTuesday evenings at home were generally full. But her literary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr Broune, herbusiness with Mr Booker, and her crushing by Mr Alf's Mr Jones, wereafter all but adjuncts to that real inner life of hers of which theabsorbing interest was her son. And with regard to him too she waspartly depressed, and partly elated, allowing her hopes however todominate her fears. There was very much to frighten her. Even themoderate reform in the young man's expenses which had been effectedunder dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Though he never toldher anything, she became aware that during the last month of thehunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew, too, that hehad a horse up in town. She never saw him but once in the day, whenshe visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware that he wasalways at his club throughout the night. She knew that he wasgambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes the mostdangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for his immediatepurposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted with apeculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to trouble her inWelbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she consoled herself byreflecting that his gambling was successful. But her elation sprangfrom a higher source than this. From all that she could hear, shethought it likely that Felix would carry off the great prize; and then, --should he do that, --what a blessed son would he have been to her! Howconstantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment ofherself! As she thought of it the bliss seemed to be too great for thepossibility of realisation. She was taught to understand that £10, 000a year, to begin with, would be the least of it; and that the ultimatewealth might probably be such as to make Sir Felix Carbury the richestcommoner in England. In her very heart of hearts she worshippedwealth, but desired it for him rather than for herself. Then her mindran away to baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the comingglories of the boy whose faults had already nearly engulfed her in hisown ruin. 

And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much, though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She haddiscovered that her son had become a Director of the South CentralPacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known, --she certainlydid know, --that Felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by hiswork to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. She wasaware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from theworld, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. A ruined baronetof five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left togo alone had been loaded with vice and folly, --whose egregiousmisconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable ofknowing what principle is, --of what service could he be, that he shouldbe made a Director? But Lady Carbury, though she knew that he could beof no service, was not at all shocked. She was now able to speak up alittle for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post toRoger Carbury. And her son sat at the same Board with Mr Melmotte!What an indication was this of coming triumphs!

Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on themorning of Saturday 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at aboutseven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to see him. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and whenshe sought him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caught him. 'I hope, ' she said, 'you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening. ' Hithertoshe had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening partiesby his presence. 

'All your people are coming! You know, mother, it is such an awfulbore. '

'Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here. '

'One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's ownhouse. Everybody sees that it has been contrived. And it is such apokey, stuffy little place!'

Then Lady Carbury spoke out her mind. 'Felix, I think you must be afool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anything toplease me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hope for areturn. 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 youmight at any rate help a little, --not for me of course, but foryourself. '

'I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't want youto work day and night. '

'There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of thisgirl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they aregoing out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet LordNidderdale down in the country. '

'She can't endure Nidderdale. She says so herself. '

'She will do as she is told, --unless she can be made to be downright inlove with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once onTuesday?'

'If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm notgoing to be driven. '

'Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her whenshe comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that youreally love her. '

'Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;--I'll look in. What time do the animals come to feed?'

'There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruelthat I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your ownway and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here aboutten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here toreceive her, not later than ten. '

'If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come. '

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

'If you're strong enough, ' said Mr Booker. 

'Well, I think I am. I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that I'mnot afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for ourfriend here, --but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, anunblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of establishedreputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed tomisapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to meand asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best Icould. '

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

'Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how ourfriend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the"Criminal Queens" was the greatest historical work of modern days. '

'I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, asfar as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure orviolent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't wantto break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly butterfly. '

'As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea, 'said Mr Alf, moving away. 

'I'll never forget what you've done for me, --never!' said Lady Carbury, holding Mr Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to him. 

'Nothing more than my duty, ' said he, smiling. 

'I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful, ' shereplied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of enduringgratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at thismoment she did feel that Mr Broune had done much for her, and that shewould willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling ofanother sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of anyidea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though hewere her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten thatlittle absurd episode in their joint lives. She was at any rate toomuch in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it wasotherwise with Mr Broune. He could not quite make up his mind whetherthe lady was or was not in love with him, --or whether, if she were, itwas incumbent on him to indulge her;--and if so, in what manner. Then ashe looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly verybeautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income wascertain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr Broune knew ofhimself that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind thatmarriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as hereflected how impossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury shouldturn him from his resolution. 

'I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr Alf, ' Lady Carbury saidto the high-minded editor of the 'Evening Pulpit. '

'Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?'

'You are very good. But I feared--'

'Feared what, Lady Carbury?'

'That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling towelcome you after, --well, after the compliments of last Thursday. '

'I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see, Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself. '

'No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did. '

'To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavourto get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic shouldbe hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may havespirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr Alf who hasthe misfortune to edit a newspaper. '

'It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you, ' saidLady Carbury with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word thatMr Alf had said to her. She thought, and thought rightly, that MrAlf's Mr Jones had taken direct orders from his editor, as to histreatment of the 'Criminal Queens. ' But she remembered that sheintended to write another book, and that she might perhaps conquereven Mr Alf by spirit and courage under her present infliction. 

It was Lady Carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things toeverybody. And she did her duty. But in the midst of it all she wasever thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did at lastventure to separate the girl from her mother. Marie herself was notunwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, hadnever seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! She, poorgirl, bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the lifeto which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonitionfrom her father, who would again, fitfully, leave her unnoticed for aweek at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother--for poor Marie, hadin truth been born before her father had been a married man, and hadnever known what was her own mother's fate, --with no enjoyment in herpresent life, had come solely to this conclusion, that it would bewell for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. Many a variedphase of life had already come in her way. She could just remember thedirty street in the German portion of New York in which she had beenborn and had lived for the first four years of her life, and couldremember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been her mother. She could remember being at sea, and her sickness, --but could not quiteremember whether that woman had been with her. Then she had run aboutthe streets of Hamburg, and had sometimes been very hungry, sometimesin rags, --and she had a dim memory of some trouble into which her fatherhad fallen, and that he was away from her for a time. She had up tothe present splendid moment her own convictions about that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a human being. Then her father hadmarried her present mother in Frankfort. That she could rememberdistinctly, as also the rooms in which she was then taken to live, andthe fact that she was told that from henceforth she was to be aJewess. But there had soon come another change. They went fromFrankfort to Paris, and there they were all Christians. From that timethey had lived in various apartments in the French capital, but hadalways lived well. Sometimes there had been a carriage, sometimesthere had been none. And then there came a time in which she was grownwoman enough to understand that her father was being much talkedabout. Her father to her had always been alternately capricious andindifferent rather than cross or cruel, but, just at this period hewas cruel both to her and to his wife. And Madame Melmotte would weepat times and declare that they were all ruined. Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour at Paris. There was an hotel, with carriages and horses almost unnumbered;--and then there came totheir rooms a crowd of dark, swarthy, greasy men, who were entertainedsumptuously; but there were few women. At this time Marie was hardlynineteen, and young enough in manner and appearance to be taken forseventeen. Suddenly again she was told that she was to be taken toLondon, and the migration had been effected with magnificence. She wasfirst taken to Brighton, where the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been brought to Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown intothe matrimonial market. No part of her life had been moredisagreeable to her, more frightful, than the first months in whichshe had been trafficked for by the Nidderdales and Grassloughs. Shehad been too frightened, too much of a coward to object to anythingproposed to her, but still had been conscious of a desire to have somehand in her own future destiny. Luckily for her, the first attempts attrafficking with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs had come to nothing;and at length she was picking up a little courage, and was beginningto feel that it might be possible to prevent a disposition of herselfwhich did not suit her own tastes. She was also beginning to thinkthat there might be a disposition of herself which would suit her owntastes. 

Felix Carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was seatedon a chair close to him. 'I love you better than anyone in the world, 'he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhaps indifferentas to the hearing of others. 

'Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that. '

'You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be mywife. '

'How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything. '

'May I go to papa?'

'You may if you like, ' she replied in a very low whisper. It was thusthat the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any dayif people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny. 

CHAPTER XII - SIR FELIX IN HIS MOTHER'S HOUSE

When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her son, --not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his nightlyattendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that hemight have remained on this special occasion to tell her of hisfortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the cooleffrontery with which Felix had spoken, --for without hearing the wordsshe had almost known the very moment in which he was asking, --and hadseen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the ground, and thenervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a woman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had atleast dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner. But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up withlove-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would acceptin return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, howglorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference!

'I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went, ' saidHenrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom. 

'He might have stayed to-night. Do you think he asked her?'

'How can I say, mamma?'

'I should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. I feel sure he did, --and that she accepted him. '

'If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her. '

'Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? A girl need not beodious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable abouther. '

'No, --nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especiallyattractive. '

'Who is? I don't see anybody specially attractive. It seems to me youare quite indifferent about Felix. '

'Do not say that, mamma. '

'Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with thisgirl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up. '

'I wouldn't let him do that, mamma. '

'It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. Icould not see him starve. Think what he might be with £20, 000 a-year!'

'If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will behappy. '

'You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfortme in all my troubles. '

Then Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury absolutely sat up thewhole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear histidings. She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of herfinery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she satopposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of falsehair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. Shecould hide the unwelcome approach by art, --hide it more completely thancan most women of her age; but, there it was, stealing on her withshort grey hairs over her ears and around her temples, with littlewrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by objectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed bythat self-assertion of herself which practice had made always possibleto her in company, though it now so frequently deserted her when shewas alone. 

But she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing old. Herhappiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future, --neverreached but always coming. She, however, had not looked for happinessto love and loveliness, and need not therefore be disappointed on thatscore. She had never really determined what it was that might make herhappy, --having some hazy aspiration after social distinction andliterary fame, in which was ever commingled solicitude respectingmoney. But at the present moment her great fears and her great hopeswere centred on her son. She would not care how grey might be herhair, or how savage might be Mr Alf, if her Felix were to marry thisheiress. On the other hand, nothing that pearl-powder or the 'MorningBreakfast Table' could do would avail anything, unless he could beextricated from the ruin that now surrounded him. So she went downinto the dining-room, that she might be sure to hear the key in thedoor, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a volume ofFrench memoirs in her hand. 

Unfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been dulycalled about her usual time, for it was past eight and the fullstaring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him tothe door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, andthe fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become againcomfortable. She could not keep her mind to her book, and while shewas awake the time seemed to be everlasting. And then it was soterrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these! Whyshould he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fallinto his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be soindispensable to his great project, for the chance of winningsomething which in comparison with Marie Melmotte's money must bedespicable! But at last he came! She waited patiently till he hadthrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at thedining-room door. She had studied her part for the occasion. She wouldnot say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with asmile. 'Mother, ' he said, 'you up at this hour!' His face was flushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait. She hadnever seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her if suchshould be his condition. 

'I could not go to bed till I had seen you. '

'Why not? why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'llbe plenty of time by-and-by. '

'Is anything the matter, Felix?'

'Matter, --what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among thefellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit of mymind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should. '

'There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?'

'What, duelling; oh no, --nothing so exciting as that. Whether somebodymay not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. Youmust let me go to bed now, for I am about used up. '

'What did Marie Melmotte say to you?'

'Nothing particular. ' And he stood with his hand on the door as heanswered her. 

'And what did you say to her?'

'Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think that a man isin a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock inthe morning, when he has been up all night?'

'If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a wordto me, ' she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and lookinginto his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had beendrinking. She could smell it in his breath. 

'I must go to the old fellow, of course. '

'She told you to go to her father?'

'As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means tosettle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me. 'Pulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother'shold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumblingagainst the stairs. 

Then the heiress herself had accepted her son! If so, surely the thingmight be done. Lady Carbury recalled to mind her old conviction that adaughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent in acontention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. But then thegirl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend onthat of her lover. In this case, however, there was as yet no reasonfor supposing that the great man would object. As far as outward signswent, the great man had shown some partiality for her son. No doubt itwas Mr Melmotte who had made Sir Felix a director of the greatAmerican Company. Felix had also been kindly received in GrosvenorSquare. And then Sir Felix was Sir Felix, --a real baronet. Mr Melmottehad no doubt endeavoured to catch this and that lord; but, failing alord, why should he not content himself with a baronet? Lady Carburythought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him anacceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as Mr Melmotte;--not money inthe funds, not a real fortune, not so many thousands a-year that couldbe settled;--the man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary butsuch a one as Mr Melmotte would not like outward palpable signs ofimmediate poverty. There should be means enough for present sleeknessand present luxury. He must have a horse to ride, and rings and coatsto wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the means ofmaking presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, mostfortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him someready money. But if he went on gambling Chance would certainly take itall away again. For aught that the poor mother knew, Chance might havedone so already. And then again, it was indispensable that he shouldabandon the habit of play--at any rate for the present, while hisprospects depended on the good opinions of Mr Melmotte. Of course sucha one as Mr Melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however muchhe might approve of it in the City. Why, with such a preceptor to helphim, should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, oramong the brokers, or in the purlieus of the Bank? Lady Carbury wouldat any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as directorof the Great Mexican Railway, --which position ought to be the beginningto him of a fortune to be made on his own account. But what hope couldthere be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes beover with Mr Melmotte should he ever learn that his daughter's loverreached home and tumbled upstairs to bed between eight and nineo'clock in the morning?

She watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at onceon the subject. 

'Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger forWhitsuntide. '

'To Carbury Manor!' said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which thecook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. 'I thoughtyou found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more. '

'I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object. '

'What will Hetta do?'

'Go too--why shouldn't she?'

'Oh; I didn't know. I thought that perhaps she mightn't like it. '

'I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't giveway to her. '

'Has Roger asked you?'

'No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that weshould all go. '

'Not me, mother!'

'Yes; you especially. '

'Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at CarburyManor?'

'Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down toCaversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spokeof Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend. '

'Oh--h! that explains it all. '

'Explains what, Felix?' said Lady Carbury, who had heard of DollyLongestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visitto Caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to thatdelightful young heir. 

'They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe'saffairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property inSussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to havethat himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anythingfor anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmottesare going to Caversham!'

'Madame Melmotte told me so. '

'And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England. '

'Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. Whatcan be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; andwhy shouldn't we run down to the family place?'

'All very natural if you can manage it, mother. '

'And you'll come?'

'If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day andnight, ' said Felix. 

His mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciouslymade. 

CHAPTER XIII - THE LONGESTAFFES

Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and ofPickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for thebest part of an hour with Mr Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had therediscussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the roomwith a very dissatisfied air. There are men, --and old men too, who oughtto know the world, --who think that if they can only find the properMedea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruinedfortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and newand unembarrassed. These great conjurors are generally sought for inthe City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though theresult of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. No greaterMedea than Mr Melmotte had ever been potent in money matters, and MrLongestaffe had been taught to believe that if he could get thenecromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made rightfor him. But the necromancer had explained to the squire that propertycould not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of anycauldron. He, Mr Melmotte, could put Mr Longestaffe in the way ofrealising property without delay, of changing it from one shape intoanother, or could find out the real market value of the property inquestion; but he could create nothing. 'You have only a life interest, Mr Longestaffe. '

'No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates inthis country, Mr Melmotte. '

'Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, ofcourse, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate orthe other. '

'There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and Ireside there. '

'Your son will not join you in selling the other place?'

'I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that Iwish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for mylife. '

'I think not, Mr Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty. '

Then Mr Longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outragedaristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much forhim, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest toCaversham, --and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter. He hadindeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great manat 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 ahouse in town. There had been an ease in this, an absence of thatdelay which generally took place between the expression of his desirefor money and the acquisition of it, --and this had gratified him. But hewas already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for thatgratification. At the present moment, too, Mr Melmotte was odious tohim for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr Melmotte to makehim a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, andhe, --Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham, --had had his request refused! MrLongestaffe had condescended very low. 'You have made Lord AlfredGrendall one!' he had said in a complaining tone. Then Mr Melmotteexplained that Lord Alfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for theposition. 'I'm sure I could do anything that he does, ' said MrLongestaffe. Upon this Mr Melmotte, knitting his brows and speakingwith some roughness, replied that the number of directors required wascompleted. Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr Melmotte wasbeginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board. 

Mr Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair andwhiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought verymuch of his personal appearance. It was not that he considered himselfhandsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He entertained an idea that all who understood the matter wouldperceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the firstwater, and a man of fashion. He was intensely proud of his position inlife, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all those whoearned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of differentdegrees, 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 usualemployment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since somany 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 badbreeding. He was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it behovedhim to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a certainnobility of feeling. There was very little that his position calledupon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him to do. It wasnot allowed to him to be close in money matters. He could leave histradesmen's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous, but he could notquestion the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to hisservants, but he could not make inquiry as to the consumption of hiswines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for his tenants in regardto game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had histheory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt hadhardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family. 

At the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to sellthe smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. The debthad not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. It would alsoserve his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own whichhe had already managed to burden with debt. The father could not bearto be refused; and he feared that his son would decline. 'But Adolphuswants money as much as any one, ' Lady Pomona had said. He had shakenhis head, and pished and pshawed. Women never could understandanything about money. Now he walked down sadly from Mr Melmotte'soffice and was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's chambers inLincoln's Inn. Even for the accommodation of those few thousand poundshe was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title-deedsof his house in town must be given up. Mr Longestaffe felt that theworld in general was very hard on him. 

'What on earth are we to do with them?' said Sophia, the eldest MissLongestaffe, to her mother. 

'I do think it's a shame of papa, ' said Georgiana, the seconddaughter. 'I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them. '

'Of course you will leave them all on my hands, ' said Lady Pomonawearily. 

'But what's the use of having them?' urged Sophia. 'I can understandgoing to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. Onedoesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to thegirl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her. '

'It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her, ' said LadyPomona. 

'Dolly will never marry anybody, ' said Georgiana. 'The idea of histaking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won'tcome down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is tobe the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless. '

'Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?' asked Sophia. 

'Because everybody wants money, ' said Lady Pomona. 'I'm sure I don'tknow what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is anymoney for anything, I don't spend it. '

'I don't think that we do anything out of the way, ' said Sophia. 'Ihaven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to liveat all, I don't know how we are to make a change. '

'It's always been like this ever since I can remember, ' saidGeorgiana, 'and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I supposeit's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it. '

'But, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as theseMelmottes!'

'As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan'ttrouble myself about them, I suppose it will only be for two days. '

'My dear, they're coming for a week!'

'Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never didhear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being downthere?'

'He is wonderfully rich, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money, ' continued Georgiana. 'Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is morefuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got moneyto live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The SidneyBeauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it inFlorence. It was there that Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey. Ishouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quitehorrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us atCaversham. No one knows who they are, or where they came from, orwhat they'll turn to. ' So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffeswas supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpesttongue. 

This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes'family town-house in Bruton Street. It was not by any means a charminghouse, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which have beenadded of late years to newly-built London residences. It was gloomyand inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and verylittle accommodation for servants. But it was the old familytown-house, having been inhabited by three or four generations ofLongestaffes, and did not savour of that radical newness whichprevails, and which was peculiarly distasteful to Mr Longestaffe. Queen's Gate and the quarters around were, according to MrLongestaffe, devoted to opulent tradesmen. Even Belgrave Square, though its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt ofthe mortar. Many of those living there and thereabouts had neverpossessed in their families real family town-houses. The old streetslying between Piccadilly and Oxford Street, one or two well-knownlocalities to the south and north of these boundaries, were the propersites for these habitations. When Lady Pomona, instigated by somefriend of high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested achange to Eaton Square, Mr Longestaffe had at once snubbed his wife. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls then theymight remain at Caversham. The threat of remaining at Caversham hadbeen often made, for Mr Longestaffe, proud as he was of histown-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expenseof the annual migration. The girls' dresses and the girls' horses, hiswife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull London dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that Lady Pomona shouldgive, made him look forward to the end of July, with more dread thanto any other period. It was then that he began to know what thatyear's season would cost him. But he had never yet been able to keephis family in the country during the entire year. The girls, who asyet knew nothing of the Continent beyond Paris, had signified theirwillingness to be taken about Germany and Italy for twelve months, buthad shown by every means in their power that they would mutiny againstany intention on their father's part to keep them at Caversham duringthe London season. 

Georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against theMelmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did notoften show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own, andcould seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wroteto him notes without end, --notes every day, pressing invitations of allsorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he take them to thetheatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to that evening-party?These Dolly barely read, and never answered. He would open them, thrust them into some pocket, and then forget them. Consequently hismother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were at any ratesuperior to him in intellect, treated him with a certain deference. Hecould do as he liked, and they felt themselves to be slaves, bounddown by the dulness of the Longestaffe regime. His freedom was grandto their eyes, and very enviable, although they were aware that he hadalready so used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of hiswealth. 

'My dear Adolphus, ' said the mother, 'this is so nice of you. '

'I think it is rather nice, ' said Dolly, submitting himself to bekissed. 

'Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?' said Sophia. 

'Give him some tea, ' said his mother. Lady Pomona was always havingtea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner. 

'I'd sooner have soda and brandy, ' said Dolly. 

'My darling boy!'

'I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don'twant it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's thegovernor?' They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must besomething going on more than they had dreamed of, when Dolly asked tosee his father. 

'Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch, ' said Sophiagravely. 

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

'Do stay and dine with us, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with somefellow. '

'Some fellow! I believe you don't know where you're going, ' saidGeorgiana. 

'My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't. '

'Adolphus, ' began Lady Pomona very seriously, 'I've got a plan and Iwant you to help me. '

'I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother. '

'We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and weparticularly want you to come. '

'By George! no; I couldn't do that. '

'You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are coming. '

'The d---- they are!' ejaculated Dolly. 

'Dolly!' said Sophia, 'do remember where you are. '

'Yes I will;--and I'll remember too where I won't be. I won't go toCaversham to meet old mother Melmotte. '

'My dear boy, ' continued the mother, 'do you know that Miss Melmottewill have twenty thousand a year the day she marries; and that in allprobability her husband will some day be the richest man in Europe?'

'Half the fellows in London are after her, ' said Dolly. 

'Why shouldn't you be one of them? She isn't going to stay in thesame house with half the fellows in London, ' suggested Georgiana. 'Ifyou've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else canhave just at present. '

'But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn'tat all in my way, mother. '

'I knew he wouldn't, ' said Georgiana. 

'It would put everything so straight, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put themstraight. There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row. 'Then Mr Longestaffe entered the room. 

'My dear, ' said Lady Pomona, 'here's Adolphus come to see us. ' Thefather nodded his head at his son but said nothing. 'We want him tostay and dine, but he's engaged. '

'Though he doesn't know where, ' said Sophia. 

'My fellow knows;--he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever solong, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come andsee you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn'tanything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know. '

'You'd better come with me into the study, ' said the father. 'Weneedn't disturb your mother and sisters about business. ' Then thesquire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making awoeful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea forabout half-an-hour, waiting, --not the result of the conference, for withthat they did not suppose that they would be made acquainted, --butwhatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the manner andappearance of the squire when he should return to them. Dolly they didnot expect to see again, --probably for a month. He and the squire neverdid come together without quarrelling, and careless as was the youngman in every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to hisown rights in any dealings which he had with his father. At the end ofthe half-hour Mr Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at oncepronounced the doom of the family. 'My dear, ' he said, 'we shall notreturn from Caversham to London this year. ' He struggled hard tomaintain a grand dignified tranquillity as he spoke, but his voicequivered with emotion. 

'Papa!' screamed Sophia. 

'My dear, you don't mean it, ' said Lady Pomona. 

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

'I mean it accurately and certainly, ' said Mr Longestaffe. 'We go toCaversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham toLondon this year. '

'Our ball is fixed, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'Then it must be unfixed. ' So saying, the master of the house left thedrawing-room and descended to his study. 

The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed theiropinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly. But the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother. 

'He can't really mean it, ' said Sophia. 

'He does, ' said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes. 

'He must unmean it again;--that's all, ' said Georgiana. 'Dolly has saidsomething to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did hebring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season hasbegun?'

'I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard uponAdolphus. '

'Dolly can take care of himself, ' said Georgiana, 'and always does doso. Dolly does not care for us. '

'Not a bit, ' said Sophia. 

'I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn't stir from this atall. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless hepromises to bring us back. I won't stir;--unless he has me carried outof the house. '

'My dear, I couldn't say that to him. '

'Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole yearwith no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr Carbury, who isrustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things thatone ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with thePrimeros. Mrs Primero would have me I know. It wouldn't be nice ofcourse. I don't like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;--it'squite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; butnot half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte. '

'That's ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine. '

'But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think whatmade you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do howhard papa is to manage. '

'Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear. '

'No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the troubleof getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. Inever heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is tobecome of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Cavershamup altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than isspent in London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all England. '

The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's company. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by theladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables. LadyPomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. To herhad been imparted upstairs the purport of the conversation betweenDolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale ofPickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to himat once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would bedesirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed fromdebt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he repliedthat he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged andwould be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickeringcould not be sold;--and, as a consequence of that, Mr Longestaffe haddetermined that there should be no more London expenses that year. 

The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed hishead, as was their custom. There was very little show of affection inthe kiss. 'You had better remember that what you have to do in townmust be done this week, ' he said. They heard the words, but marched instately silence out of the room without deigning to notice them. 

CHAPTER XIV - CARBURY MANOR

'I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. Of course if you havemade up your mind to go, I must go with you. '

'What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your owncousin's house?'

'You know what I mean, mamma. '

'It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at all inwhat you say. ' This little conversation arose from Lady Carbury'sannouncement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting thehospitality of Carbury Manor for the Whitsun week. It was verygrievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a manwho was in love with her, even though he was her cousin. But she hadno escape. She could not remain in town by herself, nor could she evenallude to her grievance to any one but her mother. Lady Carbury, inorder that she might be quite safe from opposition, had posted thefollowing letter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter:--

 Welbeck Street, 24th April, 18--. 

 My dear Roger, 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. I have been working very hard 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. Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you would keep us. Felix says he would run down though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying. 

 I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that Great American Railway Board as a Director. It opens a new sphere of life to him, and will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a great confidence to place in one so young. 

 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. 

 Henrietta joins with me in kind love. 

 Your affectionate cousin, MATILDA CARBURY. 

There was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed RogerCarbury. In the first place he felt that Henrietta should not bebrought to his house. Much as he loved her, dear as her presence tohim always was, he hardly wished to have her at Carbury unless shewould come with a resolution to be its future mistress. In one respecthe did Lady Carbury an injustice. He knew that she was anxious toforward his suit, and he thought that Henrietta was being brought tohis house with that object. He had not heard that the great heiresswas coming into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew nothing of LadyCarbury's scheme in that direction. He was, too, disgusted by theill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position asa director. Roger Carbury did not believe in the Railway. He did notbelieve in Fisker, nor in Melmotte, and certainly not in the Boardgenerally. Paul Montague had acted in opposition to his advice inyielding to the seductions of Fisker. The whole thing was to his mindfalse, fraudulent, and ruinous. Of what nature could be a Companywhich should have itself directed by such men as Lord Alfred Grendalland Sir Felix Carbury? And then as to their great Chairman, did noteverybody know, in spite of all the duchesses, that Mr Melmotte was agigantic swindler? Although there was more than one immediate causefor bitterness between them, Roger loved Paul Montague well and couldnot bear with patience the appearance of his friend's name on such alist. And now he was asked for warm congratulations because Sir FelixCarbury was one of the Board! He did not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for belonging to such a Board, or the Board for having sucha director. 'New sphere of life!' he said to himself. 'The only propersphere for them all would be Newgate!'

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

He wrote his two letters at once. That to Lady Carbury was very short. He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta at the time named, --andwould be very glad should it suit Felix to come also. He did not say aword about the Board, or the young man's probable usefulness in hisnew sphere of life. To Montague his letter was longer. 'It is alwaysbest to be open and true, ' he said. 'Since you were kind enough to saythat you would come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me justat the same time and to bring her daughter. After what has passedbetween us I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcomehere together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postponeyour visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want ofhospitality towards you. ' Paul wrote back to say that he was sure thatthere was no want of hospitality, and that he would remain in town. 

Suffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be saidthat the scenery round Carbury was either grand or beautiful; butthere were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and thegrounds around it which gave it a charm of its own. The Carbury River, --so called, though at no place is it so wide but that an activeschoolboy might jump across it, --runs, or rather creeps into theWaveney, and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds CarburyManor House. The moat has been rather a trouble to the proprietors, and especially so to Roger, as in these days of sanitaryconsiderations it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean withat any rate moving water in it, or else to fill it up and abolish italtogether. That plan of abolishing it had to be thought of and wasseriously discussed about ten years since; but then it was decidedthat such a proceeding would altogether alter the character of thehouse, would destroy the gardens, and would create a waste of mud allround the place which it would take years to beautify, or even to makeendurable. And then an important question had been asked by anintelligent farmer who had long been a tenant on the property; 'Fillun oop;--eh, eh; sooner said than doone, squoire. Where be the stoof tocome from?' The squire, therefore, had given up that idea, and insteadof abolishing his moat had made it prettier than ever. The high roadfrom Bungay to Beccles ran close to the house, --so close that the gableends of the building were separated from it only by the breadth of themoat. A short, private road, not above a hundred yards in length, ledto the bridge which faced the front door. The bridge was old, andhigh, with sundry architectural pretensions, and guarded by iron gatesin the centre, which, however, were very rarely closed. Between thebridge and the front door there was a sweep of ground just sufficientfor the turning of a carriage, and on either side of this the housewas 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. At the back of the house there were large gardens screened from theroad by a wall ten feet high, in which there were yew trees andcypresses said to be of wonderful antiquity. The gardens were partlyinside the moat, but chiefly beyond them, and were joined by twobridges a foot bridge and one with a carriage way, --and there wasanother bridge at the end of the house furthest from the road, leadingfrom the back door to the stables and farmyard. 

The house itself had been built in the time of Charles II. , when thatwhich we call Tudor architecture was giving way to a cheaper, lesspicturesque, though perhaps more useful form. But Carbury Manor House, through the whole county, had the reputation of being a Tudorbuilding. The windows were long, and for the most part low, made withstrong mullions, and still contained small, old-fashioned panes; forthe squire had not as yet gone to the expense of plate glass. Therewas one high bow window, which belonged to the library, and whichlooked out on to the gravel sweep, at the left of the front door asyou entered it. All the other chief rooms faced upon the garden. Thehouse itself was built of a stone that had become buff, or almostyellow, with years, and was very pretty. It was still covered withtiles, as were all the attached buildings. It was only two storieshigh, except at the end, where the kitchens were placed and theoffices, which thus rose above the other part of the edifice. Therooms throughout were low, and for the most part long and narrow, withlarge wide fireplaces and deep wainscotings. Taking it altogether, onewould be inclined to say, that it was picturesque rather thancomfortable. Such as it was its owner was very proud of it, --with apride of which he never spoke to any one, which he endeavouredstudiously to conceal, but which had made itself known to all who knewhim well. The houses of the gentry around him were superior to his inmaterial comfort and general accommodation, but to none of thembelonged that thoroughly established look of old county position whichbelonged to Carbury. Bundlesham, where the Primeros lived, was thefinest house in that part of the county, but it looked as if it hadbeen built within the last twenty years. It was surrounded by newshrubs and new lawns, by new walls and new out-houses, and savoured oftrade;--so at least thought Roger Carbury, though he never said thewords. Caversham was a very large mansion, built in the early part ofGeorge III's reign, when men did care that things about them should becomfortable, but did not care that they should be picturesque. Therewas nothing at all to recommend Caversham but its size. Eardly Park, the seat of the Hepworths, had, as a park, some pretensions. Carburypossessed nothing that could be called a park, the enclosures beyondthe gardens being merely so many home paddocks. But the house ofEardly was ugly and bad. The Bishop's palace was an excellentgentleman's residence, but then that too was comparatively modern, andhad no peculiar features of its own. Now Carbury Manor House waspeculiar, and in the eyes of its owner was pre-eminently beautiful. 

It often troubled him to think what would come of the place when hewas gone. He was at present forty years old, and was perhaps ashealthy a man as you could find in the whole county. Those around whohad known him as he grew into manhood among them, especially thefarmers of the neighbourhood, still regarded him as a young man. Theyspoke of him at the county fairs as the young squire. When in hishappiest moods he could be almost a boy, and he still had something ofold-fashioned boyish reverence for his elders. But of late there hadgrown up a great care within his breast, --a care which does not often, perhaps in these days bear so heavily on men's hearts as it used todo. He had asked his cousin to marry him, --having assured himself withcertainty that he did love her better than any other woman, --and she haddeclined. She had refused him more than once, and he believed herimplicitly when she told him that she could not love him. He had a wayof believing people, especially when such belief was opposed to hisown interests, and had none of that self-confidence which makes a manthink that if opportunity be allowed him he can win a woman even inspite of herself. But if it were fated that he should not succeed withHenrietta, then, --so he felt assured, --no marriage would now be possibleto him. In that case he must look out for an heir, and could regardhimself simply as a stop-gap among the Carburys. In that case he couldnever enjoy the luxury of doing the best he could with the property inorder that a son of his own might enjoy it. 

Now Sir Felix was the next heir. Roger was hampered by no entail, andcould leave every acre of the property as he pleased. In one respectthe natural succession to it by Sir Felix would generally beconsidered fortunate. It had happened that a title had been won in alower branch of the family, and were this succession to take place thefamily title and the family property would go together. No doubt toSir Felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most properthing in the world, --as it would also to Lady Carbury were it not thatshe looked to Carbury Manor as the future home of another child. Butto all this the present owner of the property had very strongobjections. It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet himself, --so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good could come fromthat quarter, --but he thought ill also of the baronetcy itself. SirPatrick, to his thinking, had been altogether unjustifiable inaccepting an enduring title, knowing that he would leave behind him noproperty adequate for its support. A baronet, so thought RogerCarbury, should be a rich man, rich enough to grace the rank which heassumed to wear. A title, according to Roger's doctrine on suchsubjects, could make no man a gentleman, but, if improperly worn, might degrade a man who would otherwise be a gentleman. He thoughtthat a gentleman, born and bred, acknowledged as such without doubt, could not be made more than a gentleman by all the titles which theQueen could give. With these old-fashioned notions Roger hated thetitle which had fallen upon a branch of his family. He certainly wouldnot leave his property to support the title which Sir Felixunfortunately possessed. But Sir Felix was the natural heir, and thisman felt himself constrained, almost as by some divine law, to seethat his land went by natural descent. Though he was in no degreefettered as to its disposition, he did not presume himself to havemore than a life interest in the estate. It was his duty to see thatit went from Carbury to Carbury as long as there was a Carbury to holdit, and especially his duty to see that it should go from his hands, at his death, unimpaired in extent or value. There was no reason whyhe should himself die for the next twenty or thirty years, --but were heto die Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the acres, and then therewould be an end of Carbury. But in such case he, Roger Carbury, wouldat any rate have done his duty. He knew that no human arrangements canbe fixed, let the care in making them be ever so great. To histhinking it would be better that the estate should be dissipated by aCarbury than held together by a stranger. He would stick to the oldname while there was one to bear it, and to the old family while amember of it was left. So thinking, he had already made his will, leaving the entire property to the man whom of all others he mostdespised, should he himself die without child. 

In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carbury was expected, hewandered about the place thinking of all this. How infinitely betterit would be that he should have an heir of his own! How wonderfullybeautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin wouldconsent to be his wife! How wearily insipid must it be if no suchconsent could be obtained from her! And then he thought much of herwelfare too. In very truth he did not like Lady Carbury. He sawthrough her character, judging her with almost absolute accuracy. Thewoman was affectionate, seeking good things for others rather than forherself; but she was essentially worldly, believing that good couldcome out of evil, that falsehood might in certain conditions be betterthan truth, that shams and pretences might do the work of trueservice, that a strong house might be built upon the sand! It waslamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to thisteaching, and live in an atmosphere so burdened with falsehood. Wouldnot the touch of pitch at last defile her? In his heart of hearts hebelieved that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he wasbeginning to fear evil. What but a sham could be a man who consentedto pretend to sit as one of a Board of Directors to manage an enormousenterprise with such colleagues as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir FelixCarbury, under the absolute control of such a one as Mr AugustusMelmotte? Was not this building a house upon the sand with avengeance? What a life it would be for Henrietta Carbury were she tomarry a man striving to become rich without labour and withoutcapital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar, --a cityadventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most dishonest?He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but such was the life whichhe feared the young man was preparing for himself. 

Then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms whichthe two ladies were to occupy. As their host, a host without a wife ormother 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 themother been coming alone. In the smaller room of the two the hangingswere all white, and the room was sweet with May flowers; and hebrought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass onthe dressing table. Surely she would know who put it there. Then hestood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantlyfor half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before thefront door. During that half-hour he resolved that he would try againas though there had as yet been no repulse. 

CHAPTER XV 'YOU SHOULD REMEMBER THAT I AM HIS MOTHER'

'This is so kind of you, ' said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin'shand as she got out of the carriage. 

'The kindness is on your part, ' said Roger. 

'I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did solong to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And--and--'

'Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to theold house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull. '

'Oh no, ' said Hetta smiling. 'You ought to remember that I am neverdull in the country. '

'The bishop and Mrs Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow, --and theHepworths. '

'I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, goodfellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentlemancoming whom you have never seen. '

'A new neighbour?'

'Yes, --a new neighbour;--Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles aspriest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in thisparish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to knowsomething of his family. '

'He is a gentleman then?'

'Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and thenbecame what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as apriest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a daylabourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced tobuy second-hand clothes. '

'How shocking!' said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands. 

'He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to bequite friends. '

'Will the bishop like to meet him?'

'Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop allabout him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won'thurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull. '

'I shan't find it dull, Mr Carbury, ' said Henrietta. 

'It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here, 'said Lady Carbury. 

She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected atthe Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down on Saturday, withthe intention of returning on Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped thatsome visiting might be arranged between Caversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness toMarie Melmotte. 

'I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday, ' said Roger. 

'They are down here then?'

'I think they arrived yesterday. There is always a flustering breezein the air and a perturbation generally through the county when theycome or go, and I think I perceived the effects about four in theafternoon. They won't come, I dare say. '

'Why not?'

'They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and theyknow that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us onTuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go. '

'I know they are to have guests, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'What guests?'

'The Melmottes are coming to them. ' Lady Carbury, as she made theannouncement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possessionwere failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as shewould any matter that was indifferent to her. 

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

'Oh yes, --Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate. '

'Mr Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!'

'Why not?'

'I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have beeninduced to ask them here. '

'I fancy, Roger, that Mr Longestaffe does want a little pecuniaryassistance. '

'And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make nodifference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't asthey were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all forthe better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that such aman as Mr Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr Melmotteout of his wife's drawing-room. ' Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger Carburyknew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. Hethought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and thentried to make some half apology. 'I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country. '

Then there was a movement. The ladies were shown into their rooms, andRoger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that heunderstood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in orderthat she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in thiswhich he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of himthat she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have beenbrought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because herpresence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, evenwhile he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with theobject of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object wouldbe the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, thoughhe could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been gratified. But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in orderthat a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might befurthered!

As he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in thegarden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty, as she well knew how to do. And now she dressed her face in hersweetest smiles. Her mind, also, was full of the Melmottes, and shewished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good thatmight come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. 'I canunderstand, Roger, ' she said, taking his arm, 'that you should notlike those people. '

'What people?'

'The Melmottes. '

'I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? Idislike those who seek their society simply because they have thereputation of being rich. '

'Meaning me. '

'No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people. Iwas thinking of the Longestaffes then. '

'Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my owngratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I findpleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here forany good that they will do me?'

'I would not follow them at all. '

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

'Nature has done enough for him. '

'We must take him as he is. He was put into the army very young, andwas very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune. He might have done better; but how many young men placed in suchtemptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left. '

'I fear not. '

'And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl withmoney?'

'I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury. '

'Oh, Roger, how hard you are!'

'A man must be hard or soft, --which is best?'

'With women I think that a little softness has the most effect. I wantto make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to reasonthat the girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him. '

'But does he love her?'

'Why should he not? Is a girl to be debarred from being loved becauseshe has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should shenot have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathise with myanxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the nameand to the family?'

'We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury. '

'But I think so much about it. '

'You will never get me to say that I think the family will bebenefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr Melmotte. I look uponhim as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all hismoney, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a questionof marriage, people at any rate should know something of each other. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is hisdaughter?'

'He would give her her fortune when she married. '

'Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurerand a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman. Thereis a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses hismoney not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks as does acard-sharper. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much less to our tables, on the score of his own merits. But becausehe 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. '

'Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they loveeach other?'

He shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love onthe part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only asregarded him, but also his mother. He could not quite declare this, and yet he desired that she should understand that he thought so. 'Ihave nothing more to say about it, ' he continued. 'Had it gone on inLondon I should have said nothing. It is no affair of mine. When I amtold that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house asCaversham, and that Felix is coming here in order that he may be nearto his prey, and when I am asked to be a party to the thing, I canonly say what I think. Your son would be welcome to my house, becausehe 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 thework that he has on hand. '

'If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it hardto explain to Hetta;--but we will go. '

'No; I certainly do not wish that. '

'But you have said such hard things! How are we to stay? You speak ofFelix as though he were all bad. ' She looked at him hoping to get fromhim some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly word;but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. She couldbear much. She was not delicate as to censure implied, or evenexpressed. She had endured rough usage before, and was prepared toendure more. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, shewould have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come, --would haveforgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have beendeserved. But for her son she was prepared to fight. If she did notdefend him, who would? 'I am grieved, Roger, that we should havetroubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. Youare very harsh, and it crushes me. '

'I have not meant to be harsh. '

'You say that Felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to bebrought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that? Atany rate, you should remember that I am his mother. '

She expressed her sense of injury very well. Roger began to be ashamedof himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. And yet hedid not know how to recall them. 'If I have hurt you, I regret itmuch. '

'Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hardthe world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, andthere has come a storm at once. '

'You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. Youcannot think that I meant to offend you. ' They walked on in silencetill they had reached the door leading from the garden into the house, and here he stopped her. 'If I have been over hot with you, let me begyour pardon, ' She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one offorgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house. 'Pray donot speak of going, Lady Carbury. '

'I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardlystand. '

It was late in the afternoon, --about six, --and according to his dailycustom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as theycame from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on the spotwhere Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the lawn to thebridge and there seated himself on the parapet. Could it really bethat she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her daughterwith her? Was it thus that he was to part with the one human being inthe world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of the dutiesof hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was bound toexercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more graciousthan the world required elsewhere. And of all guests those of his ownname were the best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury. He held theplace in trust for the use of others. But if there were one among allothers to whom the house should be a house of refuge from care, not anabode of trouble, on whose behalf, were it possible, he would make thevery air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their wont, to whom hewould declare, were such words possible to his tongue, that of him andof his house, and of all things there, she was the mistress, whethershe would condescend to love him or no, --that one was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told by his guest that he had been so rough to herthat she and her daughter must return to London!

And he could not acquit himself. He knew that he had been rough. He hadsaid very hard words. It was true that he could not have expressed hismeaning without hard words, nor have repressed his meaning withoutself-reproach. But in his present mood he could not comfort himself byjustifying himself. She had told him that he ought to have rememberedthat Felix was her son; and as she spoke she had acted well the partof an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that though he knew thewoman to be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemnedhimself. Look where he would there was no comfort. When he had sathalf an hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house to dress fordinner, --and to prepare himself for an apology, if any apology might beaccepted. At the door, standing in the doorway as though waiting forhim, he met his cousin Hetta. She had on her bosom the rose he hadplaced in her room, and as he approached her he thought that there wasmore in her eyes of graciousness towards him than he had ever seenthere before. 

'Mr Carbury, ' she said, 'mamma is so unhappy!'

'I fear that I have offended her. '

'It is not that, but that you should be so--so angry about Felix. '

'I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her, --more vexed than I cantell you. '

'She knows how good you are. '

'No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with methat she talked of going back to London. ' He paused for her to speak, but Hetta had no words ready for the moment. 'I should be wretchedindeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger. '

'I do not think she will do that. '

'And you?'

'I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only wishthat Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is somethingin the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that thework will be of service to him. ' Roger could express no hope in thisdirection or even look as though he approved of the directorship. 'Idon't see why he should not try at any rate. '

'Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you. '

'Girls are so different, you know. '

It was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he madehis apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at lastit was accepted. 'I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix, ' hesaid, --'and I beg your pardon. '

'You were energetic, that was all. '

'A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should neverbe rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me. ' She answeredhim by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel wasover. 

Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and wasenabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now comedown to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and prosecutehis wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further objection. And Felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed. Roger wouldunderstand that he was constrained to courtesy by the former severityof his language. Such points as these Lady Carbury never missed. Heunderstood it too, and though he was soft and gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant as he could to his twoguests, he felt that he had been cheated out of his undoubted right todisapprove of all connection with the Melmottes. In the course of theevening there came a note, --or rather a bundle of notes, --from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was in the form of a letter. Lady Pomona wassorry to say that the Longestaffe party were prevented from having thepleasure of dining at Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a housefull of guests. Lady Pomona hoped that Mr Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady Pomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do theLongestaffes the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Mondayor Tuesday following, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That wasthe purport of Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury. Then there werecards of invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also forSir Felix. 

Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to LadyCarbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The toneof his, voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was somethingin it of his former harshness. But she knew how to use her triumph. 'Ishould like to go, ' she said. 

'I certainly shall not go, ' he replied; 'but there will be nodifficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once, because their servant is waiting. '

'Monday will be best, ' she said; '--that is, if nobody is coming here. '

'There will be nobody here. '

'I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta, --and Felix will accepttheir invitation. '

'I can make no suggestion, ' said Roger, thinking how delightful itwould be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it wasthat Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the Melmottes. Poor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish tomeet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousinRoger. 

'That will be best, ' said Lady Carbury after a moment's thought. 'Itis very good of you to let us go, and to send us. '

'Of course you will do here just as you please, ' he replied. But therewas still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A quarterof an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home with twoletters, --the one from Roger expressing his regret that he could notaccept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the other from Lady Carburydeclaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasurein dining at Caversham on the Monday. 

CHAPTER XVI - THE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST

The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house hadbeen very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury hadsuffered under his severity, --or had at least so well pretended tosuffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he hadbeen cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once toLondon, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very badfeminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had doneso in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question ofmeeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need forspeaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm, immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they couldhave the waggonette when they pleased. 'I'm afraid you'll find ittiresome driving about our lanes, ' he said. Lady Carbury assured himthat she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he wasstarting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he broughtto Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his way. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit tillMonday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remainwith him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine atCaversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose andthanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly asher cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love!She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against hermother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that shecould have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did notlove?

'I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here, ' said LadyCarbury. 

'Why so, mamma?'

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

'I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr and Mrs Melmotte can be nicepeople. '

'Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don'tlet us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from thesuperhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I begthat you will not copy him. '

'Mamma, I think that is unkind. '

'And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abusepeople who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A wordfrom you might undo all that we are doing. '

'What word?'

'What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother youshould use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl iswilling enough. She did refer him to her father. '

'Then why does he not go to Mr Melmotte?'

'I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Rogercould 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'tthink there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte. '

'How could he do that, mamma?'

'If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your brotherwould be his heir. '

'You should not think of such a thing, mamma. '

'Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think ofmy own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what I say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury ofCarbury. '

'But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?'

'You say he is so old that you will not look at him. '

'I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know Idid not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great dealolder get married every day. '

'If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that kind, --so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an oldmisanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You aremy child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wishthat the Melmottes should be made to understand that the property andtitle and name of the place will all go together. It will be so, andwhy should not Felix have the advantage?'

'Who is to say it?'

'Ah, --that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that onecannot get him to speak rationally. '

'Oh, mamma, --you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to go to--Felix, when he--is dead!'

'It would not kill him a day sooner. '

'You would not dare to do it, mamma. '

'I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not looklike that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of thekind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service hemight be to us without in any way hurting himself. ' Henrietta wouldfain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as thatproposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. There was nosympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was beginningto understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which her mother'smind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to despise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes. 

In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Becclesthat she might telegraph to her son. 'You are to dine at Caversham onMonday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there. ' Lady Carbury hadmany doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in theoffice might too probably understand who was the 'she' who was spokenof as being at Caversham, and might understand also the project, andspeak of it publicly. But then it was essential that Felix should knowhow great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. He hadpromised to come on Saturday and return on Monday, --and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffesand their dinner-party. Again if he were told to come simply for theMonday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. Itwas Lady Carbury's desire to get him down for as long a period as waspossible, and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keephim, as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighbourhood. Then she returned, and shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked foran hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the 'BreakfastTable. ' Nobody should ever accuse her justly of idleness. Andafterwards, as she walked by herself round and round the garden, sherevolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happenshe would persevere. If the Carburys were unfortunate theirmisfortunes should come from no fault of hers. Henrietta passed thewhole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till heappeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But she was thinking ofhim during every minute of the day, --how good he was, how honest, howthoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand! Hermother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all butdead and buried, simply because of his love for her. Could it be truethat his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she wouldtake his hand? She came to think of him with more tenderness than shehad ever felt before, but, yet, she would not tell herself she lovedhim. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him withoutloving him, --because he was so good; but she was sure that she did notlove him. 

In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs Yeld, and theHepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. Theparty consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for amixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table, --especially if therebe no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to themaster. In this case Mr Hepworth faced the giver of the feast, thebishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the ladiesgraced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things to noone, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty ofa host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. Inthe drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and then to hiscousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and toldherself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. Shehad seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as shenow watched him since her mother had told her that he would diewifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and themother of his children. 

The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, andsomething of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a broadchest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made forclerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortuneoutside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and had nochildren on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a noblemanin the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was very popular. Amongthe poor around him he was idolized, and by such clergy of his dioceseas were not enthusiastic in their theology either on the one side oron the other, he was regarded as a model bishop. By the very high andthe very low, --by those rather who regarded ritualism as being eitherheavenly or devilish, --he was looked upon as a timeserver, because hewould not put to sea in either of those boats. He was an unselfishman, who loved his neighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayedheartily to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he wascompetent to teach a creed, --or even to hold one, if it be necessarythat a man should understand and define his creed before he can holdit. Whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by, any inwardmisgivings, who shall say? If there were such he never whispered aword of them even to the wife of his bosom. From the tone of his voiceand the look of his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by thatagony which doubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man soplaced. And yet it was observed of him that he never spoke of hisfaith, or entered into arguments with men as to the reasons on whichhe had based it. He was diligent in preaching, --moral sermons that wereshort, pithy, and useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfareof his clergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. Theedifice of every church in his diocese was a care to him. He labouredat schools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of thepoor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the humansoul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps therewas no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese thanthe Bishop of Elmham. 

A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, thelately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would beimpossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, someagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, he wastaken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair, which was cut short inaccordance with the usage of his Church; but which he so constantlyruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, it seemed tobe wild and uncombed. In his younger days, when long locks straggledover his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talkingenergetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had notsince dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had ahigh, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeksvery thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong squarechin. He was utterly without worldly means, except those which came tohim from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to findhim food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent to suchmatters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger son of anEnglish country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to Oxfordthat he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordinationhad declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented thisbitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had drawn a sisterwith him. When banished from the house he had still striven to achievethe conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now absolutelyan alien from his father's heart and care. But of this he nevercomplained. It was a part of the plan of his life that he shouldsuffer for his faith. Had he been able to change his creed withoutincurring persecution, worldly degradation, and poverty, his ownconversion would not have been to him comfortable and satisfactory asit was. He considered that his father, as a Protestant, --and in his mindProtestant and heathen were all the same, --had been right to quarrelwith him. But he loved his father, and was endless in prayer, wearyinghis saints with supplications, that his father might see the truth andbe as he was. 

To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey, --that heshould abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others, andallow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faith beingsufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be nothing toa man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whose belief wastrue enough to produce obedience, moral conduct would certainly beadded. 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 tocommit himself to the task of proving their truth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his perseverance would create. Hehad but one duty before him--to do his part towards bringing over theworld to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole lifehe should convert but one; that he should but half convert one; thathe should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that futureconversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. Hewould sow the seed if it might be so; but if it were not given to himto do that, he would at any rate plough the ground. 

He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out that hewas a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found out also thathe was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the hand. Theyoung priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should bedelighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in want of a dinner. Hehad accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaringthat he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparent frankness of theman about himself had charmed Roger, and the charm had not beenseriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winter evening in theparlour at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host. 'I havethe most thorough respect for your religion, ' Roger had said; 'but itwould not suit me. ' The priest had gone on with his logic; if he couldnot sow the seed he might plough the ground. This had been repeatedtwo or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest, and such earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could notbe injured by such teaching. Then it occurred to him one day that hehad known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and hadnever heard from the bishop's mouth, --except when in the pulpit, --a singleword of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger tohim, divided from him by the very fact of his creed, was alwaystalking to him about his faith. Roger Carbury was not a man given tomuch deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was thepleasanter of the two. 

Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one lookingat her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was sore withmany troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and wasskilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She hadknown the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to him of hersoul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of hererror, and she never repeated it. To Mr Alf she commonly talked of hermind; to Mr Broune, of her heart; to Mr Booker of her body--and itswants. 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. Nowshe was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood. 'Yes, indeed, ' said the bishop, 'I think Suffolk is a very nice county; andas we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much forNorfolk too. "It's an ill bird that fouls its own, nest. "'. 

'I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling, 'said Lady Carbury. 'Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire andLancashire have become great towns, and have lost all localdistinctions. '

'We still keep our name and reputation, ' said the bishop; 'sillySuffolk!'

'But that was never deserved. '

'As much, perhaps, as other general epithets. I think we are a sleepypeople. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautifulscenery, like the lake country, --no rivers great for fishing, likeScotland, --no hunting grounds, like the shires. '

'Partridges!' pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy. 

'Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery. Weshall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can'tincrease and multiply as they do in the great cities. '

'I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason. What is the use of a crowded population?'

'The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury. '

'Oh, yes, ' said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to hervoice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divinearrangement. 'The world must be peopled; but for myself I like thecountry better than the town. '

'So do I, ' said Roger; 'and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, andradicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poor peopletouch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There issomething left among us of old English habits. '

'That is so nice, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'Something left of old English ignorance, ' said the bishop. 'All thesame I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. Whatbeautiful flowers you have here, Mr Carbury! At any rate, we can growflowers in Suffolk. '

Mrs Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and wasin truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. She was, perhaps, a littlestauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though she waswilling to admit that Mr Barham might not have ceased to be agentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quitesure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to dowith him. Mr Carbury had not taken them unawares. Notice had beengiven that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declaredthat he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs Yeld had hadher misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after thebishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right, and wrong wrong, --and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and thereforeought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were nopriests there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr Barham was, no doubt, aman of good family, which did make a difference. 

Mr Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturnhumility with which he commenced his operations was in exactproportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy. Mrs Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civilwords, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almostovercame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poor ofBeccles, being very careful to allude only to their material position. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women wouldhave finery. Where did they get the money to buy those wonderfulbonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr Barham was very meek, andagreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a plan readyformed for inducing Mrs Yeld to have mass said regularly within herhusband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it about on thisoccasion. It was not till he made some apparently chance allusion tothe superior church-attending qualities of 'our people, ' that Mrs Yelddrew herself up and changed the conversation by observing that therehad been a great deal of rain lately. 

When the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the way ofconversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the moralityof Beccles. It was evidently Mr Barham's opinion that 'his people'were more moral than other people, though very much poorer. 'But theIrish always drink, ' said Mr Hepworth. 

'Not so much as the English, I think, ' said the priest. 'And you arenot to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greaterproportion are English. '

'It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours, ' said thebishop. 'Of course I am aware that there are a certain number ofpersons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give theexact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhood Icould not put my hand upon any families which I know to be RomanCatholic. '

'It is not, my lord, because there are none. '

'Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my neighbours. '

'I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor, ' said MrHepworth. 

'They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in ourSaviour, ' said the priest. 

'I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn, ' said the bishop, witha curious smile. 'We were speaking of those who are still attached toan old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That thepoor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first toacknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our ideaof human nature. But that an old faith should remain with the poorafter it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easilyintelligible. '

'The Roman population still believed, ' said Carbury, 'when thepatricians had learned to regard their gods as simply usefulbugbears. '

'The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. Thepeople clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to italso. '

'The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord, ' said thepriest. 

'That begs the whole question, ' said the bishop, turning to his host, and, beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately beenimported into the palace sties. Father Barham turned to Mr Hepworthand went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was amistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A s and the B s, and the C s and the D s. He knew alltheir names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithfulones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabledby their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. Thebishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not knowto what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not asyet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly everyRoman Catholic within its borders. 

'Your priest is a very zealous man, ' said the bishop afterwards toRoger Carbury, 'and I do not doubt but that he is an excellentgentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet. '

'I like him because he is doing the best he can according to hislights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare. '

'That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in hiscompany. '

'I am sure he would repeat nothing. '

'Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to getthe best of me. '

'I don't think it answers, ' said Mrs Yeld to her husband as they wenthome. 'Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants areProtestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics. '

'You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn'thave them decline to meet each other. '

'It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion. '

'It ought to be, ' said the bishop. 

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

'I don't know that I do, either, ' said the bishop; 'but if he comes inmy way I hope I shall treat him civilly. '

CHAPTER XVII - MARIE MELMOTTE HEARS A LOVE TALE

On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix. He was tobe expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; andRoger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to thestation for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There wasstill another train by which he might come so as to be just in timefor dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carburywith a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to hercousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage hadto be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerousat Carbury. The squire kept a waggonette and a pair of horses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. Hehimself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to bebrought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the carriageonce on this day, --and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said aword which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he didit with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was Sir Felix, thebaronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position andrank, --because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of theday. To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarlyantipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonette was sent. Butthe waggonette again came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta, in very much gloom. 

About four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of thebaronet. Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, hehad contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himselfdeposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carbury. Roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and Lady Carburyalso left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been avery fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a verydifferent opinion, and spoke little or nothing. 'Oh, Felix, ' said themother, 'you have so terrified us!'

'I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to comefifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who couldhardly get up a trot. '

'But why didn't you come by the train you named?'

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

'I suppose you were at the Board?' To this Felix made no directanswer. Roger knew that there had been no Board. Mr Melmotte was inthe country and there could be no Board, nor could Sir Felix have hadbusiness in the city. It was sheer impudence, --sheer indifference, and, into the bargain, a downright lie. The young man, who was of himselfso unwelcome, who had come there on a project which he, Roger, utterlydisapproved, --who had now knocked him and his household up at fouro'clock in the morning, --had uttered no word of apology. 'Miserablecub!' Roger muttered between his teeth. Then he spoke aloud, 'You hadbetter not keep your mother standing here. I will show you your room. '

'All right, old fellow, ' said Sir Felix. 'I'm awfully sorry to disturbyou all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy and sodabefore I go to bed, though. ' This was another blow to Roger. 

'I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have, Idon't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you willcome with me. ' He pronounced the word 'brandy' in a tone which impliedthat it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. It was a wretched work toRoger. He was forced to go upstairs and fetch a key in order that hemight wait upon this cub, --this cur! He did it, however, and the cubdrank his brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his host'sill-humour. As he went to bed he suggested the probability of his notshowing himself till lunch on the following day, and expressed a wishthat he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. 'He is born to behung, ' said Roger to himself as he went to his room, --'and he'll deserveit. '

On the following morning, being Sunday, they all went to church, --exceptFelix. Lady Carbury always went to church when she was in the country, never when she was at home in London. It was one of those moralhabits, like early dinners and long walks, which suited country life. And she fancied that were she not to do so, the bishop would be sureto know it and would be displeased. She liked the bishop. She likedbishops generally; and was aware that it was a woman's duty tosacrifice herself for society. As to the purpose for which people goto church, it had probably never in her life occurred to Lady Carburyto think of it. On their return they found Sir Felix smoking a cigaron the gravel path, close in front of the open drawing-room window. 

'Felix, ' said his cousin, 'take your cigar a little farther. You arefilling the house with tobacco. '

'Oh heavens, --what a prejudice!' said the baronet. 

'Let it be so, but still do as I ask you. ' Sir Felix chucked the cigarout of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up tothe spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the firstgreeting of the day between the two men. 

After lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating himto go over at once to Caversham. 'How the deuce am I to get there?'

'Your cousin will lend you a horse. '

'He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than Iam, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up withinsolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard andask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course. '

'Roger has not a great establishment. '

'I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. Idon't want anything grand. '

'He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday. '

'I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of littlegrievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and becauseyou are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask himfor a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, hemay lump it. ' About half an hour after this he found his cousin. 'CanI have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?' he said. 

'Our horses never go out on Sunday, ' said Roger. Then he added, aftera pause, 'You can have it. I'll give the order. ' Sir Felix would begone on Tuesday, and it should be his own fault if that odious cousinever found his way into Carbury House again! So he declared to himselfas Felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how probable itwas that Felix himself would be the owner of Carbury. And should itever come to pass, --as still was possible, --that Henrietta should bethe mistress of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive herbrother. He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as hecantered away upon the road, listening to the horse's feet. The youngman was offensive in every possible way. Who does not know that ladiesonly are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon roads? Agentleman trots his horse, and his friend's horse. Roger Carbury hadbut one saddle horse, --a favourite old hunter that he loved as a friend. And now this dear old friend, whose legs probably were not quite sogood as they once were, was being galloped along the hard road by thatodious cub! 'Soda and brandy!' Roger exclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the discomfiture of that early morning. 'He'll die someday of delirium tremens in a hospital!'

Before the Longestaffes left London to receive their new friends theMelmottes at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr Longestaffe, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded daughter. The daughter onher side undertook that the guests should be treated with femininecourtesy. This might be called the most-favoured-nation clause. TheMelmottes were to be treated exactly as though old Melmotte had been agentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return for this theLongestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town. But hereagain the father had carried another clause. The prolonged sojourn intown was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July theLongestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder ofthe year. When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the fatherbecame absolutely violent in his refusal. 'In God's name where do youexpect the money is to come from?' When Georgiana urged that otherpeople had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time wascoming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over herhead. This, however, she took as having been said with poeticallicence, the same threat having been made more than once before. Thetreaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to carry itout with fair honesty. The Melmottes were being treated with decentcourtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled. 

The idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been barelysuggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, thatDolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned. Dolly, with allhis vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course either by hisfather or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie Melmotte. Therefore when the Longestaffes heard that Sir Felix was coming to thecountry, they had no special objection to entertaining him atCaversham. He had been lately talked of in London as the favourite inregard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of herown against Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat wellinclined towards Sir Felix's prospects. Soon after the Melmottes'arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting Sir Felix. 'There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, MissMelmotte. ' Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeurand size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. 'I think you know Sir Felix Carbury, ' continuedGeorgiana. 

'Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury. '

'He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your brighteyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like. '

'I don't think he is coming because of me, ' said Marie blushing. Shehad once told him that he might go to her father, which according toher idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as herpower of acceptance went. Since that she had seen him, indeed, but hehad not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had hesaid a word to Mr Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous indeclining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mindthat she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved onconstancy. But she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness. 

'We had heard, ' said Georgiana, 'that he was a particular friend ofyours. ' And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame Melmottecertainly could not have surpassed. 

Sir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on thelawn, and he also found Mr Melmotte there. At the last moment LordAlfred Grendall had been asked, --not because he was at all in favourwith any of the Longestaffes, but in order that he might be useful indisposing of the great Director. Lord Alfred was used to him and couldtalk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and drink. Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked to Caversham, and Lord Alfred hadcome, having all his expenses paid by the great Director. When SirFelix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his entertainment by talking toMr Melmotte in a summerhouse. He had cool drink before him and a boxof cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how hard the worldhad been to him. Lady Pomona was languid, but not uncivil in herreception. She was doing her best to perform her part of the treaty inreference to Madame Melmotte. Sophia was walking apart with a certainMr Whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been askedto Caversham because as Sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight, --theywho decided the question might have said thirty-one without falsehood. --it was considered that Mr Whitstable was good enough, or at least asgood as could be expected. Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of theoffers which she had rejected. Her friends on the other hand were aptto tell of her many failures. Nevertheless she held her head up, andhad not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables. At the presentmoment her hands were empty, and she was devoting herself to such aperformance of the treaty as should make it impossible for her fatherto leave his part of it unfulfilled. 

For a few minutes Sir Felix sat on a garden chair making conversationto Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. 'Beautiful garden, ' he said; 'formyself I don't much care for gardens; but if one is to live in thecountry, this is the sort of thing that one would like. '

'Delicious, ' said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing hershawl higher round her throat. It was the end of May, and the weatherwas very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart of hearts, Madame Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden. 

'It isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we makethe best of it, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'Plenty of glass, I see, ' said Sir Felix. 'If one is to live in thecountry, I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place. '

There was offence in this;--as though the Carbury property and theCarbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and theLongestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, theLongestaffes were great people. 'For a small place, ' said Lady Pomona, 'I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it isnot extensive. '

'No, by Jove, ' said Sir Felix, 'you may say that, Lady Pomona. It'slike a prison to me with that moat round it. ' Then he jumped up andjoined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be releasedfor a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before sheleft them together. She had understood that the two horses now in therunning were Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would notprobably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing todestroy Lord Nidderdale. 

Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it, --as far as suchwillingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the comfortof wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. Itwas this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and induced himto travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. For the girlherself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to carefor anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given todisliking people strongly, except at the moments in which theyoffended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portionof Mr Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard tofeminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. He wasby no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, fromthat point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged toher came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shydemeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment ofsomething in the world which should be her own. There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, anidea 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. Thoughstill shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon hershyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly openconfidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone--and shewas much alone--she would build castles in the air, which were brightwith art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on herimagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in whichshe bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardlytalked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, thatshe loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had comethe time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found tobe built of real materials. 

'You know why I have come down here?' he said. 

'To see your cousin. '

'No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is amethodical stiff-necked old bachelor, --as cross as the mischief. '

'How disagreeable!'

'Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tellyou. But when I heard that you were going to be here with theLongestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you areglad to see me?'

'I don't know, ' said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancyof words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in hersolitude. 

'Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?'

'Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular. '

'Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me. ' He pausedas though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like acherry. 'I thought you told me that you would love me. '

'Did I?'

'Did you not?'

'I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it. '

'Am I to believe that?'

'Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself. '

'By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellowmore in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say itagain. '

'To say what?'

'Whether you'll accept me?'

'I don't know whether you love me well enough. ' She longed to be toldby him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind ofthing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and hewould have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to herfather for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavyjaws of Mr Melmotte which he almost feared. 'Do you really love mewell enough?' she whispered. 

'Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, butyou know I love you. '

'Do you?'

'By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. Idid indeed. '

It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. 'Then I will loveyou, ' she said. 'I will with all my heart. '

'There's a darling!'

'Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix nowmayn't I?'

'Rather. '

'Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You knowa great many men have asked me to love them. '

'I suppose so. '

'But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least, --not in theleast. '

'You do care for me?'

'Oh yes. ' She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and hesaw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the momentthat she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only hewould have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe. There was indeed acertain brightness of truth which another man might have read inMarie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogetherupon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from thehouse, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his armround her waist and kissed her. 'Oh, Felix, ' she said, giving her faceup to him; 'no one ever did it before. ' He did not in the leastbelieve her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance tohim. 'Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good toyou. '

'Of course I will be good to you. '

'Men are not always good to their wives. Papa is often very cross tomamma. '

'I suppose he can be cross?'

'Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll saywhen we tell him about this. '

'But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?'

'He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but Ihated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale againnow. He hasn't said so, but mamma tells me. But I never will, --never!'

'I hope not, Marie. '

'You needn't be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to killme. I hate him, --and I do so love you. ' Then she leaned with all herweight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. 'Youwill speak to papa; won't you?'

'Will that be the best way?'

'I suppose so. How else?'

'I don't know whether Madame Melmotte ought not--'

'Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him thananybody;--more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman alwaysdid that. '

'Of course I'll do it, ' said Sir Felix. 'I'm not afraid of him. Whyshould I? He and I are very good friends, you know. '

'I'm glad of that. '

'He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day. '

'Did he? Perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law. '

'There's no knowing;--is there?'

'I hope he will. I shall like you for papa's son-in-law. I hope itisn't wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me. ' Then sheput her face up towards his again. 

'Of course I love you, ' he said, not thinking it worth his while tokiss her. 'It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had bettergo and see him in the city. '

'He is in a good humour now, ' said Marie. 

'But I couldn't get him alone. It wouldn't be the thing to do downhere. '

'Wouldn't it?'

'Not in the country, --in another person's house. Shall you tell MadameMelmotte?'

'Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mammadoes not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time. Of course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody totell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you. ' Then heleft her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. MrMelmotte was still sitting in the summerhouse, and Lord Alfred wasstill with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felixpassed in front of the great man he told himself that it was muchbetter that the interview should be postponed till they were all inLondon. Mr Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour. Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. Yes; hehoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sisteron the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not coming. Hebelieved that his cousin Roger never did go anywhere like any oneelse. No; he had not seen Mr Longestaffe. He hoped to have thepleasure of seeing him to-morrow. Then he escaped, and got on hishorse, and rode away. 

'That's going to be the lucky man, ' said Georgiana to her mother, thatevening. 

'In what way lucky?'

'He is going to get the heiress and all the money. What a fool Dollyhas been!'

'I don't think it would have suited Dolly, ' said Lady Pomona. 'Afterall, why should not Dolly marry a lady?'

CHAPTER XVIII - RUBY RUGGLES HEARS A LOVE TALE

Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of Sheep'sAcre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received thefollowing letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier onthat Sunday morning;--'A friend will be somewhere near SheepstoneBirches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon. ' There wasnot another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well fromwhom it came. 

Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerablewealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood asbeing somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;--he hadquarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and hadbanished him from his home;--his daughters were married and away; andthe only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughterRuby. And this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. Shewas twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a prosperous youngman at Bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles hadpromised to give £500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it intoher foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and nowshe had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writerhad not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from SirFelix Carbury, --the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyesupon. Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep's Acre, on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyondher ken. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seenwhich she would never see were she in these her early years to becomethe wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay. Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she gother letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o'clock on that Sundayshe was ensconced among the Sheepstone Birches, so that she might seewithout much danger of being seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left tobe so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which shemost required the kindness of a controlling hand!

Mr Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is calleda bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the property whichdid belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was still set apartfor its sustentation;--but he also held a small extent of outlyingmeadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of thetenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone Birches, at which Felixmade his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, whenthe feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which nowexisted, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the oldman, and had then first seen Ruby;--and had heard from Roger somethingof Ruby's history up to that date. It had then been just made knownthat she was to marry John Crumb. Since that time not a word had beenspoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr Carbury had heard, withsorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned, --but hisgrowing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that thereshould be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than hergrandfather's landlord. 

There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for theordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than thatof such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wifelive on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Theiraspirations, whether for good or evil, --whether for food and drink to behonestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to become by either honestly or dishonestly, --are, if looked at at all, fairlyvisible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can generally findout what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are atwork. But the Ruggles woman, --especially the Ruggles young woman, --isbetter educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-lookingand relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a worldwhich is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to whichher longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours forheaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. Shecan read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write aletter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on apaper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper. But herignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. Bysuch contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of thetowns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns somethingunconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen, --and, as tothat which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the womanbuilds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the young farmerthe squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. Tothe farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look atis a pleasure, --by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for themost part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind, and thenhusband and children put the matter at rest for ever. 

A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as tothe world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find. But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active asthey were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and allher cleverness, --with all her fortune to boot, --marry that dustiest of allmen, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of thethings of which she had read in the books which came in her way? JohnCrumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too, --slow ofspeech but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip, --fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry athis work. But though she had known him all her life she had neverknown him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so gotten within hishair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even onSundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through whichindeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat andwaistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy youngman. Nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man inBungay, and carry two hundredweight of flour upon his back. And Rubyalso knew this of him, --that he worshipped the very ground on which shetrod. 

But, alas, she thought there might be something better than suchworship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with hisbeautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hairand lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook forlove; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, shethought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of JohnCrumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she wasnot a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but shedid understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her toavoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might flyinto the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she waspretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on weekdays would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, anda clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainlybeneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall, --and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old DanielRuggles, her grandfather. 

Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that hemight return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distantnot above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle ofthe little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leadinginto a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made hisappointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented atall times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approachedthe gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. Hehad not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a treestanding just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of theditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rodehim into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a railwhich ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till hestood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. 'Ilike your impudence, ' she said, 'in calling yourself a friend. '

'Ain't I a friend, Ruby?'

'A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to beback at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is, --oh, ever so long ago now. '

'But I wrote to you, Ruby. '

'What's letters? And the postman to know all as in 'em for anythinganybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don'tcall letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more. '

'Did he see them?'

'No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix, --nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It'sall just folly like. '

'Because I love you;--that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have comebecause you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?' Then he threwhimself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist. 

It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half-hour was no doubtcomplete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in everyword he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probablydid not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried onthe liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a youngman to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli wasunpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half-hour was over. She felt that she could be content tosit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation ofthose delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed oldnovels which she had gotten from the little circulating library atBungay. 

But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her, --had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to ask herto be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and anamount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he hadlearned to be aware. Before the half-hour was over I think that hewished himself away;--but when he did go, he made a promise to see heragain on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestonemarket, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of thekitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise heresolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again, andbid her come to him in London, and would send her money for thejourney. 

'I suppose I am to be his wedded wife, ' said Ruby to herself, as shecrept away down from the road, away also from her own home;--so that onher return her presence should not be associated with that of theyoung man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road. 'I'll never be nothing unless I'm that, ' she said to herself. Then sheallowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the differencebetween John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury. 

CHAPTER XIX - HETTA CARBURY HEARS A LOVE TALE

'I half a mind to go back to-morrow morning, ' Felix said to his motherthat Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walkinground the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room. 

'To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with theLongestaffes!'

'You could make any excuse you like about that. '

'It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffesyou know are the leading people in this part of the country. No oneknows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, howsad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them. '

'You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimatefriend I have in the world. '

'That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for. '

'What did I come for?'

'That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can intheir London house. '

'That's all settled, ' said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tonethat he could assume. 

'Settled!'

'As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the oldfellow for his consent down here. '

'Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?'

'I told you that before. '

'My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!' In her joy the mother took her unwillingson in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken notonly to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make herson to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by allmothers in England! 'No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fondof you. '

'I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick toit. '

'If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathersalways do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?'

'I don't know that he will. '

'You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what hewants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not beperfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year orso can't make any difference. And then he made you one of theDirectors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true. '

'I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, youknow. '

'Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married?She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! Don't letany feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be ableto do just what you please when once the question of her money issettled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can havea house in any part of London you please. You must understand by thistime how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without anestablished income. '

'I quite understand that. '

'If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of thatkind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as youlive. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough toyou, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understandhow well I think you have done it all. ' Then she caressed him again, and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace andher great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to theworld as a baronet with £20, 000 a year, how glorious would it be! Shemust have known, --she did know, --how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated thesorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressedher. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither shenor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that theburden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But hismagnificence would be established. He was her son, and the prospect ofhis fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a veryheaven of beautiful dreams. 'But, Felix, ' she continued, 'you reallymust stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be oneday. And now were you to run away--'

'Run away! What nonsense you talk. '

'If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be anaffront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. Youshould lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should. '

'Oh, bother!' said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself tobe persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and heconsented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spendinganother day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not sostiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of theworld, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. Thoughhe might not like Felix, --who, as his mother admitted to herself, hadbeen rude to her cousin, --he would have rejoiced for the sake of thefamily. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would havereceived her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta would notbe enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have delighted toexpatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. Itshould now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr Melmotteat the dinner party at Caversham. 

During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to hiscousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quitelate, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over atBungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury onthe way. 'What did you think of our bishop?' Roger asked him, ratherimprudently. 

'Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nicelord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an averagelord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of anyone sufficient to make him a bishop. '

'Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him inany matter of clerical conduct which might come before him. '

'Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and wouldnot therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops thathas an opinion, --if there be one left, --and see how far your clergyconsent to his teaching!' Roger turned round and took up his book. Hewas already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself alwaysabstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religionin the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any means returnthe compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he to take up thecudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the combat, as in suchcombats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere, --wonderingwhether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle ofdulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except atmeal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carbury was quitewilling to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for thedissemination of religion outside his own Church must be naught. 

'I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs, ' she said withher sweetest smile. 

'I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to thetwo or three whom I have seen, --nor indeed as to all the rest whom Ihave not seen. '

'They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!'

'I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I findno fault with them, but much with the system by which they arecontrolled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to selectguides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinitelabour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in theHouse of Commons?'

'Indeed, no, ' said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understandthe nature of the question put to her. 

'And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should beable to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own todecide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?'

'Hardly, indeed. '

'The English people, or some of them, --that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful, --like to play at having a Church, thoughthere is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of aChurch. '

'Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr Barham?'

'In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least youmake that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submityourself to your spiritual pastors and masters. '

'That, I thought, was for children, ' said Lady Carbury. 'Theclergyman, in the catechism, says, "My good child. "'

'It is what you were taught as a child before you had made professionof your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty whenyou had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended onlyfor children. As a rule, adults with you want no religion. '

'I am afraid that is true of a great many. '

'It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should notbe driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith, --unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity. '

'That is worse than anything, ' said Lady Carbury with a sigh and ashudder. 

'I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief, ' saidthe priest with energy;--'than a creed which sits so easily on a manthat he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself ashe repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible. '

'That is very bad, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'We're getting too deep, I think, ' said Roger, putting down the bookwhich he had in vain been trying to read. 

'I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation onSunday evening, ' said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back intohis chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand thatLady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to beaware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might beall the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fondof ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced intoconviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling tohear arguments. 

'I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of, ' said Roger. 

'You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it, 'said the priest. 

'And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended, ' said Roger, risingfrom his chair. Upon this Father Barham look his departure and walkedaway to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might bethat he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt toplough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten. 

The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed forrepeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should beso, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during thatSunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he haddetermined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certainincrease of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All thatpride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, whenshe was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted hermorning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished theflowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed theslightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had becomepunctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate itseffect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him andobservant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that herheart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood theworking of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at herbrother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Hergrace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those whowere nearer to herself, and therefore, --in pity, --she was kind to him. Itwas thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy. 

'Hetta, ' he said after breakfast, 'come out into the garden awhile. '

'Are not you going to the men?'

'Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it. 'She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she hadbeen summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as shefound the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeatedagain before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardlymade up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could nottake his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she lovedthe other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, butshe thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all thisthere had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tendernesstowards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare toherself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wantedit. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almostseemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And shehad gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes. Hermother had talked to her of the charm of Mr Melmotte's money, till hervery heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, ascontrasted with that, Roger's conduct and bearing were those of a finegentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomedto pine for ever because a girl could not love him, --a man born to beloved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!

'Hetta, ' he said, 'put your arm here. ' She gave him her arm. 'I was alittle annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me. '

'He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?'

'He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of thosethings which we have been brought up to revere. ' So, thoughtHenrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. 'He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way ofbelieving, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. Ididn't quite like your hearing it. '

'I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. Isuppose they all do it. It's their business. '

'Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pitythat a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the insideof a comfortable house. '

'I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about thebishop. '

'And I like him. ' Then there was a pause. 'I suppose your brother doesnot talk to you much about his own affairs. '

'His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to meabout money. '

'I meant about the Melmottes. '

'No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything. '

'I wonder whether she has accepted him. '

'I think she very nearly did accept him in London. '

'I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings aboutthis marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does thenecessity of money. '

'Felix is so disposed to be extravagant. '

'Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myselfto say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recogniseher unselfish devotion to his interests. '

'Mamma thinks more of him than of anything, ' said Hetta, not in theleast intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself. 

'I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other childwould better repay her devotion, '--this he said, looking up to Hettaand smiling, --'I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel. '

'I felt that there was something unpleasant. '

'And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old andcross, or I should not mind such things. '

'I think you are so good and so kind. ' As she said this she leanedupon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she lovedhim. 

'I have been angry with myself, ' he said, 'and so I am making you myfather confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, andI think that you would understand me better than your mother. '

'I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess. '

'You will not exact any penance?' She only looked at him and smiled. 'I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can'tcongratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I knownothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him aboutthings in general. '

'Will that be a penance?'

'If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full offretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sundayinstead of going to church?'

'But then he was travelling all the Saturday night. '

'Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of theoffence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over thehead with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had aright to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday;--and therefore I must do penance. '

There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did not wishhim to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend, --asa most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making loveto her, how happy could she be! But his determination still held good. 'And now, ' said he, altering his tone altogether, 'I must speak aboutmyself. ' Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. 'No, 'he said; 'do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends. '

'Always friends!' she said. 

'Yes, --always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. Iwill not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you mustthink me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I loveyou, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, soconstrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself tosingle interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I amthinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it somuch. For, after all, let a woman be ever so good, --and you to me areall that is good, --a man should not allow his love to dominate hisintellect. '

'Oh, no!'

'I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a manmight calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know mejust as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you bya lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am sure, --quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this houseduring my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do, and tocare about the things which other men care for, it must be as yourhusband. '

'Pray, --pray do not say that. '

'Yes; I think that I have a right to say it, --and a right to expect thatyou should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do notlove me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that you shouldnot be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am yourfriend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come tolove me, --unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere. '

'What am I to say?'

'We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montaguehas robbed me of my love?'

'Mr Montague has never said a word. '

'If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house, and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you. '

'But he never has. '

'We have been like brothers together, --one brother being very much olderthan the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he shouldplace his hopes elsewhere. '

'What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think italmost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way. '

'Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know the wayof the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about PaulMontague, --no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love evenme, if you loved no one else. ' The tone of his voice was manly, and atthe same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her werebright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to the talewhich he now told her; but she believed in him altogether. She knewthat he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to itfor comfort and protection in life. In that moment she all but yieldedto him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think shewould have yielded. She did all but love him. She so regarded him thathad it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used everyart she knew to have backed his suit, and would have been ready toswear that any woman was a fool who refused him. She almost hatedherself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deservedkindness. As it was, she made him no answer, but continued to walkbeside him trembling. 'I thought I would tell it you all, because Iwish you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if Icould all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glasscase. Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine is set on you, sothat it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open orto shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think you will be abovekeeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple. '

'Oh, Roger!'

'If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall neverchange. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, itwill be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope, --I hope I may be strongenough through it all to think more of your happiness than of my own. 'Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of thebridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone. 

CHAPTER XX - LADY POMONA'S DINNER PARTY

Roger Carbury's half-formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home whileLady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to theground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hetta's yieldingto his prayer. But he had in fact not made a prayer, and Hetta hadcertainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady Carbury startedwith her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone. In the ordinarycourse of his life he was used to solitude. During the greater part ofthe year he would eat and drink and live without companionship; sothat there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in this desertion. But onthe present occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on theloneliness of his lot in life. These cousins of his who were hisguests cared nothing for him. Lady Carbury had come to his housesimply that it might be useful to her; Sir Felix did not pretend totreat him with even ordinary courtesy; and Hetta herself, though shewas soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious through pityrather than love. On this day he had, in truth, asked her for nothing;but he had almost brought himself to think that she might give allthat he wanted without asking. And yet, when he told her of thegreatness of his love, and of its endurance, she was simply silent. When the carriage taking them to dinner went away down the road, hesat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house listening tothe sound of the horses' feet, and telling himself that there wasnothing left for him in life. 

If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to PaulMontague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything hevalued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his mindexact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inwardcondemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to any one theservices he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hetta hehad alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. Buthe felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed itto him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought thatif, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should haveretired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring himself toforgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that his friendhad never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and it was PaulMontague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at Carbury whenHetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of the house. Hesat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on thetable. Then he crept in and ate, --so that the man might not see hissorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in his hand seeming toread. But he read not a word, for his mind was fixed altogether onhis cousin Hetta. 'What a poor creature a man is, ' he said to himself, 'who is not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling likethis. '

At Caversham there was a very grand party, --as grand almost as a dinnerparty can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess ofLoddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the bishop and hiswife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and the parson'sfamily, and the people staying in the house, made twenty-four at thedinner table. As there were fourteen ladies and only ten men, thebanquet can hardly be said to have been very well arranged. But thosethings cannot be done in the country with the exactness which theappliances of London make easy; and then the Longestaffes, though theywere decidedly people of fashion, were not famous for their excellencein arranging such matters. If aught, however, was lacking inexactness, it was made up in grandeur. There were three powderedfootmen, and in that part of the country Lady Pomona alone was servedafter this fashion; and there was a very heavy butler, whoseappearance of itself was sufficient to give éclat to a family. Thegrand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas andchairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. It was not above oncein the year that this kind of thing vas done at Caversham; but when itwas done, nothing was spared which could contribute to themagnificence of the fête. Lady Pomona and her two tall daughtersstanding up to receive the little Countess of Loddon and Lady JanePewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat smaller scale, while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though ashamed ofthemselves, was a sight to see. Then the Carburys came, and then MrsYeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly full; but nobodyhad a word to say. The bishop was generally a man of muchconversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were well pleased with herlisteners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on thisoccasion nobody could utter a word. Lord Loddon pottered about, makinga feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. Lord Alfredstood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand. Thatmuch greater man, Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the arm-holesof his waistcoat, and was impassible. The bishop saw at a glance thehopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. The master of thehouse shook hands with each guest as he entered, and then devoted hismind to expectation of the next corner. Lady Pomona and her twodaughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb. In accordancewith the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been entertained civilly for fourentire days. It could not be expected that the ladies of Cavershamshould come forth unwearied after such a struggle. 

When dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie Melmotte. There can be no doubt but that the Caversham ladies did execute theirpart of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this arrangementwould be desirable to the Melmottes, and they made it. The greatAugustus himself went in with Lady Carbury, much to her satisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now, if ever, it wouldbe her duty to exert herself. 'I hope you like Suffolk, ' she said. 

'Pretty well, I thank you. Oh, yes;--very nice place for a little freshair. '

'Yes;--that's just it, Mr Melmotte. When the summer comes one does longso to see the flowers. '

'We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here, 'said Mr Melmotte. 

'No doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world atlarge. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a Londonstreet into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in GrosvenorSquare. '

'It's a very nice place, is London. '

'If you have got plenty of money, Mr Melmotte. '

'And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do youlive in London, ma'am?' He had quite forgotten Lady Carbury even if hehad seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common tomen, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to dinner. 'Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being entertainedby you there. ' This she said with her sweetest smile. 

'Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always just remember. '

'How should you, --with all the world flocking round you? I am LadyCarbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you willremember. '

'Yes; I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there, next to my daughter. '

'Happy fellow!'

'I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness inthat way now. They've got other things to think of. '

'He thinks so much of his business. '

'Oh! I didn't know, ' said Mr Melmotte. 

'He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr Melmotte. '

'Oh;--that's his business!' said Mr Melmotte, with a grim smile. 

Lady Carbury was very clever as to many things, and was notill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; butshe did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant asto the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she sawthe names in a catalogue. 'I trust that he is diligent there, ' shesaid; 'and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys inhaving the advantage of your counsel and guidance. '

'He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much. ' Afterthis Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's position in the city. She endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation; butshe found Mr Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while she hadto abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in favourof Protestantism at the bidding of the Caversham parson, who sat onthe other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm by somemention of Father Barham's name. 

Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. 'I have toldmamma, ' Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. Shewas now full of the idea so common to girls who are engaged, --and asnatural as it is common, --that she might tell everything to her lover. 

'Did she say anything?' he asked. Then Marie had to take her place andarrange her dress before she could reply to him. 'As to her, I supposeit does not matter what she says, does it?'

'She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are notrich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear. ' Somuch she had been able to say during the bustle. 

Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed thesubject very willingly. 'Have you been riding?' he asked. 

'No; I don't think there are horses here, --not for visitors, that is. How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?'

'None at all, ' said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. 'I just rode homequietly. I go to town to-morrow. '

'And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long. ' Thisshe said bringing her voice down to a whisper. 

'Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in thecity. Does he go every day?'

'Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he'sgood-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him then. LordAlfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and theyplay cards. I think the city will be best. '

'You'll stick to it?' he asked. 

'Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will everturn me. I think papa knows that. ' Felix looked at her as she saidthis, and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had everread there before. Perhaps she would consent to run away with him;and, if so, being the only child, she would certainly, --almost certainly, --be forgiven. But if he were to run away with her and marry her, andthen find that she were not forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her tostarve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? Lookingat the matter in all its bearings, considering among other things thetrouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he couldnot afford to run away with her. 

After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself, --the samebig room in which they had been assembled before the feast, --seemed tobe ill-adapted for conversation. Again nobody talked to anybody, andthe minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there totake them all home. 'They arranged that you should sit next to her, 'said Lady Carbury to her son, as they were in the carriage. 

'Oh, I suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young woman, you know. '

'Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done itunless they had thought that it would please Mr Melmotte. Oh, Felix!if you can bring it about. '

'I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it. '

'No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behavedbeautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together. Goodnight, Felix, and God bless you!' she said again, as they were partingfor the night. 'I shall be the happiest and the proudest mother inEngland if this comes about. '

CHAPTER XXI - EVERYBODY GOES TO THEM

When the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very desolate. The task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had thereturn to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would havebeen comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this wasso far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed withoutanything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds ofLady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, butshe asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother andsister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she thought, wouldnot dare to propose it. On each of these days, --three or four timesdaily, --hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. MrLongestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed till he had receivedsome particular letter, and would not even listen to the suggestion ofa day. 'I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday, ' Georgiana said onthe Friday evening. 'I don't know why you should suppose anything ofthe kind, ' the father replied. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by herdaughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was lessaudacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at thesame time less anxious for its completion. On the Sunday morningbefore they went to church there was a great discussion upstairs. TheBishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and thethree ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. They were intheir mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of theirchurch-going toilet. It was supposed that the expected letter hadarrived. Mr Longestaffe had certainly received a despatch from hislawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and, --so Sophiaasserted, --more disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisenespecially in reference to their bonnets. 'You might as well wearthem, ' said Lady Pomona, 'for I am sure you will not be in Londonagain this year. '

'You don't mean it, mamma, ' said Sophia. 

'I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back intohis pocket. I know what his face means so well. '

'It is not possible, ' said Sophia. 'He promised, and he got us to havethose horrid people because he promised. '

'Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I supposewe must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What hemeant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could. '

'Mamma!' shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on thepart of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, hadbound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their owncamp!

'My dear, what can we do?' said Lady Pomona. 

'Do!' Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. 'Make himunderstand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll dosomething, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me likethat I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be whoit may. '

'Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me. '

'I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us not the leastwhether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about thefamily name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'llmarry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here. ' The younger MissLongestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before her. 

'Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that, ' pleaded hersister. 

'It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable. '

'I haven't got George Whitstable. '

'Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what hepleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes nodifference to you, mamma, where you are. '

'You are very unjust, ' said Lady Pomona, wailing, 'and you say horridthings. '

'I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is thesame as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybodydown here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep hisword. '

Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall. 'Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep thecarriage waiting all day?' Of course they were all going to church. They always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and wouldmore especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of thebonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, LadyPomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her father atthe front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word wasspoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During the service MrLongestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated theresponses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he had been anexample to the parish all his life. The three ladies knelt on theirhassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the sermonwithout the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. Theydid not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. Itwas nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not a meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop preached forforty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would not havecomplained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgianato go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance ofobtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept atCaversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preachfor ever! After the service they came back to lunch, and that mealalso was eaten in silence. When it was over the head of the family puthimself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently meaning to be leftalone there. In that case he would have meditated upon his troublestill he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoonwith comfort. But this was denied to him. The two daughters remainedsteadfast while the things were being removed; and Lady Pomona, thoughshe made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found thather daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sisterthat she meant to 'have it out' with her father, and Sophia had ofcourse remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. Whenthe last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began. 'Papa, don't youthink you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of coursewe want to know about engagements and all that. There is LadyMonogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so longago. '

'You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep yourengagement. '

'But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning. '

'You can't do anything of the kind. '

'But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed, ' said LadyPomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present stateof mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time, as a compromise. 

'Then you can't have a day fixed, ' said Mr Longestaffe. 

'How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?' said Sophia, ina low constrained voice. 

'I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live. '

'But we are to go back?' demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by insilence, listening, resolving, and biding her time. 

'You'll not return to London this season, ' said Mr Longestaffe, turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands. 

'Do you mean that that is settled?' said Lady Pomona. 'I mean to saythat that is settled, ' said Mr Longestaffe. Was there ever treacherylike this! The indignation in Georgiana's mind approached almost tovirtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not haveleft town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminatedherself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now she was toldthat the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longerpossible that she could get back to London, --even to the house of thehated Primeros, --without absolutely running away from her father'sresidence! 'Then, papa, ' she said, with affected calmness, 'you havesimply and with premeditation broken your word to us. '

'How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!'

'I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress, --by law. '

'Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, youshall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house. '

'Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down andentertain these people?'

'I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. Itshould be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you haveto live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and besullen where I shan't see you. ' Georgiana looked round on her motherand sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She stillmeditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in herfather's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off intothe room in which they generally lived, and there she stood pantingwith anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils. 

'And you mean to put up with it, mamma?' she said. 

'What can we do, my dear?'

'I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled andhave my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved wellto him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them. 'This was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some littletrouble of that kind. 'I have never got myself talked about withanybody. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I havewritten his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you wereill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past twoat the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in mybedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take usback to London! Did he not promise, mamma?'

'I understood so, my dear. '

'You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear theblame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake ofthe family, and then be treated in that way. '

'You do that for your own sake, I suppose, ' said her sister. 

'It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake, ' saidGeorgiana, alluding to a very old affair to an ancient flirtation, inthe course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a futileattempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortunewas very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair wasnever alluded to except in moments of great bitterness. 

'I've kept myself as straight as you have, ' said Sophia. 'It's easyenough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, andnobody cares for a person. '

'My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?' said their mother. 

'It is I that have to suffer, ' continued Georgiana. 'Does he expect meto find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is notmuch; but there is nobody else at all. '

'You may have him if you like, ' said Sophia, with a chuck of her head. 

'Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come tothat quite yet. '

'You were talking of running away with somebody. '

'I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that. I'll tell you what I shall do, --I will write papa a letter. I supposehe'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in thewhole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to theMelmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but tohave them here was terrible!'

During that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passedbetween them on any subject beyond those required by the necessitiesof life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almostreconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted afitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr Whitstable ata distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a differenceto herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which was always anexcuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr Longestaffe went to sleep. Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the nextmorning the head of the family found the following letter on hisdressing-table:--

 My DEAR PAPA

 I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. 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. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. 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. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. 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. 

 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. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me. ' (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. ) 'I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer, --though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. 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. Their house in Queen's Gate is very large, and I know they've a room. 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. Pray answer this at once, papa. 

 Your affectionate daughter, GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE. 

Mr Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. He, though he hadrebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to someextent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon hisauthority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not theless did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. Hethought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. Ifnot, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughlyhated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did notread much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eatingand drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. Tostand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which hebelonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what heliked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willingto give this up for the good of his family. He would be contented todrag through long listless days at Caversham, and endeavour to nursehis property, if only his daughter would allow it. By assuming acertain pomp in his living, which had been altogether unserviceable tohimself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads, and bewigginghis coachmen, by aping, though never achieving, the grand ways ofgrander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. His ownambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the wayto get it. A separate property had come to his son from his wife'smother, --some £2, 000 or £3, 000 a year, magnified by the world intodouble its amount, --and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciledhim to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been surethat Adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the Sussexproperty in order that the Suffolk property might be relieved. ButDolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the mostcareless of men, was always on his guard in any dealings with hisfather. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unlesshalf of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. The fathercould not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. Melmotte had donesomething for him, --but in doing this Melmotte was very hard andtyrannical. Melmotte, when at Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that with such an establishment in thecountry he was not entitled to keep a house in town. Mr Longestaffehad then said something about his daughters, --something especially aboutGeorgiana, --and Mr Melmotte had made a suggestion. 

Mr Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. But if there was one man he hated more thananother, it was his neighbour Mr Primero; and if one woman, it was MrsPrimero. Primero, whom Mr Longestaffe regarded as quite an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He paid histradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham withoutseeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. He had spentmany thousands for his party in county elections and boroughelections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. Hewas a radical, of course, or, according to Mr Longestaffe's view ofhis political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side becausethere was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. And nowthere had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr Primero was to have apeerage. To others the rumour was incredible, but Mr Longestaffebelieved it, and to Mr Longestaffe that belief was an agony. A BaronBundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron Bundlesham, would bemore than Mr Longestaffe could endure. It was quite impossible thathis daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros. 

But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been laidon her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by letter, LadyPomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed her a note toread. 'Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course you must judgefor yourself. ' This was the note;--

 MY DEAR MR LONGESTAFFE, As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give Mrs Melmotte a day's notice. 

 Yours truly, AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE

Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of notepaper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. Itwas without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her father'shands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Bothher father and mother had heard her speak of these Melmottes, and knewwhat she thought of them. There was an insolence in the verysuggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of that. 'Whyshouldn't I go to the Primeros?' she asked. 

'Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially. '

'And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, butthey are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful. '

'You must judge for yourself; Georgiana. '

'It is that, --or staying here?'

'I think so, my dear. '

'If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfullydisagreeable, --absolutely disgusting!'

'She seemed to be very quiet. '

'Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that ifI'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully vulgar!She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did you not seeit, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed ofherself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quitehorrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful tolook at as he is?'

'Everybody goes to them, ' said Lady Pomona. 'The Duchess of Stevenagehas been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie. Everybody goes to their house. '

'But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma, --to have to sitdown to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and thatwoman!'

'Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast upstairs. '

'But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! Onlythink of it!'

'But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear. '

'Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, ohdear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure. If papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think ofit. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shallalmost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything, --who used to think so muchof being with the right set'

'Things are changed, Georgiana, ' said the anxious mother. 

'Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people likethat. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentlemancompared with Mr Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared withMadame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with suchpeople it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's selfafter that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man wouldpropose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not besurprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papahas altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine. '

Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomonainformed Mr Longestaffe that Mr Melmotte's invitation was to beaccepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, andGeorgiana would go up on the Friday following. 'I hope she'll likeit, ' said Mr Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. Itwas not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poorLady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like tolive in a house with Mr and Madame Melmotte!

On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the twosisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station, which was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head asusual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed hereven in the presence of her sister. 'Sophy, I do so envy you stayinghere. '

'But it was you who were so determined to be in London. '

'Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myselfsettled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are notgoing to disgrace yourself. '

'There's no disgrace in it, Georgey. '

'Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and Ibelieve her to be anything low that you can think of. As to theirpretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen andhousemaids would be much better. '

'Then don't go, Georgey. '

'I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remaindown here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are goingto marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort offellow. '

'Is he, now?'

'Of course he hasn't much to say for himself; for he's always at home. But he is a gentleman. '

'That he certainly is. '

'As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first manthat comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say ithas been papa's doing. '

And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with theMelmottes. 

CHAPTER XXII - LORD NIDDERDALE'S MORALITY

It was very generally said in the city about this time that the GreatSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best thing out. It was known that Mr Melmotte had gone into it with heart and hand. There were many who declared, --with gross injustice to the GreatFisker, --that the railway was Melmotte's own child, that he hadinvented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it; but it was notthe less popular on that account. A railway from Salt Lake City toMexico no doubt had much of the flavour of a castle in Spain. Ourfar-western American brethren are supposed to be imaginative. Mexico hasnot a reputation among us for commercial security, or that stabilitywhich produces its four, five, or six per cent, with the regularity ofclockwork. But there was the Panama railway, a small affair which hadpaid twenty-five per cent. ; and there was the great line across thecontinent to San Francisco, in which enormous fortunes had been made. It came to be believed that men with their eyes open might do as wellwith the Great South Central as had ever been done before with otherspeculations, and this belief was no doubt founded on Mr Melmotte'spartiality for the enterprise. Mr Fisker had 'struck 'ile' when heinduced his partner, Montague, to give him a note to the great man. 

Paul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man havinghis eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn how thething was progressing. At the regular meetings of the Board, whichnever sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read byMiles Grendall. Melmotte himself would speak a few slow words, intended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph, and theneverybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something, and the 'Board' for that day would be over. To Paul Montague this wasvery unsatisfactory. More than once or twice he endeavoured to staythe proceedings, not as disapproving, but simply as desirous of beingmade to understand; but the silent scorn of his chairman put him outof countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was a barrierwhich he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred Grendall woulddeclare that he 'did not think all that was at all necessary. ' LordNidderdale, with whom Montague had now become intimate at theBeargarden, would nudge him in the ribs and bid him hold his tongue. Mr Cohenlupe would make a little speech in fluent but broken English, assuring the Committee that everything was being done after theapproved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, wasnever there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdenedconscience, was carried along as one of the Directors of the GreatSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. 

I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier, bythe fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly verycomfortable. The Company had not yet been in existence quite sixweeks, --or at any rate Melmotte had not been connected with it abovethat time, --and it had already been suggested to him twice that heshould sell fifty shares at £112 10s. He did not even yet know how manyshares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to theproposal, and on the following day received a cheque for £625, --thatsum representing the profit over and above the original nominal priceof £100 a share. The suggestion was made to him by Miles Grendall, andwhen he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares hadbeen allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged inaccordance with the capital invested and must depend on the finaldisposition of the Californian property. 'But from what we see, oldfellow, ' said Miles, 'I don't think you have anything to fear. You seemto be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you tosell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certainincome as far as you are concerned. '

Paul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he wasstanding on ground which might be blown from under his feet at anymoment. The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty, of the whole thing, made him often very miserable. In those wretchedmoments his conscience was asserting itself. But again there weretimes in which he also was almost triumphant, and in which he felt thedelight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the Board when hewanted explanations, he received very great attention outside theboard-room from those connected with the enterprise. Melmotte hadasked him to dine two or three times. Mr Cohenlupe had begged him togo down to his little place at Rickmansworth, --an entreaty with whichMontague had not as yet complied. Lord Alfred was always gracious tohim, and Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him oneof their set at the club. Many other houses became open to him fromthe same source. Though Melmotte was supposed to be the inventor ofthe railway, it was known that Fisker, Montague, and Montague werelargely concerned in it, and it was known also that Paul Montague wasone of the Montagues named in that firm. People, both in the City andthe West End, seemed to think that he knew all about it, and treatedhim as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at hisdisposition. There were results from this which were not unpleasing tothe young man. He only partially resisted the temptation; and thoughdetermined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was sodetermined only at times. The money was very pleasant to him. Theperiod would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to bepledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carbury; and whenthat period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him toknow that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him togive a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations, and in all hisfears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre of hishopes. Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, it may be feared thatshe would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him from her heart. 

There was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of theDirectors, and a disposition to complain against the Grand Director, arising from a grievance altogether different from that whichafflicted Montague. Neither had Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord Nidderdalebeen invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them hadreceived any remuneration for the use of their names. They knew wellthat Montague had sold shares. He was quite open on the subject, andhad told Felix, whom he hoped some day to regard as hisbrother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how much;--andthe two men had endeavoured to make the matter intelligible betweenthemselves. The original price of the shares being £100 each, and £1210s. A share having been paid to Montague as the premium, it was to besupposed that the original capital was re-invested in other shares. But each owned to the other that the matter was very complicated tohim, and Montague could only write to Hamilton K. Fisker at SanFrancisco asking for explanation. As yet he had received no answer. But it was not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands whichembittered Nidderdale and Carbury. They understood that he had reallybrought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to takemoney out of it. Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmotte his morenoble pickings, for they knew how great a man was Melmotte. OfCohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he was a regular city man, and had probably supplied funds. Cohenlupe was too deep for theirinquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had sold shares, and hadreceived the profit; and they knew also how utterly impossible it wasthat Lord Alfred should have produced capital. If Lord Alfred Grendallwas entitled to plunder, why were not they? And if their day forplunder had not yet come, why Lord Alfred's? And if there was so muchcause to fear Lord Alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone, why should not they also make themselves feared? Lord Alfred passedall his time with Melmotte, --had, as these young men said, becomeMelmotte's head valet, --and therefore had to be paid. But that reasondid not satisfy the young men. 

'You haven't sold any shares;--have you?' This question Sir Felix askedLord Nidderdale at the club. Nidderdale was constant in his attendanceat the Board, and Felix was not a little afraid that he might bejockied also by him. 

'Not a share. '

'Nor got any profits?'

'Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my onlytransaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner. '

'What do you get then, by going into the city?' asked Sir Felix. 

'I'm blessed if I know what I get. I suppose something will turn upsome day. '

'In the meantime, you know, there are our names. And Grendall ismaking a fortune out of it. '

'Poor old duffer, ' said his lordship. 'If he's doing so well, I thinkMiles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think weought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money readywhen that bill of Vossner's comes round. '

'Yes, by George; let's tell him that. Will you do it?'

'Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural tohim to pay anything. '

'Fellows used to pay their gambling debts, ' said Sir Felix, who wasstill in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment ofI. O. U. 's. 

'They don't now, --unless they like it. How did a fellow manage before, if he hadn't got it?'

'He went smash, ' said Sir Felix, 'and disappeared and was never heardof any more. It was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. Ibelieve a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!'

'I shouldn't, ' said Lord Nidderdale. 'What's the use of being beastlyill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do thinkthere's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of coursecheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to playwhen he knows he can't pay; but I don't know that it's worse thangetting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody asGrasslough does, --or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merelybecause she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but Idon't believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible, Carbury?'

'Read the Bible! Well;--yes;--no;--that is, I suppose, I used to do. '

'I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone andpitch it at that woman. Live and let;--live that's my motto. '

'But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?' saidSir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carriedtoo far. 

'Oh, certainly. I'll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but thenhe ought to let me live too. Only, who's to bell the cat?'

'What cat?'

'It's no good our going to old Grendall, ' said Lord Nidderdale, whohad some understanding in the matter, 'nor yet to young Grendall. Theone would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell everylie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be ourgreat master, Augustus Melmotte. '

This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's returnfrom Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the greatduty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his marriagewith Marie Melmotte. In doing that he would have to put one bell onthe cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. Inhis heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte. But, then, as he knewvery well, Nidderdale was intent on the same object. Nidderdale, hethought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible, andthe forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to themarrying of heiresses very queer indeed. He knew that Nidderdalewanted to marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that hewanted to marry her. And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talkabout it! And now the man asked who should bell the cat! 'You go thereoftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best, ' said Sir Felix. 

'Go where?'

'To the Board. '

'But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me, perhaps, becauseI'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think I was the biggerfool of the two. '

'I don't see that at all, ' said Sir Felix. 

'I ain't afraid of him, if you mean that, ' continued Lord Nidderdale. 'He's a wretched old reprobate, and I don't doubt but he'd skin youand me if he could make money off our carcases. But as he can't skinme, I'll have a shy at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I've always been on the square with him. If it depended onhim, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow. '

'Would you?' Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend'sassertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement. 

'But then she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't allthere?' Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in adeep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that whichhis lordship had suggested. Where the mischief would he, Sir FelixCarbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that themoney was not all there?

On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went tothe great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that hewalked with the great man to the Board meeting. Melmotte was alwaysvery gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never, up tothis moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law aboutbusiness. 'I wanted just to ask you something, ' said the lord, hangingon the chairman's arm. 

'Anything you please, my lord. '

'Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares tosell?'

'No, I don't, --if you ask me. '

'Oh;--I didn't know. But why shouldn't we as well as the others?'

'Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?'

'Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have. How much has LordAlfred put into it?'

'I have taken shares for Lord Alfred, ' said Melmotte, putting veryheavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. 'If it suits me to advancemoney to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without askingyour lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury. '

'Oh, certainly. I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do withyour money. '

'I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more aboutit. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come allright. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put theminto the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares areup, can sell at a profit. It's presumed just at present that, at someearly day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and tillthat is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot betransferred to you. '

'That's it, is it?' said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand allabout it. 

'If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you canhave pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, ifyour father consents to a proper settlement. '

'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. '

CHAPTER XXIII - 'YES I'M A BARONET'

How eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form toMarie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood. 'Mydear 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 bebetween the cup and the lip. '

'It's everything to get him in a good humour, ' pleaded Sir Felix. 

'But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used. '

'There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to himabout money? That's the question. '

'I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix. '

'Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down;or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over before theceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money todo what he liked with. '

'You wouldn't mind having it settled?'

'No;--I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, andthe income insured to me, --say £7, 000 or £8, 000 a year. I wouldn't do itfor less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while. '

'But you have nothing left of your own. '

'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 beefficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might havebeen sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blowout his own brains. 

'Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way. '

'It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. Youwant me to marry this girl because of her money. '

'You want to marry her yourself. '

'I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when onewants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little onemeans to take, --and whether one is sure to get it. '

'I don't think there can be any doubt. '

'If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would bevery like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, hecan play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for anheiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a littlehampered you know. '

'Of course he'd pay the money first. '

'It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would berather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had beenarranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, thathe'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had beenpaid or not. You can't carry £10, 000 a year about in your pocket, youknow. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up. '

Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every sidein her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the generalacceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of herbaronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one mustsurely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as LordNidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and themarquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing comingto Felix in the future. 

All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now;--position, atitle, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something!Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in GrosvenorSquare would be better than the baronet's present condition. 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 beprobable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing hisdaughter's position? She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. 'Ithink you should be content to run a little risk, ' she said. 

Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in ahumour to resent interference. 'I wish you'd leave me alone, ' he said, 'to manage my own business. '

'Is it not my business too?'

'No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. Ishall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody tomeddle with me. '

'You ungrateful boy!'

'I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't doeverything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set meagainst it all. '

'How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on meand your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger isright. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your ownwretchedness. '

'That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow ofthat sort. '

'He is the best friend I have. ' What would Roger have thought had heheard this assertion from Lady Carbury?

'He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if hemeddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain'tvery pleasant. Of course it's your house; but if you do allow me aroom, I think you might let me have it to myself. ' It was impossiblefor Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, toexplain to him that in no other way and at no other time could sheever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, heescaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more tillsome unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as everallowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greedof her young, but she felt that she should have something back for herblood, --some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all aslong as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of themother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon hermoments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet sheknew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. Shealmost hated herself for the weakness of her own love, --but sheacknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. Inspite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness, and ruinous indifference to the future, she must clingto him to the last. All that she had done, and all that she had borne, all that she was doing and bearing, --was it not for his sake?

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. He could not makemuch use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual withher; but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that MissLongestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the younglady was 'fatigante. ' Upon this Marie had declared that she intendedto like the young lady very much. 'Pooh!' said Madame Melmotte. 'Younever like no person at all. ' At this Marie had looked over to herlover and smiled. 'Ah, yes; that is all very well, --while it lasts; butyou care for no friend. ' From which Felix had judged that MadameMelmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutelydisapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his clubfrom Marie. 'Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa afterlunch. ' This was in his possession when his mother visited him in hisbedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest. But he would nottell her of his intention, because he had drunk too much wine, and wassulky. 

At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Squareand asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking, --even afterhe had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the door, --heintended to ask for Mr Melmotte; but at the last his courage failedhim, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. There he found MadameMelmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and--Lord Nidderdale. Marielooked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been withher father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, andendeavoured to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale continued hisflirtation with Miss Longestaffe, --a flirtation which she carried on ina half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady ofthe house. 'We know what brings you here, ' she said. 

'I came on purpose to see you. '

'I'm sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here. '

'Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose. It's agreat institution; isn't it?'

'It's an institution you mean to belong to, --permanently. '

'No, indeed. I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they talkof going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn't pass. That fellowthere is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because you'rehere. I don't think you'll like it a bit, you know. '

'I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale. '

After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one ofthe windows for a few seconds. 'Papa is downstairs in the book-room, 'she said. 'Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was out. ' It wasevident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for him. 'You godown, ' she continued, 'and ask the man to show you into thebook-room. '

'Shall I come up again?'

'No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon. ' NowSir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that MadameDidon was Madame Melmotte's own woman, commonly called Didon by theladies of the family. 'Or send it by post, --under cover to her. Thatwill be better. Go at once, now. ' It certainly did seem to Sir Felixthat the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, justshaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe. 

In a few moments he found himself with Mr Melmotte in the chamberwhich had been dignified with the name of the book-room. The greatfinancier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here, generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall. It may be supposedthat he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices of moneyand funds for the New York, Paris, and London Exchanges. But on thisoccasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have beenenjoying with a cigar in his mouth. 'How do you do, Sir Felix?' hesaid. 'I suppose you want the ladies. '

'I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on youas I came down. ' It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronethad come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he atonce resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. Hebelieved that he should thrive best by resenting any interference withhim in his capacity as financier. He thought that he had risen highenough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him thatmen who were themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed by asavage assumption of superiority. And he, too, had generally theadvantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he wasconcerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it. Hecould thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of hiscolleagues. When neither of these sufficed to give him undisputedmastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. He likedyoung associates because they were more timid and less greedy thantheir elders. Lord Nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest, and Mr Melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir Felix. LordAlfred he had been obliged to buy. 

'I'm very glad to see you, and all that, ' said Melmotte, assuming acertain exaltation of the eyebrows which they who had many dealingswith him often found to be very disagreeable; 'but this is hardly aday for business, Sir Felix, nor, --yet a place for business. '

Sir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden. He certainly had comeabout business, --business of a particular sort; but Marie had told himthat of all days Sunday would be the best, and had also told him thather father was more likely to be in a good humour on Sunday than onany other day. Sir Felix felt that he had not been received with goodhumour. 'I didn't mean to intrude, Mr Melmotte, ' he said. 

'I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have beengoing to speak about that railway. '

'Oh dear no. '

'Your mother was saying to me down in the county that she hoped youattended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attendto. '

'My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it, ' said SirFelix. 

'Women never do. Well;--what can I do for you, now that you are here?'

'Mr Melmotte, I'm come, --I'm come to;--in short, Mr Melmotte, I want topropose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand. '

'The d---- you do!'

'Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent. '

'She knows you're coming, then?'

'Yes;--she knows. '

'And my wife, --does she know?'

'I've never spoken to her about it. Perhaps Miss Melmotte has. '

'And how long have you and she understood each other?'

'I've been attached to her ever since I saw her, ' said Sir Felix. 'Ihave indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind ofthing goes on. '

'I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that whenlarge sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man shouldspeak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if hedon't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given you apromise?'

'I don't know about a promise. '

'Do you consider that she's engaged to you?'

'Not if she's disposed to get out of it, ' said Sir Felix, hoping thathe might thus ingratiate himself with the father. 'Of course, I shouldbe awfully disappointed. '

'She has consented to your coming to me?'

'Well, yes;--in a sort of a way. Of course she knows that it all dependson you. '

'Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you she can marryyou. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet, I believe?'

'Oh, yes, I'm a baronet. '

'And therefore you've come to your own property. You haven't to waitfor your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent aboutmoney. '

This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound todispel, even at the risk of offending the father. 'Not exactly that, 'he said. 'I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course. '

'Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If mydaughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. Howmuch is neither here nor there. If she marries to please herself, without considering me, I shan't give her a farthing. '

'I had hoped that you might consent, Mr Melmotte. '

'I've said nothing about that. It is possible. You're a man of fashionand have a title of your own, --and no doubt a property. If you'll showme that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it atany rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?'

What could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six, matterto a man like Melmotte? It was thus that Sir Felix looked at it. Whena man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questionsabout trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked, and theasking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of aproposed father-in-law. At any rate, it must be answered. For a momentit occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. Itwould be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to comeafter. Were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower and lowerinto the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end of all hishopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all his misery. But he lacked the necessary courage. 'It isn't a large property, youknow, ' he said. 

'Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose, ' said the horrid, big, rich scoundrel. 

'No;--not quite like that, ' said Sir Felix, with a sickly laugh. 

'But you have got enough to support a baronet's title?'

'That depends on how you want to support it, ' said Sir Felix, puttingoff the evil day. 

'Where's your family seat?'

'Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the oldfamily place. '

'That doesn't belong to you, ' said Melmotte, very sharply. 

'No; not yet. But I'm the heir. '

Perhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than anotherto be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the systemunder which titles and property descend together, or in various lines. The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is complex, and so is thebusiness of Parliament. But the rules regulating them, thoughanomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies ofthe peerage and primogeniture. They who are brought up among it, learnit as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study inadvanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. It was everythingto Melmotte that he should understand the ways of the country which hehad adopted; and when he did not understand, he was clever at hidinghis ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir Felix was abaronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. Heknew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury, and he judged bythe name it must be an old family property. And now the baronetdeclared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire. 'Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head ofthe family?'

'Yes, I am the head of the family, of course, ' said Sir Felix, lyingdirectly. 'But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take along time to explain it all. '

'He's a young man, isn't he?'

'No;--not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old. '

'If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?'

Sir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truthwith discretion. 'I don't quite know how it would be. I have alwaysunderstood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he willmarry. '

'And in the meantime what is your own property?'

'My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock, --and then Iam my mother's heir. '

'You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry mydaughter. '

'Certainly. '

'Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of theincome on which you intend to support your establishment as a marriedman? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on mypart. ' The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainlytaking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth. It was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not abaronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of theworld who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge ofspeculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than thatfor his daughter why could he not say so without asking disgustingquestions such as these, --questions which it was quite impossible that agentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently plain that anygentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? Would it notbe an understood bargain that, as he provided the rank and position, she would provide the money? And yet the vulgar wretch took advantageof his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions! Sir Felixstood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing;--wishingthat he was well out of the house, and at the Beargarden. 'You don'tseem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhapsyou will get your lawyer to write to me. '

'Perhaps that will be best, ' said the lover. 

'Either that, or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will havemoney; but money expects money. ' At this moment Lord Alfred enteredthe room. 'You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as yousaid you would?'

'I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out. '

'I haven't been out of this room all day, --except to lunch. Goodmorning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a littlesoda and brandy. ' Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with hisfellow Director Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting Melmotteto shake hands with him before he went. 'Do you know anything aboutthat young fellow?' Melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed. 

'He's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leaveit, ' said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler. 

'Without a shilling! I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down inSuffolk;--eh?'

'Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr Carburyhas a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. Iwish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow hasnothing to do with it whatever. '

'Hasn't he now!' Mr Melmotte, as he speculated upon it, almost admiredthe young man's impudence. 

CHAPTER XXIV - MILES GRENDALL'S TRIUMPH

Sir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had beencheckmated, --and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence ofthe man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far as hecould see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte. The father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly believed thetruth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not doubt but thatshe'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with him, which wasnatural; and was a fool, --which was perhaps also natural. But romancewas not the game which he was playing. People told him that when girlssucceeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers werealways constrained to forgive them at last. That might be the casewith ordinary fathers. But Melmotte was decidedly not an ordinaryfather. He was, --so Sir Felix declared to himself, --perhaps the greatestbrute ever created. Sir Felix could not but remember that elevation ofthe eyebrows, and the brazen forehead, and the hard mouth. He hadfound himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now hecursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the Beargardenin a cab. 

But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether, never go to Grosvenor Square again, and drop the whole family, including the Great Mexican Railway? Then an idea occurred to him. Nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application forshares. 'You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to mygovernor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to getthe money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference. ' On thatSunday afternoon Sir Felix thought over all this. 'Why shouldn't he"go a thou, " and get the difference?' He made a mental calculation. £12 10s per £100! £125 for a thousand! and all paid in ready money. Asfar as Sir Felix could understand, directly the one operation had beenperfected the thousand pounds would be available for another. As helooked into it with all his intelligence he thought that he began toperceive that that was the way in which the Melmottes of the worldmade their money. There was but one objection. He had not got theentire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the whole very good tohim. He had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank inthe city at which he had opened an account. And he had very much morethan the remainder in I. O. U. 's from Dolly Longestaffe and MilesGrendall. In fact if every man had his own, --and his bosom glowed withindignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was keptout of his own, --he could go into the city and take up his sharesto-morrow, and still have ready money at his command. If he could dothis, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation ofthat charge of not having any fortune which Melmotte had broughtagainst him? He would endeavour to work the money out of DollyLongestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that though it would beimpossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claimagainst Miles in the city. Miles was Secretary to the Board, and mightperhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not beall ready money. Sir Felix was not very clear about it, but thoughtthat he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of MilesGrendall. 'How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up, ' he said tohimself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to comein. And he formed in his head Draconic laws which he would fain haveexecuted upon men who lost money at play and did not pay. 'How thedeuce fellows can look one in the face, is what I can't understand, 'he said to himself. 

He thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to Melmotte asa capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So hewrote a note to Marie Melmotte in accordance with her instructions. 

 DEAR M. , Your father cut up very rough about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother?

 Yours always, F. 

This, as directed, he put under cover to Madame Didon, --GrosvenorSquare, and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in theletter which would commit him. 

There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eighto'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and would always gambleafterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at aboutseven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the opportunitya good one to speak of his money. 'You couldn't cash your I. O. U. 'sfor me to-morrow;--could you?'

'To-morrow! oh, lord!'

'I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think weare really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's. '

'I'm told you're to have her. '

'I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in youknow for that Board in the city. '

'I don't know anything about Boards, my boy. '

'Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Montague'sfriend, that was here one night and won all our money. '

'The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning toCalifornia. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I alwayswondered whether he got there alive. '

'Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate thosekinds of things. '

'And because I am such a fool. '

'I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. Butit's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in thecity to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay forthem, and old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't. Indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me and this girlof his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how important it maybe?'

'It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that. '

'I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought Iwas sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you?'

'Not in the least. '

'It's about eleven hundred pounds!'

'I shouldn't wonder. '

'And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdalewhen they lose always pay with Miles's I. O. U. 's. '

'So should I, if I had them. '

'It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going, and they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use ofplaying when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendallhimself, he has no feeling about it. '

'Not the least, I should say. '

'You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?'

'Melmotte has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sellsomething. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. Youmay tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I'veproposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't knowany other way. '

'You could write me that, --in a business sort of way. '

'I couldn't do that, Carbury. What's the use? I never write anyletters, I can't do it. You tell him that; and if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight. '

Miles Grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in thesmoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with theSecretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believingthat the man must have some influence with the great distributor ofshares. 

'I'm going to take up my shares in that company, ' said Sir Felix. 

'Ah;--indeed. ' And Miles enveloped himself from head to foot in smoke. 

'I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte andhe has explained it, I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand onWednesday. '

'Oh;--ah. '

'It will be the proper thing to do--won't it?'

'Very good--thing to do!' Miles Grendall smoked harder and harder asthe suggestions were made to him. 

'Is it always ready money?'

'Always ready money, ' said Miles shaking his head, as though inreprobation of so abominable an institution. 

'I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent. , is made for the shares?'

'They'll give you half the number, which would come to the samething. '

Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as hewould, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. 'You know Ishould want to sell again, --for the rise. '

'Oh; you'll want to sell again. '

'And therefore I must have the full number. '

'You could sell half the number, you know, ' said Miles. 

'I'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's £1, 000. Well;--Ihave got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn'tyou manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent, down?'

'Melmotte does all that himself. '

'You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your ownpayments to me. ' This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicatemode of introducing his claim upon the Secretary. 

'That's private, ' said Miles frowning. 

'Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buythe shares with it though they are public. '

'I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury. '

'You can't help me?'

'Not in that way. '

'Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?' Sir Felix wasdriven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility ofhis debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, whodid not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet hadthe impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs ofbusiness! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles Grendall smokedon in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, andhe therefore made no answer. 'Do you know how much you owe me?'continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commencedthe attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and theconversation about the shares had been commenced in an undertone. These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but hiscountenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger. 

'Of course I know, ' said Miles. 

'Well?'

'I'm not going to talk about it here, '

'Not going to talk about it here?'

'No. This is a public room. '

'I am going to talk about it, ' said Sir Felix, raising his voice. 

'Will any fellow come upstairs and play a game of billiards?' saidMiles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of theroom, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a momentSir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the wholeroom; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a morepopular man than himself. 

It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled inthe card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and withhim the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, Iregret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. SirFelix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. Whatwas the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to beliberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play withhim, where should he find another gambling table? They began withwhist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. Theleast respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it wasin compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave upthe nobler game. 'Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out, ' saidGrasslough. 'It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then;one can always bet, ' said Dolly shortly afterwards. 'I hate loo, ' saidSir Felix in answer to a third application. 'I like whist best, ' saidNidderdale, 'but I'll play anything anybody likes, --pitch and toss ifyou please. ' But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game. 

At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had notbeen very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a largepool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The menopposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hithertobeen unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, whichwas so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even DollyLongestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not sofurnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he wasallowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to seeready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstancescould it be got back from him. 'Montague, ' he said, 'just change thesefor the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we'vedone. ' And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. Theresult of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. ToMontague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked, --orrather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On whatprinciple of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man?'I don't understand this kind of thing, ' he said. 'When I win fromyou, Carbury, I'll take my I. O. U. 's, as long as you have any. '

'By George, that's kind. '

'But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed. '

'Pay them yourself, then, ' said Sir Felix, laying a handful down onthe table. 

'Don't let's have a row, ' said Lord Nidderdale. 

'Carbury is always making a row, ' said Grasslough. 

'Of course he is, ' said Miles Grendall. 

'I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we havesuch a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cashfor them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk offwith it. '

'Who is walking off?' said Miles. 

'And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any ofus?' asked Grasslough. 

The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be allowedthat Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the mannerthat Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr Grendall pledged hishonour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money thathe might have won to the redemption of his I. O. U. 's, paying a regularpercentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix verycross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morningwould not be favourable to such commercial accuracy, --which indeed wouldrequire an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, ifstill a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money. 

For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate inhis play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing aminimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, andhe thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair fartherand farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who wasnext to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during whichGrendall still won, --and won heavily from Paul Montague. 'I never saw afellow have such a run of luck in my life, ' said Grasslough. 'You'vehad two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!'

'Ever so many hands I haven't played at all, ' said Miles. 

'You've always won when I've played, ' said Dolly. 'I've been looedevery time. '

'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 hisown making, supposed to represent considerably above £1, 000, and hadalso, --which was of infinitely greater concern to him, --received an amountof ready money which was quite a godsend to him. 

'What's the good of talking about it?' said Nidderdale. 'I hate allthis row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed. ' Theidea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendallwithout seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw acard go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that thewinner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was temptedto rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. Buthe feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if thereshould be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there wouldcertainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around himwould be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough wasGrendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe wouldinfinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set ofcheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he shouldaccuse, and also the unpassive good humour of the others. He let thatopportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also shouldnot see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felixwatched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man hadan ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving theothers playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had beenall in paper. 'There's something the matter with that fellow, ' saidGrasslough. 

'There's always something the matter with him, I think, ' said Miles. 'He is so awfully greedy about his money. ' Miles had become somewhattriumphant in his success. 

'The less said about that, Grendall, the better, ' said Nidderdale. 'Wehave put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as muchas anybody. ' Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing withoutmanoeuvring a card on that hand. 

CHAPTER XXV - IN GROSVENOR SQUARE

Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she receivedfrom Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of Frencheloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house ifeither Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie toldher that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. 'Well, perhaps notMadame, ' said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to be dismissed;'but Monsieur!' Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsieurknow anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything toMonsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the wholehousehold was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behindrocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for a master of ahouse; but in this house the master at any rate knew how he wasplaced. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of course hisdaughter might run away. But who would run away with her withoutmoney? And there could be no money except from him. He knew himselfand his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl, and thenbestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him. His daughterwas valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of aMarquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose without suchassistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfredwas certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had whispered into hisear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, hehimself might be made a baronet. 'But if they should say that I'm notan Englishman?' suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had explained that itwas not necessary that he should have been born in England, or eventhat he should have an English name. No questions would be asked. Lethim first get into Parliament, and then spend a little money on theproper side, --by which Lord Alfred meant the Conservative side, --and bemunificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost amatter of course. Indeed, there was no knowing what honours might notbe achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberalhand. In these conversations, Melmotte would speak of his money andpower of making money as though they were unlimited, --and Lord Alfredbelieved him. 

Marie was dissatisfied with her letter, --not because it described herfather as 'cutting up rough. ' To her who had known her father all herlife that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in thenote. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would bedelightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did lovethe young man. She had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses ofothers whom she did not love, --but this she had done at the momentalmost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which shewas now living. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and hercourage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of herown, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt whichaccompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grandnames and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying No to theNidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. It might be thatshe should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it was now when Lord Nidderdale first came toher, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitelybetter than Sir Felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his lovemaking. But at that time shehad been childish. He, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken toher. And she, child though she was, had resented such usage. But a fewmonths in London had changed all this, and now she was a child nolonger. She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. Ifnecessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and sheabandoned herself to its worship. But she desired that her idol shouldbe of flesh and blood, and not of wood. She was at first half-inclinedto be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, sheremembered that he did not know Didon as well as she did, and that hemight be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. She could writeto him at his club, and having no such fear, she could write warmly. 

 Grosvenor Square. Early Monday Morning. 

 DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX, I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;-- more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. 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. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it, --for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I know. 

 You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never, --never give you up. I suppose you can come and call, --unless papa tells the man in the hall not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were here. I never see him before he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going downstairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham?

 Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix. 

 And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove, MARIE. 

Sir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of theMonday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if therewere much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on withit, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure. 'Whatan infernal little ass!' he said to himself as he crumpled the letterup. 

Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a littlepresent of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother wasthe first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, whenshe found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master ofthe house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in herown room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte shehad to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go tothose parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the Londonseason was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to thecompanionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very much apartfrom her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often. MadameMelmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understandthat her guest was only her guest as a matter of business. 

But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances werechanged in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friendLady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, andwhose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time of herfriend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to returnto London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped her friend wouldnot throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. Georgiana Longestaffehad never been humble before; but the Monograms were people so muchthought of and in such an excellent set! She would do anything ratherthen lose the Monograms. But it was of no use. She had been humble invain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note. 'She neverreally cared for anybody but herself, ' Georgiana said in her wretchedsolitude. Then, too, she had found that Lord Nidderdale's manner toher had been quite changed. She was not a fool, and could read thesesigns with sufficient accuracy. There had been little flirtationsbetween her and Nidderdale, --meaning nothing, as every one knew thatNidderdale must marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to heras he spoke when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. Shecould see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park, --especially in the faces of the men. She had always carried herselfwith a certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. Allthat was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was asyet but a few days old she understood that others understood that shehad degraded herself. 'What's all this about?' Lord Grasslough hadsaid to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. Shehad simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face. 

'Impudent scoundrel!' she said to herself, knowing that a fortnightago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone. 

A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy ofcommemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind musthave been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to suchuncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much afternoon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. Hedeclared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see MadameMelmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He wastherefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him. 

'What's all this about?'

She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. 'What brings you here, Iwonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment. '

'My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing muchharm. Why are you staying with these people?'

'Ask papa. '

'I don't suppose he sent you here?'

'That's just what he did do. '

'You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it becausethey are none of them coming up?'

'Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are forguessing!'

'Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?'

'No;--not a bit. '

'Then I feel ashamed for you. '

'Everybody comes here. '

'No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybodydoesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobodydoing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself. '

'I think as much of myself as ever I did, ' said Georgiana, hardly ableto restrain her tears. 

'I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me. '

'What did he say, Dolly?'

'He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And ofcourse everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourselfis what I can't understand!'

'I don't like them, --I hate them. '

'Then why do you come and live with them?'

'Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is sodifferent. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. Andif you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you canlive by yourself and all that sort of thing. How should you like to beshut up down at Caversham all the season?'

'I shouldn't mind it, --only for the governor. '

'You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?'

'You mean about marrying?'

'I mean altogether, ' said the poor girl, unable to be quite asexplicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, andmother, and sister. 'Of course I have to think of myself. '

'I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the shortof it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, butwhen I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to thegovernor, and tell him too. He should have known better. '

'Don't write to papa, Dolly!'

'Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devilwithout saying a word. Good-bye. '

As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open, --notthe Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden hours, --andactually did write a letter to his father. 

'MY DEAR FATHER, I have seen Georgiana at Mr Melmotte's house. She ought not to bethere. I suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's aswindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her homeagain. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for thegirls at this time of the year. 

Your affectionate son, ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE. '

This letter fell upon old Mr Longestaffe at Caversham like athunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have beeninstigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed, --worse than he had thought, --or their iniquities would not have broughtabout such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most wasthat which told him that he ought to have taken his family back totown. This had come from his son, who had refused to do anything tohelp him in his difficulties. 

CHAPTER XXVI - MRS HURTLE

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in SackvilleStreet, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he hadmany troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, andMontague, --and also their consolation, --are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind toexpatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hopethat on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had atany rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. Hewas troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing thatin that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to itfrom day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yetanother trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, notlong after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at theBeargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to acertain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door, --at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year, --andasked for Mrs Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs Hurtle lodged there, and he was showninto the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarterof an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, andthen Mrs Hurtle entered the room. Mrs Hurtle was a widow whom he hadonce promised to marry. 'Paul, ' she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased, --takinghim by the hand as she spoke, 'Paul, say that that letter of yoursmust go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgiveeverything. '

'I cannot say that, ' he replied, laying his hand on hers. 

'You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me thatyour promises to me are to go for nothing?'

'Things are changed, ' said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at herbidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, butthe meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he hadsufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but thejustification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardlyknew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his presentdifficulty. But he had loved her, --did love her in a certain fashion;and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from hissympathies. 

'How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that. ' As shesaid this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether shewas become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man'swife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom seenow. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman'sface and figure more than either the colour or the expression, andwomen fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hairwithout limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers andmilliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of nobledimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes withclassic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomesvery dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptor's hands. Coloursindeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. The tastefor flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite forhorsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs Hurtle was not a beauty after thepresent fashion. She was very dark, --a dark brunette, --with large roundblue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round herhead and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the bloodwould come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almostevery word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of thepug. But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her wouldswear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed herteeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran downto her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full andbeautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she wereoblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, asMontague had seen her, was always black, --not a sad weeping widow'sgarment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, alwaysnew, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially alwayssimple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. Shelooked as though she knew it, --but only after that fashion in which awoman ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty, --perhaps almost as near thirty-five asthirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch. 

'You are beautiful as ever you were, ' he said. 

'Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless itcan bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means. 'Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chairwhich she gave him. 

'I told you in my letter. '

'You told me nothing in your letter, --except that it was to be--off. Whyis it to be--off? Do you not love me?' Then she threw herself upon herknees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. 'Paul, ' shesaid, 'I have come across the Atlantic on purpose to see you, --after somany months, --and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you shouldleave me for ever, give me one kiss. ' Of course he kissed her, notonce, but with a long, warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise?With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, butwhile she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her?'Now tell me everything, ' she said, seating herself on a footstool athis feet. 

She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill-treat orscorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing hercaresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend himbefore he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He hadtravelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had beenvery good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty, --for hehad been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpoolthey were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before hissecond journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life, --but that shewas a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on business. When heleft her at the London railway station, from which she started forDover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had offered to go withher, but that she had declined. But when he remembered that he mustcertainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered alsohow little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he becameembarrassed. What were her means he did not know. He did know that shewas some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly aword to him of her own family. She had indeed said that her husbandhad been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spokenof her release from him as the one blessing she had known before shehad met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all thisafter she had left him, --only when he reflected how bald was the storywhich he must tell Roger Carbury, --that he became dismayed. Such hadbeen the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power ofadaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with stillprogressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything hadbeen missing. 

He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it wasimpossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railwaytrain without knowing something about her. Roger did all he could topersuade the lover to forget his love, --and partially succeeded. It isso pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the companyof a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey, --so natural that duringthe journey he should allow himself to think that she may during herwhole life be all in all to him as she is at that moment;--and sonatural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted fromher! But Montague, though he was half false to his widow, was halftrue to her. He had pledged his word, and that he said ought to bindhim. Then he returned to California, and learned, through theinstrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San Francisco MrsHurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not quite believethat there ever had been a Mr Hurtle. Others said that there certainlyhad been a Mr Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he stillexisted. The fact, however, best known of her was that she had shot aman through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried forit, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstancesjustified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very clever and verybeautiful, --but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. 'Shealways had money when she was here, ' Hamilton Fisker said, 'but no oneknew where it came from. ' Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. 'Idon't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a lifepartnership, if you mean that, ' said Hamilton K. Fisker. 

Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his secondjourney to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spiteof his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what hecould make of his broken fortunes, --for at this time, as the reader willremember, there was no great railway in existence, --and she had promisedto follow him. Since that, they had never met till this day. She hadnot made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate before hehad left it. Letters from her had reached him in England, and these hehad answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, thattheir engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him toLondon! 'Tell me everything, ' she said, leaning upon him and lookingup into his face. 

'But you, --when did you arrive here?'

'Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday Ireached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, andso I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that youshould have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so longago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would nottell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I waspenniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers. 'As she said this, she looked as though she could be very persistent inclaiming her own, --or what she might think to be her own. 'I could notget across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was thereyou had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. Iat any rate have been faithful. ' As she said this his arm was againthrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. 'And now, ' shesaid, 'tell me about yourself?'

His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he donehis duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, havesprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might havebeen his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make herunderstand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he waseither too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such asthat. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as shesat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be hiswife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he didnot at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yetwith properly apologetic courtesy. 'I am engaged here about thisrailway, ' he said. 'You have heard, I suppose, of our projectedscheme?'

'Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is thegreat man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying avilla for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that thebest of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there arevery hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did. '

'It's doing very well, I believe, ' said Paul, with some feeling ofshame, as he thought how very little he knew about it. 

'You are the manager here in England?'

'No, --I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; butthe real manager here is our chairman, Mr Melmotte. '

'Ah I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he not?There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him, ofcourse?'

'Yes, --I know him. I see him once a week. '

'I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes orlords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his righthand. What power;--what grandeur!'

'Grand enough, ' said Paul, 'if it all came honestly. '

'Such a man rises above honesty, ' said Mrs Hurtle, 'as a great generalrises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pigmy man isstopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the rivers. '

'I prefer to be stopped by the ditches, ' said Montague. 

'Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To livein plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nineat night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pencan send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that heis not honest?'

'As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothingagainst him. '

'Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleonwas a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shallsee Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would notcondescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors. '

'I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay. '

'Ah, --you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours aboutcoveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, butthey do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only alittle, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them inthe world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no suchlaw; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more aman has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler be canbe. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn thewooden bogies that he meets. '

Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connectedwith the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile ascoundrel as ever lived. Mrs Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, andthere was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it wasshocking to see them lavished on such a subject. 'Personally, I do notlike him, ' said Paul. 

'I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove. '

'Oh no. '

'But you are prospering in this business?'

'Yes, --I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous thingsin which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till heis out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had noalternative. '

'It seems to me to have been a golden chance. '

'As far as immediate results go it has been golden. '

'That at any rate is well, Paul. And now, --now that we have got backinto our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I havetalked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should ourengagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?'

He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waitedfor an answer. 'You know I did, ' he said. 

'I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my loveto you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you doubt me?'

He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. 'No, indeed. '

'Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak, --fit for a girl froma nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! You oweme so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have neverlied to you. I have taken nothing from you, --if I have not taken yourheart. I have given you all that I can give. ' Then she leaped to herfeet and stood a little apart from him. 'If you hate me, say so. '

'Winifred, ' he said, calling her by her name. 

'Winifred! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paulfrom the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is thereanother woman that you love?'

At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous she couldbe, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tellher the truth which he now spoke. 'There is another, ' he said. 

She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she wouldcommence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standingquite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of theleft. 'Oh, ' she said, in a whisper 'that is the reason why I am toldthat I am to be--off. '

'That was not the reason. '

'What, --can there be more reason than that, --better reason than that?Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so alsoyou have learned to--hate me. '

'Listen to me, Winifred. '

'No, sir; no Winifred now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing thatit was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so youlove--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough, --toolittle like the dolls of your own country! What were your--otherreasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that theyare lies. '

The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward byRoger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little aboutWinifred Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr Hurtle. Hisreasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. 'We know toolittle of each other, ' he said. 

'What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did Iever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you wantto know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? Youknew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I haveample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If youwish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you withstories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not havecared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once. '

He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would havebeen better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to haveremained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He musthave acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and verybase. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, isdamnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of thesufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, andmight have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrathcould inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for nofurther mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now hewas all at sea. 'I wish to hear nothing, ' he said. 

'Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman, --after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think ofit, Paul. Is not that mean?'

'I do not think that I am mean. '

'No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--thislady?'

He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning HettaCarbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, andcertainly had received no assurance that he was loved. 'I cannot nameher. '

'And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to returnsatisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections?That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shakehands with me, and go away, --without a pang, without a scruple?'

'I did not say so. '

'And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise AugustusMelmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?'

'I hope not. '

'Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir. '

'I did say so. '

'Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me. '

'I cannot marry you. '

'Then, sir, are you not a liar?' It would have taken him long toexplain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promiseand yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break hisengagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he couldnot accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought tohis resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as tohis uncertainty about her husband. If Mr Hurtle were alive, certainlythen he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs Hurtle. Hedid not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready withhis defence. 'Oh, Paul, ' she said, changing at once into softness, --'Iam pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that Iam pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also?'

'No, ' said he. 'I have given no promise. '

'But she loves you?'

'She has never said so. '

'You have told her of your love?'

'Never. '

'There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her againstme, --some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?'

'I suppose it is, ' said Paul. 

'Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any womanlove you as I do, --live for you as I do? Think what I have done incoming here, where I have no friend, --not a single friend, --unless you area friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engagedto marry you. '

'You have told the woman of the house?'

'Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? AmI to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to betold to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because Iam too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my beinghere? 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 advertisedin every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promisedwife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr Melmotte in managingthe new great American railway, and that Mr Paul Montague would bewith me this morning. She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had shedoubted, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her thatwhat I have said is false, --if you dare. ' The woman was not there, andit did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in orderthat he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. Theposition was one which required thought. After a while he took up hishat to go. 'Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?'

'No, --' he said; 'not to-day. '

'And you will come back to me?'

'Yes;--I will come back. '

'I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember allyour promises. Remember all our love, --and be good to me. ' Then she lethim go without another word. 

CHAPTER XXVII - MRS HURTLE GOES TO THE PLAY

On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received thefollowing letter from Mrs Hurtle:--

 MY DEAR PAUL, --

 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. I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to make you conscious that I really love you. To a woman such love is all important. She cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. Nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it. Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has separated her from other things. My devotion to you has separated me from everything. 

 But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant. 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. I wish, however, that you should hear me. You say that there is some one you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her. 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. A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does. But I think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again. I think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me again. You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me. I have given up every friend I have to follow you. As regards the other--nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion. 

 You hinted that there were other reasons, --that we know too little of each other. You meant no doubt that you knew too little of me. 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? 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. I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved, --like a soiled glove, -- because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life. 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. There his life was infamously bad. He spent what money he could get of mine, and then left me and the State, and took himself to Texas;--where he drank himself to death. I did not follow him, and in his absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas State. 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, --having forged my name. There I met you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be told. 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?

 I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overborne by passion. I also have heard in California rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your letter. I resolved to follow you to England as soon as circumstances would permit me. I have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and I have won it. I had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw you. I had begun it and had determined that I would not be beaten by fraud. And I was also determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper. We have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them. When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind. When we came here together we were both embarrassed. We both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it. Since that I have made my way through my difficulties. From what I have heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the same. I at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our affairs can be made one. 

 And now about myself, --immediately. I have come here all alone. Since I last saw you in New York I have not had altogether a good time. I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone. Very cruel things have been said of me. You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband. Since that they have been said to others with reference to you. 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. It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate, --and here I am. I appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude. You know, --no one so well, --that my nature is social and that I am not given to be melancholy. Let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a day. Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as I used to be seen. 

 Come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres. 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. 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. 

 You need not fear but you will find me at home. I have no whither to go, --and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me. Send me a line, however, that I may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you. 

 Yours with all my heart, WINIFRED HURTLE. 

This letter took her much time to write, though she was very carefulso to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen. She copied it from the first draught, but she copied it rapidly, withone or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have beendone hurriedly. There had been much art in it. She had at any ratesuppressed any show of anger. In calling him to her she had so writtenas to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear the clawsof an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as a lioness who had losther cub. She had almost ignored that other lady whose name she had notyet heard. She had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that otherlady as a light thing which might easily be put aside. She had saidmuch of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the wickedness of thewrong-doer. Invited as she had invited him, surely he could not butcome to her! And then, in her reference to money, not descending tothe details of dollars and cents, she had studied how to make him feelthat he might marry her without imprudence. As she read it over toherself she thought that there was a tone through it of naturalfeminine uncautious eagerness. She put her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and addressed it, --and then threw herself back inher chair to think of her position. 

He should marry her, --or there should be something done which shouldmake the name of Winifred Hurtle known to the world! She had no planof revenge yet formed. She would not talk of revenge, --she told herselfthat she would not even think of revenge till she was quite sure thatrevenge would be necessary. But she did think of it, and could notkeep her thoughts from it for a moment. Could it be possible that she, with all her intellectual gifts as well as those of her outwardperson, should be thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him, --andshe did love him with all her heart, --she regarded as greatly inferiorto herself! He had promised to marry her; and he should marry her, orthe world should hear the story of his perjury!

Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon ashe read the letter. That his heart was all the other way he was quitesure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from histroubles open to him. There was not a single word in this woman'sletter that he could contradict. He had loved her and had promised tomake her his wife, --and had determined to break his word to her becausehe found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery. He had soresolved before he had ever seen Hetta Carbury, having been made tobelieve by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknown Americanwoman, --of whom he only did know that she was handsome and clever wouldbe a step to ruin. The woman, as Roger said, was an adventuress, --mightnever have had a husband, --might at this moment have two or three, --mightbe overwhelmed with debt, --might be anything bad, dangerous, andabominable. All that he had heard at San Francisco had substantiatedRoger's views. 'Any scrape is better than that scrape, ' Roger had saidto him. Paul had believed his Mentor, and had believed with a doublefaith as soon as he had seen Hetta Carbury. 

But what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passedbetween them, that he should leave Mrs Hurtle at her lodgings atIslington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that shewould not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal, --though itseemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition oftheir present circumstances, --had in it some immediate comfort. To takeher out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to some theatre, would be easy and perhaps pleasant. It would be easier, and certainlymuch pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to abstain fromtalking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happy evenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were firsttogether at New York. There could be no better companion for such afestival. She could talk, --and she could listen as well as talk. And shecould sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense of her femininecharms by her simple proximity. He had been very happy when so placed. Had it been possible he would have escaped the danger now, but thereminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to theperformance of this perilous duty. 

But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? Whenthe pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her backto her door, what should he say to her then? He must make somearrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a greatperil, and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could notnow go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury hisrival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry thewidow. Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allowhimself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling, but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything toRoger Carbury. He could not say all that he would have to say withoutspeaking of Hetta, --and of his love for Hetta he could not speak to hisrival. 

He had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no otherhuman being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself. He thoughtfor 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 bemarriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from hersociety. But then he remembered her solitude, her picture of herselfin London without even an acquaintance except himself, and heconvinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave herwithout seeing her. So he wrote to her thus:--

 DEAR WINIFRED, I will come for you to-morrow at half-past five. We will dine together at the Thespian;--and then I will have a box at the Haymarket. The Thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there. You can dine in your bonnet. 

 Yours affectionately, P. M. 

Some half-formed idea ran through his brain that P. M. Was a safersignature than Paul Montague. Then came a long train of thoughts as tothe perils of the whole proceeding. She had told him that she hadannounced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged tohim, and he had in a manner authorized the statement by declining tocontradict it at once. And now, after that announcement, he wasassenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse themselvestogether. Hitherto she had always seemed to him to be open, candid, and free from intrigue. He had known her to be impulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful. Perhaps he was unable to readcorrectly the inner character of a woman whose experience of the worldhad been much wider than his own. His mind misgave him that it mightbe so; but still he thought that he knew that she was not treacherous. And yet did not her present acts justify him in thinking that she wascarrying on a plot against him? The note, however, was sent, and heprepared for the evening of the play, leaving the dangers of theoccasion to adjust themselves. He ordered the dinner and he took thebox, and at the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings. 

The woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs Hurtle'ssitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended towelcome him as an accepted lover. It was a smile half ofcongratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as awoman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast. Whodoes not know the smile? 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 ofhis own captivity? It has, however, generally mattered but little tous. If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, becausewe have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we alsohave a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the whole wehave gained more than we have lost. But with Paul Montague at thepresent moment there was no satisfaction, no pride, --only a feeling ofdanger which every hour became deeper, and stronger, with less chanceof escape. He was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman, and tell her the truth, --and bear the immediate consequences. But therewould be treason in doing so, and he would not, could not do it. 

He was left hardly a moment to think of this. Almost before the womanhad shut the door, Mrs Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with herhat on her head. Nothing could be more simple than her dress, andnothing prettier. It was now June, and the weather was warm, and thelady wore a light gauzy black dress, --there is a fabric which themilliners I think call grenadine, --coming close up round her throat. Itwas very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress. And she hadon a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty. There aretimes at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to bebright in her apparel, --almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly becontented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and hergloves of some bright hue, --unless she wear roses or jewels in her hair. It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go intendingthat all the world shall know who they are. But there are times againin which a man would prefer that his companion should be very quiet inher dress, --but still pretty; in which he would choose that she shoulddress herself for him only. All this Mrs Hurtle had understoodaccurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing of it, wasgratified. 'You told me to have a hat, and here I am, --hat and all. ' Shegave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantly at him, asthough there was no cause of unhappiness between them. Thelodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some littleword as they went off. Paul did not hear the word, but was sure thatit bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage. 

Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during theperformance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to herengagement. It was with them, as in former days it had been at NewYork. She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now andagain with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclined tolisten than to speak. Now and again she referred, after some slightestfashion, to little circumstances that had occurred between them, tosome joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; but it wasdone as one man might do it to another, --if any man could have done itso pleasantly. There was a scent which he had once approved, and nowshe bore it on her handkerchief. There was a ring which he had oncegiven her, and she wore it on the finger with which she touched hissleeve. With his own hands he had once adjusted her curls, and eachcurl was as he had placed it. She had a way of shaking her head, thatwas very pretty, --a way that might, one would think, have been dangerousat her age, as likely to betray those first grey hairs which will cometo disturb the last days of youth. He had once told her in sport to bemore careful. She now shook her head again, and, as he smiled, shetold him that she could still dare to be careless. There are athousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearingbetween acknowledged lovers, with which no woman would like todispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes withdelight; but which in other circumstances would be vulgar, --and to thewoman distasteful. There are closenesses and sweet approaches, smilesand nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendoes and hints, littlemutual admirations and assurances that there are things known to thosetwo happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether ignorant. Muchof this comes of nature, but something of it sometimes comes by art. Of such art as there may be in it Mrs Hurtle was a perfect master. Noallusion was made to their engagement, --not an unpleasant word wasspoken; but the art was practised with all its pleasant adjuncts. Paulwas flattered to the top of his bent; and, though the sword washanging over his head, though he knew that the sword must fall, --mustpartly fall that very night, --still he enjoyed it. 

There are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even thoughthey may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded bythings feminine in all the affairs of their lives. Others again havetheir strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarelyaltogether happy when removed from their influence. Paul Montague wasof the latter sort. At this time he was thoroughly in love with HettaCarbury, and was not in love with Mrs Hurtle. He would have given muchof his golden prospects in the American railway to have had Mrs Hurtlereconveyed suddenly to San Francisco. And yet he had a delight in herpresence. 'The acting isn't very good, ' he said when the piece wasnearly over. 

'What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends uponthe humour. The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened andlaughed and cried, because I have been happy. '

He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and wasbound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. 'It has beenvery jolly, ' he said. 

'And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. I wonderwhether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lovertalked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writersand actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day. It's all right that she should cry, but she wouldn't cry there. ' Theposition described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothing tothis. She had so spoken on purpose, --fighting her own battle after herown fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. 'A womanhides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unable tohide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman see them. Does she?'

'I suppose not. '

'Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa. '

'Women are not all Medeas, ' he replied. 

'There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. I am quiteready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall. And I havehad no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. Areyou going to see me home?'

'Certainly. '

'You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself. ' But ofcourse he accompanied her to Islington. He owed her at any rate asmuch as that. She continued to talk during the whole journey. What awonderful place London was, --so immense, but so dirty! New York ofcourse was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter. But Paris wasthe gem of gems among towns. She did not like Frenchmen, and she likedEnglishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that she couldnever like English women. 'I do so hate all kinds of buckram. I likegood conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one'sthroat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose what wehave been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite sure that ithas not been in the least wicked. '

'I don't think it has, ' said Paul Montague very tamely. It is a longway from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last the cab reached thelodging-house door. 'Yes, this is it, ' she said. 'Even about thehouses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me. 'She was getting out as she spoke, and he had already knocked at thedoor. 'Come in for one moment, ' she said as he paid the cabman. Thewoman the while was standing with the door in her hand. It was nearmidnight, --but, when people are engaged, hours do not matter. The womanof the house, who was respectability herself, --a nice kind widow, withfive children, named Pipkin, --understood that and smiled again as hefollowed the lady into the sitting-room. She had already taken off herhat and was flinging it on to the sofa as he entered. 'Shut the doorfor one moment, ' she said; and he shut it. Then she threw herself intohis arms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. 'Oh Paul, ' sheexclaimed, 'my darling! Oh Paul, my love! I will not bear to beseparated from you. No, no;--never. I swear it, and you may believe me. There is nothing I cannot do for love of you, --but to lose you. ' Thenshe pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her handstogether. 'But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night. It wasto be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hardschool-time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see meagain soon, --will you not?' He nodded assent, then took her in his armsand kissed her, and left her without a word. 

CHAPTER XXVIII - DOLLY LONGESTAFFE GOES INTO THE CITY

It has been told how the gambling at the Beargarden went on one Sundaynight. On the following Monday Sir Felix did not go to the club. Hehad watched Miles Grendall at play, and was sure that on more than oneor two occasions the man had cheated. Sir Felix did not quite knowwhat in such circumstances it would be best for him to do. Reprobateas he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and seemed tobe very terrible. What steps ought he to take? He was quite sure ofhis facts, and yet he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough andLongestaffe would not believe him. He would have told Montague, butMontague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be ofany use to him. On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club. Hefelt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had beenaccustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred over. He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated himwithout saying anything about it. On the Wednesday afternoon life wasbecoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into the building at aboutfive in the afternoon. There, as a matter of course, he found DollyLongestaffe drinking sherry and bitters. 'Where the blessed angelshave you been?' said Dolly. Dolly was at that moment alert with thesense of a duty performed. He had just called on his sister andwritten a sharp letter to his father, and felt himself to be almost aman of business. 

'I've had fish of my own to fry, ' said Felix, who had passed the lasttwo days in unendurable idleness. Then he referred again to the moneywhich Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking forimmediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance that if acommercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this moment, bevery serviceable to him. 'I'm particularly anxious to take up thoseshares, ' said Felix. 

'Of course you ought to have your money. '

'I don't say that at all, old fellow. I know very well that you're allright. You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall. '

'Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I supposeI could get it, and so I ought to pay. '

'That's no excuse for Grendall, ' said Sir Felix, shaking his head. 

'A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury. A chap ought to pay ofcourse. I've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half hour--here it is. ' And Dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket which he hadopened and read indeed the last hour, but which had been dulydelivered at his lodgings early in the morning. 'My governor wants tosell Pickering, and Melmotte wants to buy the place. My governor can'tsell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what'swhat. My interest in the property is greater than his. It isn't muchof a place, and they are talking of £50, 000, over and above the debtupon it. £25, 000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and makeme very square. From what this fellow says I suppose they're going togive in to my terms. '

'By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly. '

'Oh yes. Of course I want it. But I don't like the place going. I'mnot much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself togo in for things as I ought to do; but I've a sort of feeling that Idon't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't tolet his family property go to pieces. '

'You never lived at Pickering. '

'No;--and I don't know that it is any good. It gives us 3 per cent. Onthe money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per cent. , andI'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it thanyou'd think. It ought to be sold, and now I suppose it will be sold. Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if you like I'll go with you tothe city to-morrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'lladvance me £1, 000, and then you can get the shares. Are you going todine here?'

Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, withconsiderable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and playwhist afterwards. He acceded willingly to Dolly's plans of visitingAbchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty ininducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for citypurposes. 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. They split the difference at last and agreed to start at two. Theythen dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at the next table tothem. Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other frequently, but in thatconversation the young baronet would not join. Nor did Grendall everaddress himself to Sir Felix. 'Is there anything up between you andMiles?' said Dolly, when they had adjourned to the smoking-room. 

'I can't bear him. '

'There never was any love between you two, I know. But you used tospeak, and you've played with him all through. '

'Played with him! I should think I have. Though he did get such a haullast Sunday he owes me more than you do now. '

'Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?'

Sir Felix paused a moment. 'No;--that is not the reason. I'll tell youall about it in the cab to-morrow. ' Then he left the club, declaringthat he would go up to Grosvenor Square and see Marie Melmotte. He didgo up to the Square, and when he came to the house he would not go in. What was the good? He could do nothing further till he got oldMelmotte's consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as byshowing that he had got money wherewith to buy shares in the railway. What he did with himself during the remainder of the evening thereader need not know, but on his return home at some comparativelyearly hour, he found this note from Marie. 

 Wednesday Afternoon. 

 DEAREST FELIX, Why don't we see you? Mamma would say nothing if you came. Papa is never in the drawing-room. Miss Longestaffe is here of course, and people always come in in the evening. We are just going to dine out at the Duchess of Stevenage's. Papa, and mamma and I. Mamma told me that Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never take any one but the man I love. You know who that is. Miss Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us. What do you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left alone? We are to go afterwards to a musical party at Lady Gamut's. Miss Longestaffe is going with us, but she says she hates music. She is such a set-up thing! I wonder why papa has her here. We don't go anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray come. 

 And why haven't you written me something and sent it to Didon? She won't betray us. And if she did, what matters? I mean to be true. If papa were to beat me into a mummy I would stick to you. He told me once to take Lord Nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him. And now he wants me to take him again. But I won't. I'll take no one but my own darling. 

 Yours for ever and ever, MARIE

Now that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own inlife, she was determined to make the most of it. All this wasdelightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply 'a bother. ' SirFelix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow, --on condition ofcourse that the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing togo through much work in the way of love-making with Marie Melmotte. Insuch business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a companion. 

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 andstruggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix toldhis dreadful story about Miles Grendall. 'By George!' said Dolly. 'Andyou think you saw him do it!'

'It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. Ibelieve he always had an ace somewhere about him. ' Dolly sat quitesilent thinking of it. 'What had I better do?' asked Sir Felix. 

'By George;--I don't know. '

'What should you do?'

'Nothing at all. I shouldn't believe my own eyes. Or if I did, shouldtake care not to look at him. '

'You wouldn't go on playing with him?'

'Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up. '

'But Dolly, --if you think of it!'

'That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it. '

'And you won't give me your advice. '

'Well--no; I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why didyou pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nidderdale?'

'He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?'

'No, he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me outfor this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell mesuch a story as this I wouldn't have come with you. '

'That's nonsense, Dolly. '

'Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a twitteralready. '

'You mean to go on playing just the same?'

'Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to thinkabout it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the manof money. '

The man of money received them much more graciously than Felix hadexpected. Of course nothing was said about Marie and no furtherallusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's 'property. 'Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which thegreat financier understood their views and the readiness with which heundertook to comply with them. No disagreeable questions were asked asto the nature of the debt between the young men. Dolly was called uponto sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to sign one, --and then theywere assured that the thing was done. Mr Adolphus Longestaffe had paidSir Felix Carbury a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carbury'scommission had been accepted by Mr Melmotte for the purchase ofrailway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted to say a word. Heendeavoured to explain that his object in this commercial transactionwas to make money immediately by reselling the shares, --and to go oncontinually making money by buying at a low price and selling at ahigh price. He no doubt did believe that, being a Director, if hecould once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on withit for an unlimited period;--buy and sell, buy and sell;--so that hewould have an almost regular income. This, as far as he couldunderstand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do, --simply becausehe had become a Director with a little money. Mr Melmotte wascordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into particulars. Itwas all right. 'You will wish to sell again, of course, --of course. I'llwatch the market for you. ' When the young men left the room all theyknew, or thought that they knew, was, that Dolly Longestaffe hadauthorized 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 withthe amount. 'But why didn't he give you the scrip?' said Dolly on hisway westwards. 

'I suppose it's all right with him, ' said Sir Felix. 

'Oh yes;--it's all right. Thousands of pounds to him are only likehalf-crowns to us fellows. I should say it's all right. All the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you know. ' Sir Felix already began to beunhappy about his thousand pounds. 

CHAPTER XXIX - MISS MELMOTTE'S COURAGE

Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecutionof her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he waspersecuted. 'I have spoken to her father, ' he said crossly. 

'And what did Mr Melmotte say?'

'Say;--what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all he's an old screw. '

'Did he forbid you to come there any more?'

'Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let mealone I'll do the best I can. '

'She has accepted you, herself?'

'Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury. '

'Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It'sdone every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry thegirl. You could do it now because I know you've got money. From all Ican hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you. ' The sonsat silent, listening to these maternal councils. He did believe thatMarie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. Herown father had almost alluded to such a proceeding, --had certainlyhinted that it was feasible, --but at the same time had very clearlystated that in such case the ardent lover would have to contenthimself with the lady alone. In any such event as that there would beno fortune. But then, might not that only be a threat? Rich fathersgenerally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only onechild would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she woulddo in this instance, graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of allthis as he sat there silent. His mother read his thoughts as shecontinued. 'Of course, Felix, there must be some risk. '

'Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!' he exclaimed. 'Icouldn't bear it. I think I should kill her. '

'Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would besome risk I mean that there would be very little. There would benothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody elseto 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. '

'I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it. '

'You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit herparents. When the money was once settled you need see as little ofthem as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starveunless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her awayat once. They say she is of age. '

'I shouldn't know where to take her, ' said Sir Felix, almost stunnedinto thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. 'All that about Scotland is done with now. '

'Of course you would marry her at once. '

'I suppose so, --unless it were better to stay as we were, till the moneywas settled. '

'Oh no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in aspirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to comeround, if--'

'The mother is nothing. '

'He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get MrAlf and Mr Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would. Tenthousand a year is not to be had every year. '

Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire torelieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But theprospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had moneysufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matternow, it might well be that he would never again find himself socircumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he oughtto take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would thenmake the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the man totell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; butNidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would be sure totell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him. There would be nodifficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate 'a fellow, '--if 'the fellow' paid him. 

On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie, --but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdalewas there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of AuldReekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was afierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff greyhair, --almost white. He was standing up supporting himself on two stickswhen Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present MadameMelmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hailone huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then therehad been for a moment a whispering behind a door, --in which heafterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a part;--and upon thata second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered himup to the drawing-room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shookhands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no noticeof him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He had not had time to placehimself, when the Marquis arranged things. 'Suppose we go downstairs, 'said the Marquis. 

'Certainly, my lord, ' said Melmotte. 'I'll show your lordship theway. ' The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with hisstick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated, Nidderdalefollowed the financier, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them. 

Madame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. 'You should nothave been made to come up at all, ' she said. 'Il faut que vous vousretiriez. '

'I am very sorry, ' said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast. 'I think thatI had at any rate better retire, ' said Miss Longestaffe, raisingherself to her full height and stalking out of the room. 

'Qu'elle est méchante, ' said Madame Melmotte. 'Oh, she is so bad. SirFelix, you had better go too. Yes indeed. '

'No, ' said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. 'Whyshould he go? I want papa to know. '

'Il vous tuera, ' said Madame Melmotte. 'My God, yes. '

'Then he shall, ' said Marie, clinging to her lover. 'I will nevermarry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't doit. Felix, you love me; do you not?'

'Certainly, ' said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist. 

'Mamma, ' said Marie, 'I will never have any other man but him;--never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me. '

'You know that, don't you, ma'am?' Sir Felix was a little troubled inhis mind as to what he should say, or what he should do. 

'Oh, love! It is a beastliness, ' said Madame Melmotte. 'Sir Felix, youhad better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?'

'Don't go, ' said Marie. 'No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to beafraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say thatI will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, willyou come?'

Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savageferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavysternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist theinvitation. 'I don't think I have a right to do that, ' he said, 'because it is Mr Melmotte's own house. '

'I wouldn't mind, ' said Marie. 'I told papa to-day that I wouldn'tmarry Lord Nidderdale. '

'Was he angry with you?'

'He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybodymust do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not doit. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybodythat I love you. '

Madame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's waist listeningto her protestations, but saying little in answer to them, --when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. 'C'est lui, 'screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from her seat and hurrying outof the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips. 'Now be brave, ' she said, escaping from his arm, 'and I'll be brave. 'Mr Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. 'Where are theothers?' he asked. 

'Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma. '

'Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter isengaged to marry Lord Nidderdale. '

'Sir Felix, I am not engaged--to--marry Lord Nidderdale, ' said Marie. 'It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won'tdo it. '

'She will marry Lord Nidderdale, ' continued Mr Melmotte, addressinghimself to Sir Felix. 'As that is arranged, you will perhaps think itbetter to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with youas soon as the fact is recognized;--or happy to see you in the city atany time. '

'Papa, he is my lover, ' said Marie. 

'Pooh!'

'It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate LordNidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to lookat him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life. '

Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and sheclung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix didnot know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself outin the square. 'Jade, ' said Melmotte, 'get to your room. '

'Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa. '

'I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me!Have you no idea of disgrace?'

'I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than thatother man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going. ' He took her bythe arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out. 

'I am very sorry, Mr Melmotte, ' said Sir Felix, 'to have had a hand incausing this disturbance. '

'Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't bothmarry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man togive my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you, --if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operatewith you in anything you may wish to have done in the city. '

After this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the dooropened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he wentthrough the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand whichhe read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was datedthat morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which hadjust taken place. It ran as follows:

 I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything. '

 M. 

Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had becomeengaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she didnot care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reasonwhy he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl'sname, if he could lay his bands on it. He did not know much of suchtransactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and couldunderstand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure aportion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on hisdaughter. Whether, having so settled it, he could again resume itwithout the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who hadno doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when thething was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she mightpossibly derive from it. Her proposition, put into plain English, amounted to this: 'Take me and marry me without my father's consent, --and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which, forhis own purposes, he has settled upon me. ' He had looked upon the ladyof his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character ofher own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact thatshe was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before hiseyes as something bigger than that. She had had a will of her own whenthe mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father whenhe, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There couldbe no doubt about her running away if she were asked. 

It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great dealof experience, and that things which heretofore had been troublesometo him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now coming easilywithin his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in whichhe had before indulged. He had been set to marry this heiress, havingat first no great liking for the attempt, because of its difficultiesand the small amount of hope which it offered him. The girl wasalready willing and anxious to jump into his arms. Then he haddetected a man cheating at cards, --an extent of iniquity that was awfulto him before he had seen it, --and was already beginning to think thatthere was not very much in that. If there was not much in it, if sucha man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to nopunishment, why should not he try it? It was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked hisadversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he hadobserved that there was no honour at the bottom. No feeling of honestyhad interfered with him. The little trick had hardly beenpremeditated, but when successful without detection had not troubledhis conscience. Now it seemed to him that much more than that might bedone without detection. But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways ofthe world so widely as the sweet lover-like proposition made by MissMelmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl tohim. She had been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of avery secluded life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples ofhonesty, those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent greatenterprises in the minds of men. 

What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote soeasily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while ofsuch a man as Mr Melmotte to make a trifling provision of this nature. It could hardly be less than £50, 000, --might probably be very much more. But this was certain to him, --that if he and Marie were to claim thismoney as man and wife, there could then be no hope of furtherliberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr Melmotte wouldforgive even an only child such an offence as that. Even if it wereobtained, £50, 000 would not be very much. And Melmotte might probablyhave means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making thepossession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep watersinto which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feelhimself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deepwaters. 

CHAPTER XXX - MR MELMOTTE'S PROMISE

On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr Alf's paper, the'Evening Pulpit, ' a very remarkable article on the South CentralPacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a greatdeal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothingmore remarkable than in this, --that it left on the mind of its reader noimpression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor wouldat any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pridewhether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, orwhether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde ofswindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed, --that in the 'Evening Pulpit' was amatter of course, --and, above all things, ironical. Next to itsomniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to the'Evening Pulpit. ' There was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served Mr Melmotte. There was a little praise, given of course in irony, to Mr Melmotte's Board of English Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilizing Mexico by joining it to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, butaccompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believethoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there wassomething said of the universality of Mr Melmotte's commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure anddisgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercialsplendour, no one could tell. 

It was generally said at the clubs that Mr Alf had written thisarticle himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men possessingan excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides Pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last fortyyears, professed that he saw through the article. The 'Evening Pulpit'had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could indenouncing Mr Melmotte without incurring the danger of an action forlibel. Mr Splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. Thesenew publications generally were mean. Mr Splinter was constant in thatopinion; but, putting the meanness aside, he thought that the articlewas well done. According to his view it was intended to expose MrMelmotte and the railway. But the Paides Pallados generally did notagree with him. Under such an interpretation, what had been themeaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that thework of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearestapproach to divinity that had been granted to men? Old Splinterchuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was notwit enough left now even among the Paides Pallados to understand ashaft of irony. There could be no doubt, however, at the time, thatthe world did not go with old Splinter, and that the article served toenhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise. 

Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up therailway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain asomewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in theright direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his ownadvantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth mightbecome his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life. Hewas the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was aDirector of this great company, sitting at the same board with thegreat commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. Andhe was a baronet. Very wild Ideas occurred to her. Should she take MrAlf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be broughttogether what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte, andMelmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come andbe smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she couldflatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage aboutthe divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she couldconstrue it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands?And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with Marie, couldnot forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind ranged stillfarther. Mr Broune might help, and even Mr Booker. To such a one asMelmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the confidenceplaced in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken support of thePress would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway as towhich Mr Broune and Mr Alf would combine in saying that it was managedby 'divinity'? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but from day to day sheworked hard to make them clear to herself. 

On the Sunday afternoon Mr Booker called on her and talked to herabout the article. She did not say much to Mr Booker as to her ownconnection with Mr Melmotte, telling herself that prudence wasessential in the present emergency. But she listened with all herears. It was Mr Booker's idea that the man was going 'to make a spoonor spoil a horn. ' 'You think him honest;--don't you?' asked LadyCarbury. Mr Booker smiled and hesitated. 'Of course, I mean honest asmen can be in such very large transactions. '

'Perhaps that is the best way of putting it, ' said Mr Booker. 

'If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactorto his race by creating that belief?'

'At the expense of veracity?' suggested Mr Booker. 

'At the expense of anything?' rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. 'Onecannot measure such men by the ordinary rule. '

'You would do evil to produce good?' asked Mr Booker. 

'I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand livingcreatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not thinkof that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea withoutendangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he maycreate a new world in which millions will be rich and happy. '

'You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury. '

'I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity, ' said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfiedwith herself as she picked them. 'Did I hold your place, Mr Booker, inthe literature of my country--'

'I hold no place, Lady Carbury. '

'Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are Ishould have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of myperiodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great aman and so great an object as this. '

'I should be dismissed to-morrow, ' said Mr Booker, getting up andlaughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as regardedMr Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do anyharm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr Booker'sinstrumentality. On the Tuesday evening, --her regular Tuesday as shecalled it, --all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but therecame also a greater man than either of them. She had taken the bull bythe horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to MrMelmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with hispresence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him oftheir meeting at Caversham, telling him that on a former occasionMadame 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 earthhe was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purestsatisfaction. He wrote back, --or Miles Grendall did for him, --a very plainnote, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation. 

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate wingwith a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dearfriends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagementsdid not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacityrushed off to the article in the 'Pulpit. ' Her friend, Mr Alf, theeditor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr Melmotte'scharacter, and the magnificence of Mr Melmotte's undertakings. MrMelmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. 'Now I mustintroduce you to Mr Alf, ' said the lady. The introduction waseffected, and Mr Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he hadalready been entertained as one of Mr Melmotte's guests. 

'There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shallsee, ' said Mr Melmotte. 

'I was one of the unfortunates, ' said Mr Alf. 

'I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist roomyou would have found me. '

'Ah, --if I had but known!' said Mr Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used soeffectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte. 

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expectedfrom this last introduction, tried another. 'Mr Melmotte, ' she said, whispering to him, 'I do so want to make you known to Mr Broune. MrBroune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a muchheavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. MrBroune, as of course you know, manages the "Breakfast Table. " There ishardly a more influential man in London than Mr Broune. And theydeclare, you know, ' she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as shecommunicated the fact, 'that his commercial articles are gospel, --absolutely gospel. ' Then the two men were named to each other, andLady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing. 

'Getting very hot, ' said Mr Melmotte. 

'Very hot indeed, ' said Mr Broune. 

'It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June. '

'Very hot indeed, ' said Mr Broune again. Then the conversation wasover. Mr Broune sidled away, and Mr Melmotte was left standing in themiddle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Romewas not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainlyif she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted. 

But Mr Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left thehouse he said it. 'It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--very good. ' Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness wasall on the other side. 'And I came, ' continued Mr Melmotte, 'because Ihad something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much toevening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter. ' Lady Carburylooked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her handstogether; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. 

'My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man. '

'You would not enslave her affections, Mr Melmotte?'

'I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at ourBoard. '

'I did;--I did. '

'I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt himin any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws fromthis offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he doesuncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am. ' Then Mr Melmotte took his departure without another word. 

Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man thathe would be the 'making of Felix, ' if Felix would only obey him, --accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that ifFelix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give hisson-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be 'made' by Mr Melmotte's cityinfluences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend onqualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absoluteruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was anappreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated theposition of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed MarieMelmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them butwhat she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young peoplethere would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. Asshe thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. Herbeautiful boy, --so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as shethought him, for all the graces of the grand world! Though theambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble anddisinterested. 

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house ofMelmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the fatherwould prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten todisinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was tobe expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that heshould make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? Hisdaughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lowerdegree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carburyfelt that the great financier had been very rude. He had takenadvantage of her invitation that he might come to her house andthreaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that overaltogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over. 

She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she mightconsult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her mostnatural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she couldnot have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes. Hisadvice would have been very clear. He would have told her to havenothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger wasold-fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived ina world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on MrBroune. She was afraid of Mr Alf. She had almost begun to think thatMr Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But MrBroune was softer. Mr Booker was serviceable for an article, but wouldnot be sympathetic as a friend. 

Mr Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on oneoccasion she had almost feared that the 'susceptible old goose' wasgoing to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she mightmake use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibilitywould produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a wordaside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutesafter the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the otherswere gone she asked her daughter to leave them. 'Hetta, ' she said, 'Ihave something of business to communicate to Mr Broune. ' And so theywere left alone. 

'I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr Melmotte, ' she said smiling. Hehad seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair whichshe occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. 'I saw howit was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man. '

'I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is noreason why he should not say the same of me, --for if he said little, Isaid less. '

'It didn't just come off, ' Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetestsmile. 'But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justifiedin regarding you as a real friend. '

'Certainly, ' he said, putting out his hand for hers. 

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again, --findingthat he did not relinquish it of his own accord. 'Stupid old goose!'she said to herself. 'And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?'The editor nodded his head. 'He is engaged to marry that man'sdaughter. '

'Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?' Then Lady Carbury nodded her head. 'Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has everproduced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale. '

'She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him, --as is he with her. ' She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that noadvice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--butlying had become her nature. 'Melmotte naturally wants her to marrythe lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felixshe would not have a penny. '

'Do you mean that he volunteered that as a threat?'

'Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the objectof saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as weget it. '

'He would be sure to make some such threat. '

'Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people areoften kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tellyou something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he wouldenable him to make a fortune in the city. '

'That's bosh, ' said Broune with decision. 

'Do you think it must be so;--certainly?'

'Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would giveme a worse opinion of him than I have ever held. '

'He did make it. '

'Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose ofdeceiving. '

'You know my son is one of the Directors of that great AmericanRailway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a youngman who was altogether unconnected with him. '

'Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has atitle, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not belikely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell afew shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, hehas no capital to go into such a business. '

'No;--he has no capital. '

'Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such apromise as that. '

'You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?'

Mr Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was tothis question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply. Shewanted some one to support her under the circumstances of anelopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time. 

'Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but preparedto take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Doyou think he would be wrong?'

'That is a question very hard to answer. '

'People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other daywith Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them. '

'Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was thegentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old LadyCatchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself asoffering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lorddidn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion. '

'There would be nothing disgraceful. '

'I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things aman hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think thatMelmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards, --Ithink he would. '

'I am so glad to hear you say that. '

'And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placedon that promise of assistance. '

'I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you, ' said LadyCarbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with thegirl. 'You have been so very kind. ' Then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night. 

'And now, ' he said, 'I also have something to say to you. '

CHAPTER XXXI - MR BROUNE HAS MADE UP HIS MIND

'And now I have something to say to you. ' Mr Broune as he thus spoketo Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There wasan air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that sheunderstood. 'The susceptible old goose is going to do something highlyridiculous and very disagreeable. ' It was thus that she spoke toherself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she didnot foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the'old goose' would declare itself. 'Lady Carbury, ' said Mr Broune, standing up a second time, 'we are neither of us so young as we usedto be. '

'No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves theluxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to knoweach other intimately. '

This speech was a great impediment to Mr Broune's progress. It wasevidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time oflife at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as afact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walkhis four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park withas free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work throughfour or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothingbut sound health could produce. Mr Broune, thinking of himself and hisown circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love. 'I hope we know each other intimately at any rate, ' he said somewhatlamely. 

'Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you. '

'I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothingto do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of usso young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude, --afoolish truism. '

'I do not think so, ' said Lady Carbury smiling. 

'Or would have been, only that I intended something further. ' MrBroune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to getout of it. 'I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too oldto--love. '

Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass ofhimself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesomeand less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve toexplain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it bestated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor ofthe 'Morning Breakfast Table' intended to make her an offer ofmarriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fondof prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. Thefalseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did notshock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to be inlove with some lady in the next street, she would have been quiteready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that shemight thus strengthen her own influence with Mr Broune. For herselfsuch make-believe of an improper passion would be inconvenient, andtherefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed as Mr Broune was inthe world, --blessed with power, with a large income, with influencethroughout all the world around him, courted, fêted, feared and almostworshipped, --that he should desire to share her fortunes, hermisfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was notwithin the scope of her imagination. There was a homage in it, ofwhich she did not believe any man to be capable, --and which to her wouldbe the more wonderful as being paid to herself. She thought so badlyof men and women generally, and of Mr Broune and herself as a man anda woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibilityof such a sacrifice. 'Mr Broune, ' she said, 'I did not think that youwould take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoyme in this way. '

'To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. Aftermuch thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I shouldbe--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter ofcourse. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. Butyou can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily. '

The word 'wife' came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changedall her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. Shefelt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the cards withher to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsomespendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone. This man was a friend to be used, --to be used because he knew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew as little of theworld as any other man. Mr Broune of the 'Daily Breakfast Table'asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other feelings there wasa tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, andalmost made her weep. That a man, --such a man, --should offer to take halfher burdens, and to confer upon her half his blessings! What an idiot!But what a god! She had looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyedperhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; andnow she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but aheart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitelysmall!

It was necessary that she should answer him;--and to her it was onlynatural that she should think what answer would best assist her ownviews without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she couldlove him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of herdifficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, andsuch a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to thewife of the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table!' And then itpassed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man waspaid £3, 000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part ofit that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wifeof Mr Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during thatminute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration wasmade to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to heralso. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love offreedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once shehad fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censureto which she had been subjected. Then her husband's protection and histyranny had been restored to her. 

After that the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopesnever as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had beenalways present to her; but still the hopes were alive and theremembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minutewas over and she was bound to speak. 'Mr Broune, ' she said, 'you havequite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind. '

And now Mr Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. 'LadyCarbury, ' he said, 'I have lived a long time without marrying, and Ihave sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on thesame way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I wasyoung I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mindhas been so fully employed, that I have hardly realized the want whichnevertheless I have felt. 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. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, youalso are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty ofyour youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a youngheart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much before I resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another person. But I think Iunderstand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I amprepared to entrust mine to your keeping. ' Poor Mr Broune! Thoughendowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a dailynewspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman'scharacter when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's youngmind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, beforeconvincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping. 

'You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment, ' ejaculatedLady Carbury. 

'Well?'

'How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. AsGod is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look uponyour position as almost the highest in England, --on your prosperity asthe uttermost that can be achieved. '

'That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share withyou. '

'You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I toknow my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, MrBroune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been woundedin every joint, hurt in every nerve, --tortured till I could hardlyendure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I havelooked for happiness. '

'Has it made you happy?'

'It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered!I have a son and a daughter, Mr Broune. '

'Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion toyou when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter thetroubles which may attend your son's future career. '

'Mr Broune, I love him better, --always shall love him better, --thananything in the world. ' This was calculated to damp the lover'sardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. 'Mr Broune, ' she said, 'I am now so agitated that you had better leaveme. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonderthat you should remain. It is near two o'clock. '

'When may I hope for an answer?'

'You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. Iwill write to you, --to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. Ifeel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am sosurprised that I have none ready. ' He took her hand in his, andkissing it, left her without another word. 

As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key fromthe other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from hisclub, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into MrBroune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. 'Halloo, oldfellow, ' he said, 'you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?'He was nearly drunk, and Mr Broune, perceiving his condition, passedhim without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in thedrawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had justpassed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her sontumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out tohim. 'Felix, ' she said, 'why do you make so much noise as you comein?'

'Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Yourpeople's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door thatwon't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh, I'm all right. ' And so he tumbled up to bed, andhis mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placedsquarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains. 

Mr Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all thosepangs of doubt which a man feels when he has just done that which fordays and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leaveundone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his ladylove's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse canbe much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? Theevil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to beborne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflicthimself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted tothe cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How wouldthis new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; mustlive under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And whatwas he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he likedher beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because shehad flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been longenough about town to have known better, --and as he now walked along thestreets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every nowand again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of herbeauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, thoughit might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to make thebest of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of theappearance of that drunken young baronet. 

Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thingwas done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. Allhis experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns whichconsider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always solvetheir doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept him;--andof course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his work heendeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottomof it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened hisprospects. 

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. Duringthese hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more obliviousof herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be for thegood of this man that he should marry her, --and she did in the midst ofher many troubles try to think of the man's condition. Although in themoments of her triumph, --and such moments were many, --she would buoyherself up with assurances that her Felix would become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whosesociety would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts sheknew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foreseethe nature of the catastrophe which might come. He would go utterly tothe dogs and would take her with him. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself wellenough to be sure that whether married or single she would go withhim. Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her todesert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. Hewas the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all othermatters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get thebetter of her feelings and fight the world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions andpreferences were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her sonmastered her, --and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that sheshould marry another man?

And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utterruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Shouldthe worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure aBohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after akind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. Arepetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happybecause he was near her, --no romance of that kind ever presented itselfto her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together, --and MrBroune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to thedogs, then would Mr Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the starsinstead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of themetropolis, then would not he and she want Mr Broune. It was thus thatshe regarded the matter. 

She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would onlycondescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin RogerCarbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta mustlive wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's lifewas so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herselfbound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions. 

But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind tomarry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as shedeclared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of acomfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that theeditor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table' would be powerful for allthings, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convinceherself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was stillvacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and withassumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhapsabout to be her husband. 'Do you like Mr Broune, Hetta?'

'Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes youask, mamma?'

'Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so trulykind to me as he is. '

'He always seems to me to like to have his own way. '

'Why shouldn't he like it?'

'He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common withpeople in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surfacepoliteness. '

'I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of London people? Whyshould not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr Brouneis as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, youalways make little of him. The only person you seem to think well ofis Mr Montague. '

'Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr Montague's nameif I can help it, --and I should not have spoken of Mr Broune, had younot asked me. '

CHAPTER XXXII - LADY MONOGRAM

Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for afortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had notmuch improved. Her brother had troubled her no further, and her familyat Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any notice ofDolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold, dull letterfrom her mother, --such letters as she had been accustomed to receivewhen away from home; and these she had answered, always endeavouringto fill her sheet with some customary description of fashionabledoings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have repeated forher mother's amusement, --and her own delectation in the telling of it, --had there been nothing painful in the nature of her sojourn in London. Of the Melmottes she hardly spoke. She did not say that she was takento the houses in which it was her ambition to be seen. She would havelied directly in saying so. But she did not announce her owndisappointment. She had chosen to come up to the Melmottes inpreference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare herown failure. 'I hope they are kind to you, ' Lady Pomona always said. But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the Melmottes were kindor unkind. 

In truth, her 'season' was a very unpleasant season. Her mode of livingwas altogether different to anything she had already known. The housein Bruton Street had never been very bright, but the appendages oflife there had been of a sort which was not known in the gorgeousmansion in Grosvenor Square. It had been full of books and little toysand those thousand trifling household gods which are accumulated inyears, and which in their accumulation suit themselves to the taste oftheir owners. In Grosvenor Square there were no Lares;--no toys, nobooks, nothing but gold and grandeur, pomatum, powder and pride. TheLongestaffe life had not been an easy, natural, or intellectual life;but the Melmotte life was hardly endurable even by a Longestaffe. Shehad, however, come prepared to suffer much, and was endowed withconsiderable power of endurance in pursuit of her own objects. Havingwilled to come, even to the Melmottes, in preference to remaining atCaversham, she fortified herself to suffer much. Could she have riddenin the park at mid-day in desirable company, and found herself inproper houses at midnight, she would have borne the rest, bad as itmight have been. But it was not so. She had her horse, but could withdifficulty get any proper companion. She had been in the habit ofriding with one of the Primero girls, --and old Primero would accompanythem, or perhaps a brother Primero, or occasionally her own father. And then, when once out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of youngmen, --and though there was but little in it, a walking round and roundthe same bit of ground with the same companions and with the smallestattempt at conversation, still it had been the proper thing and hadsatisfied her. Now it was with difficulty that she could get anycavalier such as the laws of society demand. Even Penelope Primerosnubbed her, --whom she, Georgiana Longestaffe, had hitherto endured andsnubbed. She was just allowed to join them when old Primero rode, andwas obliged even to ask for that assistance. 

But the nights were still worse. She could only go where MadameMelmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive people athome than to go out. And the people she did receive were antipatheticto Miss Longestaffe. She did not even know who they were, whence theycame, or what was their nature. They seemed to be as little akin toher as would have been the shopkeepers in the small town nearCaversham. She would sit through long evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of the vulgarity of her associates. Occasionally she was taken out, and was then, probably, taken to verygrand houses. The two duchesses and the Marchioness of Auld Reekiereceived Madame Melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were opento her. And some of the most elaborate fêtes of the season. --whichindeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travellingpotentate, --were attained. On these occasions Miss Longestaffe was fullyaware of the struggle that was always made for invitations, oftenunsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. Even the bargains, conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty sister, were notaltogether hidden from her. The Emperor of China was to be in Londonand it was thought proper that some private person, some untitledindividual, should give the Emperor a dinner, so that the Emperormight see how an English merchant lives. Mr Melmotte was chosen oncondition that he would spend £10, 000 on the banquet;--and, as a part ofhis payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted with his family, to a grand entertainment given to the Emperor at Windsor Park. Ofthese good things Georgiana Longestaffe would receive her share. Butshe went to them as a Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe, --and whenamidst these gaieties, though she could see her old friends, she wasnot with them. She was ever behind Madame Melmotte, till she hated themake of that lady's garments and the shape of that lady's back. 

She had told both her father and mother very plainly that it behovedher to be in London at this time of the year that she might--look for ahusband. She had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and thatpurpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appearedto them to be unreasonable. She wanted to be settled in life. She hadmeant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;--but lordsare scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very highlygifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune. She had long made up her mind that she could do without a lord, butthat she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must be a man witha place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually toLondon. He must be a gentleman, --and, probably, in parliament. And aboveall things he must be in the right set. She would rather go on forever struggling than take some country Whitstable as her sister wasabout to do. But now the men of the right sort never came near her. The one object for which she had subjected herself to all thisignominy seemed to have vanished altogether in the distance. When bychance she danced or exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales andGrassloughs whom she used to know, they spoke to her with a want ofrespect which she felt and tasted but could hardly analyse. Even MilesGrendall, who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted topatronize her in a manner that bewildered her. All this nearly brokeher heart. 

And then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which madeher aware that, in the teeth of all Mr Melmotte's social successes, ageneral opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was rather gainingground than otherwise. 'Your host is a wonderful fellow, by George!'said Lord Nidderdale. 'No one seems to know which way he'll turn up atlast. ' 'There's nothing like being a robber, if you can only robenough, ' said Lord Grasslough, --not exactly naming Melmotte, but veryclearly alluding to him. There was a vacancy for a member ofparliament at Westminster, and Melmotte was about to come forward as acandidate. 'If he can manage that I think he'll pull through, ' sheheard one man say. 'If money'll do it, it will be done, ' said another. She could understand it all. 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 anda scoundrel. This was the man whose house had been selected by herfather in order that she might make her search for a husband frombeneath his wing!

In her agony she wrote to her old friend Julia Triplex, now the wifeof Sir Damask Monogram. She had been really intimate with JuliaTriplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had beenachieved. Julia had been without fortune, but very pretty. Sir Damaskwas a man of great wealth, whose father had been a contractor. But SirDamask himself was a sportsman, keeping many horses on which other menoften rode, a yacht in which other men sunned themselves, a deerforest, a moor, a large machinery for making pheasants. He shotpigeons at Hurlingham, drove four-in-hand in the park, had a box atevery race-course, and was the most good-natured fellow known. He hadreally conquered the world, had got over the difficulty of being thegrandson of a butcher, and was now as good as though the Monograms hadgone to the crusades. Julia Triplex was equal to her position, andmade the very most of it. She dispensed champagne and smiles, and madeeverybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with herhusband. Lady Monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and in thatposition had been, of course, invaluable to her old friend. We mustgive her her due and say that she had been fairly true to friendshipwhile Georgiana--behaved herself. She thought that Georgiana in goingto the Melmottes had not behaved herself, and therefore she haddetermined to drop Georgiana. 'Heartless, false, purse-proudcreature, ' Georgiana said to herself as she wrote the following letterin humiliating agony. 

 DEAR LADY MONOGRAM, I think you hardly understand my position. Of course you have cut me. Haven't you? And of course I must feel it very much. 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. 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. Of course it is because I am staying here. You know me well enough to be sure that it can't be my own choice. Papa arranged it all. If there is anything against these people, I suppose papa does not know it. Of course they are not nice. Of course they are not like anything that I have been used to. 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. I don't think an old friend like you, whom I have always liked more than anybody else, ought to cut me for it. It's not about the parties, but about yourself that I mind. I don't ask you to come here, but if you will see me I can have the carriage and will go to you. 

 Yours, as ever, GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE. 

It was a troublesome letter to get written. Lady Monogram was herjunior in age and had once been lower than herself in social position. In the early days of their friendship she had sometimes domineeredover Julia Triplex, and had been entreated by Julia, in reference toballs here and routes there. The great Monogram marriage had beenaccomplished very suddenly, and had taken place, --exalting Julia veryhigh, --just as Georgiana was beginning to allow her aspirations todescend. It was in that very season that she moved her castle in theair from the Upper to the Lower House. And now she was absolutelybegging for notice, and praying that she might not be cut! She senther letter by post and on the following day received a reply, whichwas left by a footman. 

 DEAR GEORGIANA, Of course I shall be delighted to see you. I don't know what you mean by cutting. I never cut anybody. We happen to have got into different sets, but that is not my fault. Sir Damask won't let me call on the Melmottes. I can't help that. You wouldn't have me go where he tells me not. I don't know anything about them myself, except that I did go to their ball. But everybody knows that's different. I shall be at home all to-morrow till three, --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. 

 Yours affectionately, J. MONOGRAM. 

Georgiana condescended to borrow the carriage and reached her friend'shouse a little after noon. The two ladies kissed each other when theymet--of course, and then Miss Longestaffe at once began. 'Julia, I didthink that you would at any rate have asked me to your second ball. '

'Of course you would have been asked if you had been up in BrutonStreet. You know that as well as I do. It would have been a matter ofcourse. '

'What difference does a house make?'

'But the people in a house make a great deal of difference, my dear. Idon't want to quarrel with you, my dear; but I can't know theMelmottes. '

'Who asks you?'

'You are with them. '

'Do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house withoutasking everybody that lives with that person? It's done every day. '

'Somebody must have brought you. '

'I would have come with the Primeros, Julia. '

'I couldn't do it. I asked Damask and he wouldn't have it. When thatgreat affair was going on in February, we didn't know much about thepeople. I was told that everybody was going and therefore I got SirDamask to let me go. He says now that he won't let me know them; andafter having been at their house I can't ask you out of it, withoutasking them too. '

'I don't see it at all, Julia. '

'I'm very sorry, my dear, but I can't go against my husband. '

'Everybody goes to their house, ' said Georgiana, pleading her causeto the best of her ability. 'The Duchess of Stevenage has dined inGrosvenor Square since I have been there. '

'We all know what that means, ' replied Lady Monogram. 

'And people are giving their eyes to be asked to the dinner partywhich he is to give to the Emperor in July;--and even to the receptionafterwards. '

'To hear you talk, Georgiana, one would think that you didn'tunderstand anything, ' said Lady Monogram. 'People are going to see theEmperor, not to see the Melmottes. I dare say we might have gone onlyI suppose we shan't now, --because of this row. '

'I don't know what you mean by a row, Julia. '

'Well;--it is a row, and I hate rows. Going there when the Emperor ofChina is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than going to theplay. Somebody chooses to get all London into his house, and allLondon chooses to go. But it isn't understood that that meansacquaintance. I should meet Madame Melmotte in the park afterwards andnot think of bowing to her. '

'I should call that rude. '

'Very well. Then we differ. But really it does seem to me that youought to understand these things as well as anybody. I don't find anyfault with you for going to the Melmottes, --though I was very sorry tohear it; but when you have done it, I don't think you should complainof people because they won't have the Melmottes crammed down theirthroats. '

'Nobody has wanted it, ' said Georgiana sobbing. At this moment thedoor was opened, and Sir Damask came in. 'I'm talking to your wifeabout the Melmottes, ' she continued, determined to take the bull bythe horns. 'I'm staying there, and--I think it--unkind that Julia--hasn'tbeen--to see me. That's all. '

'How'd you do, Miss Longestaffe? She doesn't know them. ' And SirDamask, folding his hands together, raising his eyebrows, and standingon the rug, looked as though he had solved the whole difficulty. 

'She knows me, Sir Damask. '

'Oh yes;--she knows you. That's a matter of course. We're delighted tosee you, Miss Longestaffe--I am, always. Wish we could have had you atAscot. But--. ' Then he looked as though he had again explainedeverything. 

'I've told her that you don't want me to go to the Melmottes, ' saidLady Monogram. 

'Well, no;--not just to go there. Stay and have lunch, MissLongestaffe. '

'No, thank you. '

'Now you're here, you'd better, ' said Lady Monogram. 

'No, thank you. I'm sorry that I have not been able to make youunderstand me. I could not allow our very long friendship to bedropped without a word. '

'Don't say--dropped, ' exclaimed the baronet. 

'I do say dropped, Sir Damask. I thought we should have understoodeach other;--your wife and I. But we haven't. Wherever she might havegone, I should have made it my business to see her; but she feelsdifferently. Good-bye. '

'Good-bye, my dear. If you will quarrel, it isn't my doing. ' Then SirDamask led Miss Longestaffe out, and put her into Madame Melmotte'scarriage. 'It's the most absurd thing I ever knew in my life, ' saidthe wife as soon as her husband had returned to her. 'She hasn't beenable to bear to remain down in the country for one season, when allthe world knows that her father can't afford to have a house for themin town. Then she condescends to come and stay with these abominationsand pretends to feel surprised that her old friends don't run afterher. She is old enough to have known better. '

'I suppose she likes parties, ' said Sir Damask. 

'Likes parties! She'd like to get somebody to take her. It's twelveyears now since Georgiana Longestaffe came out. I remember being toldof the time when I was first entered myself. Yes, my dear, you knowall about it, I dare say. And there she is still. I can feel for her, and do feel for her. But if she will let herself down in that way shecan't expect not to be dropped. You remember the woman;--don't you?'

'What woman?'

'Madame Melmotte?'

'Never saw her in my life. '

'Oh yes, you did. You took me there that night when Prince--danced withthe girl. Don't you remember the blowsy fat woman at the top of thestairs;--a regular horror?'

'Didn't look at her. I was only thinking what a lot of money it allcost. '

'I remember her, and if Georgiana Longestaffe thinks I'm going thereto make an acquaintance with Madame Melmotte she is very muchmistaken. And if she thinks that that is the way to get married, Ithink she is mistaken again. ' Nothing perhaps is so efficacious inpreventing men from marrying as the tone in which married women speakof the struggles made in that direction by their unmarried friends. 

CHAPTER XXXIII - JOHN CRUMB

Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles asecond time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep'sAcre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, madewithout any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and remainedhanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned fromHarlestone market. An early hour had been named; but hours may bemistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was herlover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well mistakethe afternoon for the morning. If he would come at all she couldeasily forgive such a mistake. But he did not come, and late in theafternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as hecalled her into the house. 

After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover, butshe was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogetheravoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible. One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and told her thather country lover was coming to see her. 'John Crumb be a coming overby-and-by, ' said the old man. 'See and have a bit o' supper ready forhim. '

'John Crumb coming here, grandfather? He's welcome to stay away then, for me. '

'That be dommed. ' The old man thrust his old hat on to his head andseated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was wellunderstood by Ruby. 'Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband?Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this. John Crumb isto marry you next month, and the banns is to be said. '

'The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop hissaying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parsonamong 'em all can marry me without I'm willing. '

'And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?'

'You've been a'drinking, grandfather. '

He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;--nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which shewas well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him with acool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. 'Look ye here, Ruby, ' he said, 'out o' this place you go. If you go as John Crumb'swife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay. '

'Who cares for all Bungay, --a set of beery chaps as knows nothing butswilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There neverwas a chap for beer like John Crumb. '

'Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life. ' And the oldfarmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down uponthe table. 

'It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. Youcan't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb, I knows him. '

'Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise?'

'If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word, --and Ishan't be the last. '

'You means you won't have him?'

'That's about it, grandfather. '

'Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that prettysharp, --for you won't have me. '

'There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather. '

'Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it alongwi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings. '

'What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. Youdon't know nothing ag'in me. '

'He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, welland good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner anddance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--heain't. '

'Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait. '

'If you can't make it up wi' him--'

'Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways. '

'Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erdpound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rentfor a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that, --letalone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you don't. If youdon't like to take it, --leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too. '

'Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's thestoopidest place in all England. '

'Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. JohnCrumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind. I'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep'sAcre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. Stoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep'sAcre, afore you've done. '

In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr Crumb, Miss Ruggles wentabout her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing thatthe young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, sofar as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to hergrandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave directionsto the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather'shouse. But as she did this, she determined that she would make JohnCrumb understand that she would never be his wife. Upon that she wasnow fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen, taking down the hamand cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed thefowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisonsbetween him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see, as though presentto her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hairstiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy darkwell-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she wasever longing to twine her fingers among them. And she remembered theheavy, flat, broad honest face of the mealman, with his mouth slow inmotion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, andhis great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was alwaysextracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexionof her London lover. Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, thoughbut for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a lifewith the other! 'It's no good going against love, ' she said to herself, 'and I won't try. He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me. ' Andthen, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl intothe pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off toLondon. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for oldwomen's tales. She would know how to take care of herself, and couldalways say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her outof Sheep's Acre. 

Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumbknocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did he comealone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker ofBungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at hismarriage. John Crumb's character was not without any fine attributes. He could earn money, --and having earned it could spend and keep it infair proportion. He was afraid of no work, and, --to give him his due, --was afraid of no man. He was honest, and ashamed of nothing that hedid. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. He waswilling to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainlybe a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a womanbelonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that hewas slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to allforms of expression. 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 fairprofit at the selling. He knew the value of a clear conscience, andwithout much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is intruth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib oftongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a foolwould lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had beena want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in whichCrumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become asource of gossip to all Bungay. His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked aboutthat. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of hisown status as her acknowledged lover, --and he did not hide his lightunder a bushel. Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect inprejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly onceaccepted. Now when he came to settle the day, --having heard more thanonce or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby, --he brought hisfriend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. 'If hereisn't Joe Mixet, ' said Ruby to herself. 'Was there ever such a stoopidas John Crumb? There's no end to his being stoopid. '

The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had beenpreparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests. 'What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's stewing o' something for us to eat abit. Don't e' smell it?'--John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffedand grinned. 

'John didn't like going home in the dark like, ' said the baker, withhis little joke. 'So I just come along to drive away the bogies. '

'The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby'll have enough forthe two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he?The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away. '

The lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he wasinstigated to ask a question. 'Where be she, Muster Ruggles?' Theywere seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man andhis granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the backkitchen. As John Crumb asked this question she could be hearddistinctly among the pots and the plates. She now came out, and wipingher hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men. She hadenveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was inhand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover. 'Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I'vebeen a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr Mixet. '

'You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try ever so. My mothersays as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What doyou say, John?'

'I loiks to see her loik o' that, ' said John rubbing his hands downthe back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyesdown to a level with those of his sweetheart. 

'It looks homely; don't it John?' said Mixet. 

'Bother!' said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the otherkitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, andthen grinned at the old man. 

'You've got it all afore you, ' said the farmer, --leaving the lover todraw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition. 

'And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;--that I don't, ' said John. 

'That's the chat, ' said Joe Mixet. 'There ain't nothing wanting in hishouse;--is there, John? It's all there, --cradle, caudle-cup, and the restof it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat whenshe gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed. ' Thishe declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the backkitchen. 

'That she do, ' said John, grinning again. 'There's a hun'erd and fiftypoond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her. '

After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared withthe boiled fowl, and without her apron. She was followed by the girlwith a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Thenthe old man got up slowly and opening some private little door ofwhich he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale andplaced it on the table. And from a cupboard of which he also kept thekey, he brought out a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chairagain and again before he ventured to occupy it. 'If you'll sityourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat, ' said Ruby atlast. Then he sank at once into has chair. Ruby cut up the fowlstanding, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing achair for herself at the table, --and apparently not expected to do so, for no one invited her. 'Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr Crumb?' shesaid, when the other two men had helped themselves. He turned roundand gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of anAmazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed hishead at the beer jug. Then she filled it to the brim, frothing it inthe manner in which he loved to have it frothed. He raised it to hismouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat. Then shefilled it again. He had been her lover, and she would be as kind tohim as she knew how, --short of love. 

There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, andanother mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said. JohnCrumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously pickingthe bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the seconddish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage. He didnot ask for more beer, but took it as often as Ruby replenished hisglass. 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 withthe other maiden. This she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes. The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while Ruby went through her domestic duties. So matters went on forhalf an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went roundinto the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolutionof going to bed. She began her operations in fear and trembling, notbeing sure that her grandfather would bring the man upstairs to her. As she thought of this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door. She knew well that there was no bolt there. It would be terrible toher to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass ofbeer. And, she declared to herself, that should he come he would besure to bring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him. So shepaused and listened. 

When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for hisgranddaughter, but called of course in vain. 'Where the mischief isthe jade gone?' he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen. The maid, as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into theyard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the backdoor. 'The devil's in them. They're off some gates, ' he saidaloud. 'She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way. 'Then he returned to the two young men. 'She's playing off her gamessomewheres, ' he said. 'Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr Crumb, and I'll see after her. '

'I'll just take a drop of y'ell, ' said John Crumb, apparently quiteunmoved by the absence of his sweetheart. 

It was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into thegarden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, ashe did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but stillanxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He wasnot bound to give the girl a home at all. She was not his own child. And he had offered her £500! 'Domm her, ' he said aloud as he made hisway back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of timehe returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leadingRuby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for she had halfundressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to makeherself fit to appear in public. She had acknowledged to herself thatshe had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth. For she wasstill determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife. 'You cananswer him as well as I, grandfather, ' she had said. Then the farmerhad cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. 'Oh, if it comesto that, ' said Ruby, 'I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobodyelse. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather. ' 'I'llknock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate, ' he had said. But she had consented to come down, and they entered the roomtogether. 

'We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss, ' said Mr Mixet. 

'It ain't that at all, Mr Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a fewfriends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends adeal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and thatlike, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves. '

'But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby. '

'I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr Mixet. If you and MrCrumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper--'

'Which we ain't, ' said John Crumb very loudly;--'nor yet for beer;--notby no means. '

'We've come for the smiles of beauty, ' said Joe Mixet. Ruby chucked upher head. 'Mr Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain'tno beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing toyou. '

'Except in the way of friendship, ' said Mixet. 

'I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be, ' said Mr Ruggles, whowas sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his headforward. 'I won't put up with it no more. '

'Who wants you to put up with it?' said Ruby. 'Who wants 'em to comehere with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know whatbusiness Mr Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere alongo' him. '

'John Crumb, have you anything to say?' asked the old man. 

Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his fullheight. 'I hove, ' said he, swinging his head to one side. 

'Then say it. '

'I will, ' said he. He was still standing bolt upright with his handsdown by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass whichwas half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that wouldstrengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which hestill held in his right hand. 

'Now speak your mind, like a man, ' said Mixet. 

'I intends it, ' said John. But he still stood dumb, looking down uponold Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyesintent upon the wall over the fire-place. 

'You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you, John?' suggested Mixet. 

'I hove. '

'And you mean to be as good as your word?'

'I do. '

'And she has promised to have you?'

'She hove. '

'More nor once or twice?' To this proposition Crumb found it onlynecessary to bob his head. 'You're ready?--and willing?'

'I am. '

'You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?'

'There ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was. '

'Everything is ready in your own house?'

'They is. '

'And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?'

'I sholl. '

'That's about it, I think, ' said Joe Mixet, turning to thegrandfather. 'I don't think there was ever anything much morestraightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all aboutJohn Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday nor yet the daybefore. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr Ruggles. ' MrRuggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head. 'Five hundredpounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will makethings that snug that things never was snugger. But John Crumb isn'tafter Miss Ruby along of her fortune. '

'Nohows, ' said the lover, shaking his head and still standing uprightwith his hands by his side. 

'Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it ofhim. John has a heart in his buzsom. '

'I has, ' said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach. 

'And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb toSheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let memake so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, andnow it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has tosay. '

'That's what I has to say, ' repeated John Crumb, 'and I means it. '

'And now, miss, ' continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, 'you'veheard what John has to say. '

'I've heard you, Mr Mixet, and I've heard quite enough. '

'You can't have anything to say against it, Miss; can you? There'syour grandfather as is willing, and the-money as one may say countedout, --and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that thereisn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day. '

'Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agen it, ' said John Crumb, slapping his thigh. 

'I won't say to-morrow, Mr Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, noryet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as muchbefore. '

'That was only in fun, loike. '

'Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a dealof telling. '

'You don't mean, --never?'

'I do mean never, Mr Crumb. '

'Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as thenose on my face?' John as he asked these questions could hardlyrefrain from tears. 

'Young women is allowed to change their minds, ' said Ruby. 

'Brute!' exclaimed old Ruggles. 'Pig! Jade! I'll tell you what, John. She'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull. I won'tkeep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut. '

'She ain't that;--she ain't that, ' said John. 'She ain't that at all. She's no slut. I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather. But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home andhang myself'

'Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way, 'said the baker. 

'If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you, MrMixet, ' said Ruby. 'If you hadn't come here at all things might havebeen different. '

'Hark at that now, ' said John, looking at his friend almost withindignation. 

Mr Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of theabsolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangementwere to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this. He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into theyard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by thepigsty wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon asMixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of hiseyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand asa feeler. 'He's aff now, Ruby, ' said John. 

'And you'd better be aff after him, ' said the cruel girl. 

'And when'll I come back again?'

'Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr Crumb?'

'Domm her; domm her, ' said old Ruggles. 'I'll even it to her. She'llhave to be out on the roads this night. '

'She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it, ' saidJohn, 'and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh hertill she sends for me. '

'I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr Crumb. ' Old Ruggles satgrinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off andputting it on again, and meditating vengeance. 

'And now if you please, Mr Crumb, I'll go upstairs to my own room. '

'You don't go up to any room here, you jade you. ' The old man as hesaid this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he wouldhave struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb. 

'Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr Ruggles. '

'Domm her, John; she breaks my heart. ' While her lover held hergrandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, againafraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather. 'Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr Crumb?'said the grandfather appealing to the young man. 

'It's the ways on 'em, Mr Ruggles. '

'Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. She's been and seen some young buck. '

Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks ofanger flashed from his eyes. 'You ain't a meaning of it, master?'

'I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot, --him as they call thebaronite. '

'Been along wi' Ruby?' The old man nodded at him. 'By the mortialsI'll baronite him;--I wull, ' said John, seizing his hat and stalking offthrough the back kitchen after his friend. 

CHAPTER XXXIV - RUBY RUGGLES OBEYS HER GRANDFATHER

The next day there was a great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm, whichcommunicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and evenaffected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor. Ruby Ruggles hadgone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmerbecame aware of the fact. She had started early, at about seven in themorning; but Ruggles himself had been out long before that, and hadnot condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house for hisbreakfast. There had been a bad scene up in the bedroom overnight, after John Crumb had left the farm. The old man in his anger had triedto expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would notgo; and he had been frightened, when the maid came up crying andscreaming murder. 'You'll be out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name'sDannel Ruggles, ' said the farmer panting for breath. But for the ginwhich he had taken he would hardly have struck her;--but he hadstruck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about;--and inthe morning she took him at his word and was away. About twelve heheard from the servant girl that she had gone. She had packed a boxand had started up the road carrying the box herself. 'Grandfathersays I'm to go, and I'm gone, ' she had said to the girl. At the firstcottage she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and toBeccles she had walked. For an hour or two Ruggles sat, quiet, withinthe house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased withherself, --that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth hewould trouble himself no more about her. But by degrees there cameupon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear, with perhapssome mixture of love, instigating him to make search for her. She hadbeen the same to him as a child, and what would people say of him ifhe allowed her to depart from him after this fashion? Then heremembered his violence the night before, and the fact that theservant girl had heard if she had not seen it. He could not drop hisresponsibility in regard to Ruby, even if he would. So, as a firststep, he sent in a message to John Crumb, at Bungay, to tell him thatRuby Ruggles had gone off with a box to Beccles. John Crumb wentopen-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knewthat Ruby Ruggles had run away. 

After sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking, andat last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. He held apart of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury would tell himwhat he ought to do. A great trouble had come upon him. He would fainhave been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his terrors allwere at work together, --and he found that he could not eat his dinner. So he had out his cart and horse and drove himself off to CarburyHall. 

It was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated onthe terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham, thepriest. The old man was shown at once round into the garden, and wasnot long in telling his story. There had been words between him andhis granddaughter about her lover. Her lover had been accepted and hadcome to the farm to claim his bride. Ruby had behaved very badly. Theold man made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as littleas possible of his own violence. But he did explain that there hadbeen threats used when Ruby refused to take the man, and that Rubyhad, this day, taken herself off. 

'I always thought it was settled that they were to be man and wife, 'said Roger. 

'It was settled, squoire;--and he war to have five hun'erd pounddown;--money as I'd saved myself. Drat the jade. '

'Didn't she like him, Daniel?'

'She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else. ' Then oldDaniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of asecret. The squire got up and walked round the garden with him, --andthen the secret was told. The farmer was of opinion that there wassomething between the girl and Sir Felix. Sir Felix some weeks sincehad been seen near the farm and on the same occasion Ruby had beenobserved at some little distance from the house with her best clotheson. 

'He's been so little here, Daniel, ' said the squire. 

'It goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does, ' said the farmer. '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. '

'I suppose she's gone to London. '

'Don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;--only she have gonesome'eres. May be it's Lowestoft. There's lots of quality atLowestoft a'washing theyselves in the sea. '

Then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to becognizant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice onsuch an occasion as this. 'If she was one of our people, ' said FatherBarham, 'we should have her back quick enough. '

'Would ye now?' said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and allhis family had been brought up as Roman Catholics. 

'I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than wehave, ' said Carbury. 

'She'd catch herself. 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 toher friends. '

'With a flea in her lug, ' suggested the farmer. 

'Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the lastthing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as afriend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look forsympathy. '

'She ain't that poor, neither, ' said the grandfather. 

'She had money with her?'

'I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor. And I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. Itnever was her way. '

'It never is the way with a Protestant, ' said the priest. 

'We'll say no more about that for the present, ' said Roger, who waswaxing wroth with the priest. That a man should be fond of his ownreligion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think thatFather Barham was too fond of his religion. 'What had we better do? Isuppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. There are notso many people leaving Beccles but that she may be remembered. ' So thewaggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the stationtogether. 

But before they started John Crumb rode up to the door. He had gone atonce to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had followed thefarmer from thence to Carbury. Now he found the squire and the priestand the old man standing around as the horses were being put to thecarriage. 'Ye ain't a' found her, Mr Ruggles, ha' ye?' he asked as hewiped the sweat from his brow. 

'Noa;--we ain't a' found no one yet. '

'If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr Carbury, I'd never forgivemyself, --never, ' said Crumb. 

'As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend, ' saidthe squire. 

'In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there lastnight a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' beenleft alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over toSheep's Acre. But, --oh!'

'What is it, Mr Crumb?'

'He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk, I'venever known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronitehas been and done this! Oh, Mr Carbury! If I was to wring his neckround, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now?' Rogercould hardly answer the question. On general grounds the wringing ofSir Felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a performance havebeen what it might, would have seemed to him to be a good deed. Theworld would be better, according to his thinking, with Sir Felix outof it than in it. But still the young man was his cousin and aCarbury, and to such a one as John Crumb he was bound to defend anymember of his family as far as he might be defensible. 'They says ashow he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hidinghimself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all. They've gals enoughof their own, --them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? I'll dohim a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;--if he's had a hand in this. ' PoorJohn Crumb! When he had his mistress to win he could find no words forhimself; but was obliged to take an eloquent baker with him to talkfor him. Now in his anger he could talk freely enough. 

'But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do withthis, Mr Crumb. '

'In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as hedid it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned--!' And John Crumbclenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for himupon this occasion. 

They all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the BecclesPost-office, --so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as Bungay. Atthe railway station Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken asecond-class ticket by the morning train for London, and had gone offwithout any appearance of secrecy. She had been decently dressed, witha hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have beenexpected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going. Somuch was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could belearned there. Then a message was sent by telegraph to the station inLondon, and they all waited, loitering about the Post-office, for areply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl aswas described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her boxfor her to a cab had gone away for the day. It was believed that shehad left the station in a four-wheel cab. 'I'll be arter her. I'll bearter her at once, ' said John Crumb. But there was no train tillnight, and Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do anygood. It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first steptowards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the bodyof Sir Felix Carbury. Now it was not at all apparent to the squirethat his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. It had beenmade quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with hisgranddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, notbecause she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of herrefusing to marry John Crumb. John Crumb had gone over to the farmexpecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been nofear about Felix Carbury. Nor was it possible that there should havebeen communication between Ruby and Felix since the quarrel at thefarm. Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and thebaronet had been acquainted, --and such acquaintance could not but beprejudicial to the girl, --not on that account would the baronet beresponsible for her abduction. John Crumb was thirsting for blood andwas not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter outcoolly, and Roger, little as he toyed his cousin, was not desirousthat all Suffolk should know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashedwithin an inch of his life by John Crumb of Bungay. 'I'll tell youwhat I'll do, ' said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man'sshoulder. 'I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can traceher better than Mr Crumb can do, and you will both trust me. '

'There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon, ' said the oldman. 

'But you'll let us know the very truth, ' said John Crumb. RogerCarbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know thetruth. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and loverreturned together to Bungay. 

CHAPTER XXXV - MELMOTTE'S GLORY

Augustus Melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every direction, --mightier and mightier every day. He was learning to despise merelords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. In truthhe did recognize it as a fact that he must either domineer over dukes, or else go to the wall. It can hardly be said of him that he hadintended to play so high a game, but the game that he had intended toplay had become thus high of its own accord. A man cannot alwaysrestrain his own doings and keep them within the limits which he hadhimself planned for them. They will very often fall short of themagnitude to which his ambition has aspired. They will sometimes soarhigher than his own imagination. So it had now been with Mr Melmotte. He had contemplated great things; but the things which he wasachieving were beyond his contemplation. 

The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival inEngland. Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. He hadnever read a book. He had never written a line worth reading. He hadnever said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had sprung outof some Californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father andmother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his ownaudacity. But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessaryimpetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into almostunprecedented commercial greatness. When Mr Melmotte took his officesin Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so greatas when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had become notonly an established fact, but a fact established in Abchurch Lane. Thegreat company indeed had an office of its own, where the Board washeld; but everything was really managed in Mr Melmotte's own commercialsanctum. Obeying, no doubt, some inscrutable law of commerce, thegrand enterprise, --'perhaps the grandest when you consider the amountof territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyesof a great commercial people, ' as Mr Fisker with his peculiareloquence observed through his nose, about this time, to a meetingof shareholders at San Francisco, --had swung itself across fromCalifornia to London, turning itself to the centre of the commercialworld as the needle turns to the pole, till Mr Fisker almost regrettedthe deed which himself had done. And Melmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of it all. The shares seemed to be allin Melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would;and it seemed also that when distributed and sold, and when boughtagain and sold again, they came back to Melmotte's pocket. Men werecontented to buy their shares and to pay their money, simply onMelmotte's word. Sir Felix had realized a large portion of hiswinnings at cards, --with commendable prudence for one so young andextravagant, --and had brought his savings to the great man. The greatman had swept the earnings of the Beargarden into his till, and hadtold Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir Felix had been not onlycontented, but supremely happy. He could now do as Paul Montague wasdoing, --and Lord Alfred Grendall. He could realize a perennial income, buying and selling. It was only after the reflection of a day or twothat he found that he had as yet got nothing to sell. It was not onlySir Felix that was admitted into these good things after this fashion. Sir Felix was but one among hundreds. In the meantime the bills inGrosvenor Square were no doubt paid with punctuality, --and thesebills must have been stupendous. The very servants were as tall, asgorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty, --andremunerated by much higher wages. There were four coachmen withegregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference ofcalf less than eighteen inches. 

And now there appeared a paragraph in the 'Morning Breakfast Table, 'and another appeared in the 'Evening Pulpit, ' telling the world thatMr Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex propertyof Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq. , of Caversham. And it was so. The fatherand son, who never had agreed before, and who now had come to noagreement in the presence of each other, had each considered thattheir affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as MrMelmotte, and had been brought to terms. The purchase-money, which waslarge, was to be divided between them. The thing was done with thegreatest ease, --there being no longer any delay as is the case whensmall people are at work. The magnificence of Mr Melmotte affectedeven the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy a little property, somehumble cottage with a garden, --or you, O reader, unless you bemagnificent, --the money to the last farthing would be wanted, orsecurity for the money more than sufficient, before we should be ableto enter in upon our new home. But money was the very breath ofMelmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for money. Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London builder hadcollected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at Chichester, andwas at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for MadameMelmotte. There were rumours that it was to be made ready for theGoodwood week, and that the Melmotte entertainment during thatfestival would rival the duke's. 

But there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood weekshould come round, in all of which Mr Melmotte was concerned, and ofmuch of which Mr Melmotte was the very centre. A member forWestminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated. It was considered to be indispensable to the country that Mr Melmotteshould go into Parliament, and what constituency could such a man asMelmotte so fitly represent as one combining as Westminster does allthe essences of the metropolis? There was the popular element, thefashionable element, the legislative element, the legal element, andthe commercial element. Melmotte undoubtedly was the man forWestminster. His thorough popularity was evinced by testimony whichperhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for anycounty or borough. In Westminster there must of course be a contest. Aseat for Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by eitherpolitical party without a struggle. But, at the beginning of theaffair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate whichthe country could supply, each party put its hand upon Melmotte. Andwhen the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested toMelmotte, then for the first time was that great man forced to descendfrom the altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decidewhether he would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal. Hewas not long in convincing himself that the conservative element inBritish Society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance whichit would be in his province to give; and on the next day everyhoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was theconservative candidate for Westminster. It is needless to say that hiscommittee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all thatabsence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous sincethe ballot was introduced among us. Some unfortunate Liberal was to bemade to run against him, for the sake of the party; but the odds wereten to one on Melmotte. 

This no doubt was a great matter, --this affair of the seat; but thedinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It wasthe middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on Monday, 8thJuly, now three weeks hence;--but all London was already talking of it. The great purport proposed was to show to the Emperor by this banquetwhat an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of course therewas a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the occasion. Some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London, others thathe was not a merchant, others again that he was not an Englishman. Butno man could deny that he was both able and willing to spend thenecessary money; and as this combination of ability and will was thechief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could onlystorm and scold. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work, throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generallytransmuting the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion that twohundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-roomof a British merchant. 

But who were to be the two hundred? It used to be the case that whena gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;--but when affairsbecome great, society can hardly be carried on after that simplefashion. The Emperor of China could not be made to sit at tablewithout English royalty, and English royalty must know whom it has tomeet, --must select at any rate some of its comrades. The minister of theday also had his candidates for the dinner, --in which arrangement therewas however no private patronage, as the list was confined to thecabinet and their wives. The Prime Minister took some credit tohimself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a privatefriend. But the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats. Melmotte had elected to stand for Westminster on the conservativeinterest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were aconservative cabinet present, with its conservative wives. He was toldthat he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment ofthe debt. But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. Thiswas to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential thatthe Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants at themerchant's board. No doubt the Emperor would see all the merchants atthe Guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair, paid for out ofthe funds of a corporation. This was to be a private dinner. Now theLord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done?Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant guests wereselected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen wives;--andsubsequently the Lord Mayor was made a baronet on the occasion ofreceiving the Emperor in the city. The Emperor with his suite wastwenty. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife. The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered atabout eleven only;--each one for self and wife. Five ambassadors andfive ambassadresses were to be asked. There were to be fifteen realmerchants out of the city. Ten great peers, --with their peeresses, --were selected by the general committee of management. There were to bethree wise men, two poets, three independent members of the House ofCommons, two Royal Academicians, three editors of papers, an Africantraveller who had just come home, and a novelist;--but all these lattergentlemen were expected to come as bachelors. Three tickets were to bekept over for presentation to bores endowed with a power of makingthemselves absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment, --and ten were left for the giver of the feast and his own family andfriends. It is often difficult to make things go smooth, --but almost allroughnesses may be smoothed at last with patience and care, and money, and patronage. 

But the dinner was not to be all. Eight hundred additional tickets wereto be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fightfor these was more internecine than for seats at the dinner. Thedinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a fashion thatthere was not much visible fighting about them. Royalty manages itsaffairs quietly. The existing Cabinet was existing, and though therewere two or three members of it who could not have got themselveselected at a single unpolitical club in London, they had a right totheir seats at Melmotte's table. What disappointed ambition there mightbe among conservative candidates was never known to the public. Thosegentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public. The ambassadors ofcourse were quiet, but we may be sure that the Minister from the UnitedStates was among the favoured five. The city bankers and bigwigs, ashas been already said, were at first unwilling to be present, andtherefore they who were not chosen could not afterwards express theirdispleasure. No grumbling was heard among the peers, and that whichcame from the peeresses floated down into the current of the greatfight about the evening entertainment. The poet laureate was of courseasked, and the second poet was as much a matter of course. Only twoAcademicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was noground for jealousy there. There were three, and only three, speciallyinsolent and specially disagreeable independent members of Parliamentat that time in the House, and there was no difficulty in selectingthem. The wise men were chosen by their age. Among editors ofnewspapers there was some ill-blood. That Mr Alf and Mr Broune shouldbe selected was almost a matter of course. They were hated accordingly, but still this was expected. But why was Mr Booker there? Was itbecause he had praised the Prime Minister's translation of Catullus?The African traveller chose himself by living through all his perilsand coming home. A novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted anotherticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to come inafter dinner. His proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and hejoined amicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festivalaltogether. 

We should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story werewe to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the feud asit raged before the evening came round, but it may be right toindicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning passion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not beindulged. The value of the privilege was so great that Madame Melmottethought that she was doing almost more than friendship called for whenshe informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that unfortunately therewould be no seat for her at the dinner-table; but that, as paymentfor her loss, she should receive an evening ticket for herself and ajoint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. Georgiana was at firstindignant, but she accepted the compromise. What she did with hertickets shall be hereafter told. 

From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr Melmotte ofthe present hour was a very different man from that Mr Melmotte whowas introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle. Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without hisbeing allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to catch asimple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfredwhen he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges. He was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to thegreat man. It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so thatvery often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the worldthe great man was perched at that moment. Miss Longestaffe who wasstaying in the house did not at all know how great a man her host was. Lady Monogram when she refused to go to Grosvenor Square, or even toallow any one to come out of the house in Grosvenor Square to herparties, was groping in outer darkness. Madame Melmotte did not know. Marie Melmotte did not know. The great man did not quite know himselfwhere, from time to time, he was standing. But the world at largeknew. The world knew that Mr Melmotte was to be Member forWestminster, that Mr Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China, that Mr Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railwayin his pocket;--and the world worshipped Mr Melmotte. 

In the meantime Mr Melmotte was much troubled about his privateaffairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as herose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for thismarriage, --not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to beultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand ayear was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twentythousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six monthsafter the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sumat once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were keptwaiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish forthem a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the youngpeople were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a weekor so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papersthat Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides thatNidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money was notperhaps 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, --as all mennow regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much lessstringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first toexact. 

But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented ather father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in somespeechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and herfather, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her fatherscowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of noconcern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, andhimself fixed some day in August for the wedding. 'It is no use, father, for I will never have him, ' said Marie. 

'Is it about that other scamp?' he asked angrily. 

'If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to youand told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue. '

'You'll both starve, my lady; that's all. ' Marie however was not sowedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as tobe afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to sufferif married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any longdiscussion. As he left her he took hold of her and shook her. 'By--, 'he said, 'if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make yousuffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of apetticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what youhaven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, notyou, you little fool!'

But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdalespoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off;--and nowthe young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl. He was not very skilful at making love, --but he was thoroughlygood-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to givepain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, andhardly any kindness which he would not do, --so that the labour uponhimself was not too great. 'Well, Miss Melmotte, ' he said, 'governorsare stern beings: are they not?'

'Is yours stern, my lord?'

'What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think youunderstand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; Iwas indeed. '

'I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale. '

'That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and Ican't marry without leave from the governors. '

'Nor with it, ' said Marie, holding her head. 

'I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere, --I don'tquite know where. ' The hitch had been with himself, as he demandedready money. 'But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?'

'No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can. '

'Do you mean that?'

'I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it. I have seen more of things since then. '

'And you've seen somebody you like better than me?'

'I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought toblame me, my lord. '

'Oh dear no. '

'There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn'tit now?'

'The governors were off, I think. '

'The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't thinkany governor has a right to make anybody marry any one. '

'I agree with you there;--I do indeed, ' said Lord Nidderdale. 

'And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal aboutit since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine. '

'But I don't know why you shouldn't--just marry me--because you--likeme. '

'Only, --just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale. '

'Thanks;--so much!'

'I like you ever so, --only marrying a person is different. '

'There's something in that, to be sure. '

'And I don't mind telling you, ' said Marie with an almost solemnexpression on her countenance, 'because you are good-natured and won'tget me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebodyelse;--oh, so much. '

'I supposed that was it. '

'That is it. '

'It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and weshould have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the thingsyou go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't thinkof it again?'

'I tell you, my lord, I'm--in love. '

'Oh, ah;--yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. Ishall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket. ' And soNidderdale took his dismissal, and went away, --not however without anidea that the marriage would still come off. There was always, --so hethought, --such a bother about things before they would get themselvesfixed. This happened some days after Mr Broune's proposal to LadyCarbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon asLord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that shemight hear from him, --and entrusted her letter to Didon. 

CHAPTER XXXVI - MR BROUNE'S PERILS

Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr Broune'sproposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by herpromise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on theWednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that dayher letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and shehad seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be muchguided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she was alwaysinfluenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only acceptit. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself tothe family burden. She never said this even to herself, --but she feltit, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on thisoccasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect. Shehad encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been verybad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake, --having even upto this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at theexpense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. Themaintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices;but it might so probably be again secured, --by means of her son'sbeauty! Hetta had said that Mr Broune liked his own way. Had not sheherself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her ownway. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she didnot want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would therebe between Felix and the man! And added to all this there wassomething within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told herthat it was not right that she should burden any one with theresponsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herselffrom her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separateherself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, shewrote as follows to Mr Broune:--

 DEAREST FRIEND, I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be described;--and yet with you I would have no reticence. 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, --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. The result of it would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth. 

 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. But I shall never marry again. 

 Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend, MATILDA CARBURY. 

About six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr Broune'srooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone, --full ofregrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which wouldcertainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment shewas in debt, --and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgagingher life income. She longed for some staff on which she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would sit with her paper beforeher, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and abit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered theunpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, andall her doubts about the marriage. As regarded herself, Mr Brounewould have made her secure, --but that now was all over. Poor woman! Thisat any rate may be said for her, --that had she accepted the man herregrets would have been as deep. 

Mr Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of thelady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet fromthe very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That gentlysarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described him toherself when he had kissed her best explained that side of Mr Broune'scharacter which showed itself in this matter. He was a susceptible oldgoose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissingmight probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that herlittle manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felthimself constrained to reciprocate the passion. She was beautiful inhis eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes like a lady; and, --if itwas written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at thetop of his table, --Lady Carbury would look as well there as any other. She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself boundto obtain for himself the right to kiss her. 

The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in, drunk, at the front door. As he made his escape the lad had insultedhim. This perhaps helped to open his eyes. When he woke the nextmorning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, hewas no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right withhim. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, thatfirst matutinal retrospection, and prospection, into things as theyhave been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness ofhope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent, --or perhaps a cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have leftuntasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comfortshimself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole allover, teres atque rotundus, --so to have managed his little affairs thathe has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! Mr Broune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the course ofhis work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit ofthus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon, --forsuch was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in themorning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not balance hissheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he feared thathe had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of tea with whichhis servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say ofhimself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things werewell with him. Everything was to be changed. As he lit a cigarette hebethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in herbedroom. Then he remembered other things. 'I'll be d----- if he shalllive in my house, ' he said to himself. 

And there was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that hisoffer could be refused. During the whole of that day he went aboutamong his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappishuncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with aboutfifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he did not speak a word toany man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in TrafalgarSquare at which he did his nightly work. Here he was lapped incomforts, --if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and ofreading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightlythirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himselfresponsible for their contents. 

He seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw LadyCarbury's letter on the table before him. It was his custom when hedid not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at hisoffice as had reached his home during his absence;--and here was LadyCarbury's letter. He knew her writing well, and was aware that herewas the confirmation of his fate. It had not been expected, as she hadgiven herself another day for her answer, --but here it was, beneath hishand. Surely this was almost unfeminine haste. He chucked the letter, unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention onsome printed slip that was ready for him. For some ten minutes hiseyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did notfollow what he was reading. He struggled again, but still his thoughtswere on the letter. He did not wish to open it, having some vague ideathat, till the letter should have been read, there was a chance ofescape. The letter would not become due to be read till the next day. It should not have been there now to tempt his thoughts on this night. But he could do nothing while it lay there. 'It shall be a part of thebargain that I shall never have to see him, ' he said to himself, as heopened it. The second line told him that the danger was over. 

When he had read so far he stood up with his back to the fireplace, leaving the letter on the table. Then, after all, the woman wasn't inlove with him! But that was a reading of the affair which he couldhardly bring himself to look upon as correct. The woman had shown herlove by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she nowhad her triumph. A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a man, --and more especially when she does so at a certain time of life. Wouldshe publish her triumph? Mr Broune would not like to have it knownabout among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he hadoffered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady Carbury had refused him. He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not inproportion to the bitterness of his late fears. 

He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! Ashe reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed awayfrom him. Full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still stoodupon the rug, before he read the entire letter. '"Cut and scotched andlopped!" I suppose she has been, ' he said to himself. He had heardmuch of Sir Patrick, and knew well that the old general had been nolamb. 'I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her. ' Whenhe had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him graduallya feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever yet felt, --and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his offer toher. '"Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth, "' herepeated to himself. 'I should have done the best for her, taking theshowers and the melancholy if they were necessary. '

He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly withoutthat dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room. Gradually, through the night, he realized the conviction that he hadescaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating hisoffer. Before he left he wrote her a line:

'Be it so. It need not break our friendship. 

'N. B. '

This he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to hislodgings long before he was up on the following morning. 

'No;--no; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my mouth. 

'M. C. '

Mr Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, andresolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that hisfriendship could do for her. 

CHAPTER XXXVII - THE BOARD-ROOM

On Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific andMexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was theBoard's custom every Friday. On this occasion all the members werethere, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make aspecial statement. There was the great chairman as a matter of course. In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw overthe railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands those careswhich the commercial world had intrusted to his own. Lord Alfred wasthere, with Mr Cohenlupe, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague, andLord Nidderdale, --and even Sir Felix Carbury. Sir Felix had come, beingvery anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunityof realizing his golden hopes, although he had actually paid athousand pounds in hard money into Mr Melmotte's hands. The secretary, Mr Miles Grendall, was also present as a matter of course. The Boardalways met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarterpast three. Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe sat at the chairman's rightand left hand. Paul Montague generally sat immediately below, withMiles Grendall opposite to him;--but on this occasion the young lord andthe young baronet took the next places. It was a nice little familyparty, the great chairman with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his twoparticular friends, --the social friend, Lord Alfred, and the commercialfriend Mr Cohenlupe, --and Miles, who was Lord Alfred's son. It wouldhave been complete in its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who hadlately made himself disagreeable to Mr Melmotte;--and most ungratefullyso, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the sharesas the younger member of the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. 

It was understood that Mr Melmotte was to make a statement. LordNidderdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done as itwere out of the great man's heart, of his own wish, so that somethingof the condition of the company might be made known to the directorsof the company. But this was not perhaps exactly the truth. PaulMontague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the lastmeeting but one, and, having made himself very disagreeable indeed, had forced this trouble on the great chairman. On the intermediateFriday the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to Paul, and thishad seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten the inimicaldirector out of his opposition, so that the promise of a statementneed not be fulfilled. What nuisance can be so great to a man busiedwith immense affairs, as to have to explain, --or to attempt toexplain, --small details to men incapable of understanding them? ButMontague had stood to his guns. He had not intended, he said, todispute the commercial success of the company. But he felt verystrongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel asstrongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than theydid know. Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least agreewith his brother director. 'If anybody don't understand, it's his ownfault, ' said Mr Cohenlupe. But Paul would not give way, and it wasunderstood that Mr Melmotte would make a statement. 

The 'Boards' were always commenced by the reading of a certain recordof the last meeting out of a book. This was always done by MilesGrendall; and the record was supposed to have been written by him. ButMontague had discovered that this statement in the book was alwaysprepared and written by a satellite of Melmotte's from Abchurch Lanewho was never present at the meeting. The adverse director had spokento the secretary, --it will be remembered that they were both members ofthe Beargarden, --and Miles had given a somewhat evasive reply. 'A cusseddeal of trouble and all that, you know! He's used to it, and it's whathe's meant for. I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of thatkind. ' Montague after this had spoken on the subject both toNidderdale and Felix Carbury. 'He couldn't do it, if it was ever so, 'Nidderdale had said. 'I don't think I'd bully him if I were you. Hegets £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. ' With Felix Carbury, Montague hadas little success. Sir Felix hated the secretary, had detected himcheating at cards, had resolved to expose him, --and had then been afraidto do so. He had told Dolly Longestaffe, and the reader will perhapsremember with what effect. He had not mentioned the affair again, andhad gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club. Loo, however, had given way to whist, and Sir Felix had satisfied himselfwith the change. He still meditated some dreadful punishment for MilesGrendall, but, in the meantime, felt himself unable to oppose him atthe Board. Since the day at which the aces had been manipulated at theclub he had not spoken to Miles Grendall except in reference to theaffairs of the whist table. The 'Board' was now commenced as usual. Miles read the short record out of the book, --stumbling over every otherword, and going through the performance so badly that had there beenanything to understand no one could have understood it. 'Gentlemen, 'said Mr Melmotte, in his usual hurried way, 'is it your pleasure thatI shall sign the record?' Paul Montague rose to say that it was nothis pleasure that the record should be signed. But Melmotte had madehis scrawl, and was deep in conversation with Mr Cohenlupe before Paulcould get upon his legs. 

Melmotte, however, had watched the little struggle. Melmotte, whatevermight be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to hear. He perceivedthat Montague had made a little struggle and had been cowed; and heknew how hard it is for one man to persevere against five or six, andfor a young man to persevere against his elders. Nidderdale wasfilliping bits of paper across the table at Carbury. Miles Grendallwas poring over the book which was in his charge. Lord Alfred sat backin his chair, the picture of a model director, with his right handwithin his waistcoat. He looked aristocratic, respectable, and almostcommercial. In that room he never by any chance opened his mouth, except when called on to say that Mr Melmotte was right, and wasconsidered by the chairman really to earn his money. Melmotte for aminute or two went on conversing with Cohenlupe, having perceived thatMontague for the moment was cowed. Then Paul put both his hands uponthe table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question. Melmotte saw this also and was upon his legs before Montague had risenfrom his chair. 'Gentlemen, ' said Mr Melmotte, 'it may perhaps be aswell if I take this occasion of saying a few words to you about theaffairs of the company. ' Then, instead of going on with his statement, he sat down again, and began to turn over sundry voluminous papersvery slowly, whispering a word or two every now and then to MrCohenlupe. Lord Alfred never changed his posture and never took hishand from his breast. Nidderdale and Carbury filliped their paperpellets backwards and forwards. Montague sat profoundly listening, --orready to listen when anything should be said. As the chairman hadrisen from his chair to commence his statement, Paul felt that he wasbound to be silent. When a speaker is in possession of the floor, heis in possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to hisreferences, and whispering to his neighbour. And, when that speaker isa chairman, of course some additional latitude must be allowed to him. Montague understood this, and sat silent. It seemed that Melmotte hadmuch to say to Cohenlupe, and Cohenlupe much to say to Melmotte. SinceCohenlupe had sat at the Board he had never before developed suchpowers of conversation. 

Nidderdale didn't quite understand it. He had been there twentyminutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to hitCarbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the Beargarden wouldnow be open. He was no respecter of persons, and had got over anylittle feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity ofthe room may have first inspired him. 'I suppose that's about all, ' hesaid, looking up at Melmotte. 

'Well;--perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here isengaged elsewhere, --' turning round to Lord Alfred, who had not uttereda syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat, '--we had betteradjourn this meeting for another week. '

'I cannot allow that, ' said Paul Montague. 

'I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board, ' said theChairman. 

'I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend andChairman, ' said Cohenlupe, 'and I must say that it is not expedientjust at present to go into matters too freely. '

'My Lords and Gentlemen, ' said Melmotte. 'I hope that you trust me. '

Lord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which wasintended to convey most absolute confidence. 'Hear, hear, ' said MrCohenlupe. 'All right, ' said Lord Nidderdale; 'go on;' and he firedanother pellet with improved success. 

'I trust, ' said the Chairman, 'that my young friend, Sir Felix, doubtsneither my discretion nor my ability. '

'Oh dear, no;--not at all, ' said the baronet, much tattered at beingaddressed in this kindly tone. He had come there with objects of hisown, and was quite prepared to support the Chairman on any matterwhatever. 

'My Lords and Gentlemen, ' continued Melmotte, 'I am delighted toreceive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in theworld I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell youthat we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has everbeen achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think ourfriend here, Mr Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as anygentleman. '

'What do you mean by that, Mr Melmotte?' asked Paul. 

'What do I mean?--Certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir. Your firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of theCompany are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt youare in correspondence with Mr Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph wires areopen to you, sir. But, my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able to inform youthat in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. Onbehalf of the shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands, I think it expedient that any general statement should be postponedfor a short time, and I flatter myself that in that opinion I shallcarry the majority of this Board with me. ' Mr Melmotte did not makehis speech very fluently; but, being accustomed to the place which heoccupied, he did manage to get the words spoken in such a way as tomake them intelligible to the company. 'I now move that this meetingbe adjourned to this day week, ' he added. 

'I second that motion, ' said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand fromhis breast. 

'I understood that we were to have a statement, ' said Montague. 

'You've had a statement, ' said Mr Cohenlupe. 

'I will put my motion to the vote, ' said the Chairman. 'I shall movean amendment, ' said Paul, determined that he would not be altogethersilenced. 

'There is nobody to second it, ' said Mr Cohenlupe. 

'How do you know till I've made it?' asked the rebel. 'I shall askLord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I think thathe will not refuse. '

'Oh, gracious me! why me? No;--don't ask me. I've got to go away. I haveindeed. '

'At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not saywhether every affair of this Company should or should not be publishedto the world. '

'You'd break up everything if you did, ' said Cohenlupe. 

'Perhaps everything ought to be broken up. But I say nothing aboutthat. What I do say is this. That as we sit here as directors and willbe held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know whatis being done. We ought to know where the shares really are. I for onedo not even know what scrip has been issued. '

'You've bought and sold enough to know something about it, ' saidMelmotte. 

Paul Montague became very red in the face. 'I, at any rate, began, ' hesaid, 'by putting what was to me a large sum of money into theaffair. '

'That's more than I know, ' said Melmotte. 'Whatever shares you have, were issued at San Francisco, and not here. '

'I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for, ' said Montague. 'Norhave I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares whichmy capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my ownconcerns. '

'It looks very like it, ' said Cohenlupe. 

'So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss ofeverything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is beingdone with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large thatI, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth know anythingabout it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from furtherresponsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right from this timeforward, --and that course I intend to take. '

'The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board, ' saidMelmotte. 'There will be no difficulty about that. '

'Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear thatthere will be difficulty. '

'Not in the least, ' continued the Chairman. 'You need only gazetteyour resignation and the thing is done. I had intended, gentlemen, topropose an addition to our number. When I name to you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughoutEngland as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man offortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I meanMr Longestaffe of Caversham--'

'Young Dolly, or old, ' asked Lord Nidderdale. 

'I mean Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham. I am sure thatyou will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought tostrengthen our number by this addition. But if Mr Montague isdetermined to leave us, --and no one will regret the loss of his servicesso much as I shall, --it will be my pleasing duty to move that AdolphusLongestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be requested to take hisplace. If on consideration Mr Montague shall determine to remain withus, --and I for one most sincerely hope that such reconsideration maylead to such determination, --then I shall move that an additionaldirector be added to our number, and that Mr Longestaffe be requestedto take the chair of that additional director. ' The latter speech MrMelmotte got through very glibly, and then immediately left the chair, so as to show that the business of the Board was closed for that daywithout any possibility of re-opening it. 

Paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that hewished to speak to him before they parted. 'Certainly, ' said the greatman bowing. 'Carbury, ' he said, looking round on the young baronetwith his blandest smile, 'if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment forme. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr Montague, whatcan I do for you?' Paul began his story, expressing again the opinionwhich he had already very plainly expressed at the table. But Melmottestopped him very shortly, and with much less courtesy than he hadshown in the speech which he had made from the chair. 'The thing isabout this way, I take it, Mr Montague;--you think you know more of thismatter than I do. '

'Not at all, Mr Melmotte. '

'And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may beright. But as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less wespeak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest in thethreat you made, because you would be making public things communicatedto you under the seal of privacy, --and no gentleman would do that. Butas long as you are hostile to me, I can't help you, --and so goodafternoon. ' Then, without giving Montague the possibility of areply, he escaped into an inner room which had the word 'Private'painted on the door, and which was supposed to belong to the chairmanindividually. He shut the door behind him, and then, after a fewmoments, put out his head and beckoned to Sir Felix Carbury. Nidderdale was gone. Lord Alfred with his son were already on thestairs. Cohenlupe was engaged with Melmotte's clerk on therecord-book. Paul Montague, finding himself without support and alone, slowly made his way out into the court. 

Sir Felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the Chairmanthat having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have a fewshares to go on with. He was, indeed, at the present moment verynearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards, all theI. O. U. 's which were in any degree serviceable. He still had apocketbook full of those issued by Miles Grendall; but it was now anunderstood thing at the Beargarden that no one was to be called uponto take them except Miles Grendall himself;--an arrangement which robbedthe card-table of much of its delight. Beyond this, also, he hadlately been forced to issue a little paper himself, --in doing which hehad talked largely of his shares in the railway. His case certainlywas hard. He had actually paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, acommercial transaction which, as performed by himself, he regarded asstupendous. It was almost incredible to himself that he should havepaid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it with muchdifficulty, --having carried Dolly junior with him all the way into thecity, --in the belief that he would thus put himself in the way of makinga continual and unfailing income. He understood that as a director hewould be always entitled to buy shares at par, and, as a matter ofcourse, always able to sell them at the market price. This heunderstood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty per cent, profit. He would have nothing to do but to buy and sell daily. He was toldthat Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent; and thatMelmotte was doing it to an enormous extent. But before he could do ithe must get something, --he hardly knew what, --out of Melmotte's hands. Melmotte certainly did not seem to shun him, and therefore there couldbe no difficulty about the shares. As to danger, --who could think ofdanger in reference to money intrusted to the hands of AugustusMelmotte?

'I am delighted to see you here, ' said Melmotte, shaking him cordiallyby the hand. 'You come regularly, and you'll find that it will beworth your while. There's nothing like attending to business. Youshould be here every Friday. '

'I will, ' said the baronet. 

'And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I canput you more in the way of understanding things there than I can here. This is all a mere formal sort of thing. You can see that. '

'Oh yes, I see that. '

'We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellowMontague. By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?'

'Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the womenknow him at home. He isn't a pal of mine if you mean that. '

'If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the wall;--that'sall. But never mind him at present. Was your mother speaking to you ofwhat I said to her?'

'No, Mr Melmotte, ' said Sir Felix, staring with all his eyes. 

'I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she mighthave told you. This is all nonsense, you know, about you and Marie. 'Sir Felix looked into the man's face. It was not savage, as he hadseen it. But there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look ofa determined purpose which all who knew the man were wont to mark. SirFelix had observed it a few minutes since in the Board-room, when thechairman was putting down the rebellious director. 'You understandthat; don't you?' Sir Felix still looked at him, but made no reply. 'It's all d---- nonsense. You haven't got a brass farthing, you know. You've no income at all; you're just living on your mother, and I'mafraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I shall givemy girl to you?' Felix still looked at him but did not dare tocontradict a single statement made. Yet when the man told him that hehad not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand pounds whichwere now in the man's pocket. 'You're a baronet, and that's about all, you know, ' continued Melmotte. 'The Carbury property, which is a verysmall thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me if hepleases;--and who isn't very much older than you are yourself. '

'Oh, come, Mr Melmotte; he's a great deal older than me. '

'It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam. The thing is out of thequestion, and you must drop it. ' Then the look on his brow became alittle heavier. 'You hear what I say. She is going to marry LordNidderdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What doyou expect to get by it?'

Sir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girlhe loved. But as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to saysomething. 'I suppose it's the old story, ' he said. 

'Just so;--the old story. You want my money, and she wants you, justbecause she has been told to take somebody else. You want something tolive on;--that's what you want. Come;--out with it. Is not that it? Whenwe understand each other I'll put you in the way of making money. '

'Of course I'm not very well off, ' said Felix. 

'About as badly as any young man that I can hear of. You give me yourwritten promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie, and youshan't want for money. '

'A written promise!'

'Yes;--a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you inthe way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able tomarry any other girl you please;--or to live without marrying, whichyou'll find to be better. '

There was something worthy of consideration in Mr Melmotte'sproposition. Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution, hadnot specially recommended itself to Sir Felix Carbury. A few horses atLeighton, Ruby Ruggles or any other beauty, and life at the Beargardenwere much more to his taste. And then he was quite alive to the factthat it was possible that he might find himself possessed of the wifewithout the money. Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own, withreference to that settled income; but then Marie might be mistaken, --orshe might be lying. If he were sure of making money in the wayMelmotte now suggested, the loss of Marie would not break his heart. But then also Melmotte might be--lying. 'By-the-bye, Mr Melmotte, ' saidhe, 'could you let me have those shares?'

'What shares?' And the heavy brow became still heavier. 

'Don't you know?--I gave you a thousand pounds, and I was to have tenshares. '

'You must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place. '

'When is the proper day?'

'It is the twentieth of each month, I think. ' Sir Felix looked veryblank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-firstof the month. 'But what does that signify? Do you want a littlemoney?'

'Well, I do, ' said Sir Felix. 'A lot of fellows owe me money, but it'sso hard to get it. '

'That tells a story of gambling, ' said Mr Melmotte. 'You think I'dgive my girl to a gambler?'

'Nidderdale's in it quite as thick as I am. '

'Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father candestroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won'tget anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now--'

'What;--to Marie?'

'No;--not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be known to her. Ifyou'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if youwant a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it beforeyou leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour asa gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have asingle shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all myproperty to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind aboutthat. '

'And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before thetwentieth of next month?'

'I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. Atany rate I won't see you short of money. '

The terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. Melmottehimself dictated the words, which were not romantic in their nature. The reader shall see the letter. 

 DEAR SIR, 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. 

 I am, Dear Sir, Your obedient servant, FELIX CARBURY. 

 AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE, Esq. , Grosvenor Square. 

The letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of theoffices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. 

'You'll give me that cheque for £200, Mr Melmotte?' The financierhesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque aspromised. 'And you'll see about letting me have those shares?'

'You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know. ' Sir Felix said thathe would call in Abchurch Lane. 

As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happyin his mind. Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamedof himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew that hewas behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried to consolehimself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would notprevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his while to do so. 

That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a greatpart of Mr Melmotte's money. He did in fact lose much more than the£200; but when he found his ready money going from him he issuedpaper. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII - PAUL MONTAGUE'S TROUBLES

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble ofthe Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he hadtaken Mrs Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings atIslington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when hewas allowed to come and go without any special reference to theirengagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meetingwas by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping hadstormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had daredhim to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised tomarry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been inLondon, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. Atthe moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than amarriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He hadloved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violenceof the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on astool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. Thenthere had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he hadpromised to be with her again before two days should have passed. 

On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which wasat any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpoolon business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And heexplained that the business on which he was called was connected withthe great American railway, and, being important, demanded hisattention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with agentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on hisreturn home after having involuntarily become a partner in the houseof Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and hadconsulted, and the gentleman, Mr Ramsbottom by name, had suggestedthat he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conductat 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 withMrs Hurtle had not added strength to Mr Ramsbottom's invitation. 

In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle, though it can hardlybe said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady afterlanding from an American steamer had been at Mr Ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr Ramsbottom had thought that theinquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore hadspoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs Hurtle, and the fellow-travellerhad opined that Mrs Hurtle was 'a queer card. ' 'On board ship we allgave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had everseen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in herbreeding. ' Then Mr Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. 'There was a man on board from Kansas, ' said the fellow-traveller, 'who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who was separated fromhis wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queerstory about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then having separated. ' This Mr Ramsbottom, who in an earlierstage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs Hurtletogether, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice aboutthe railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honestman would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs Hurtle, could only begiven vivâ voce, and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool hadoriginated in Mr Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. 'As she wasasking after you here, perhaps it is well that you should know, ' hisfriend said to him. Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spurof the moment to speak of his own difficulties. 

In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also beensome comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subjectto her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence tothe letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise andhis former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given upeverything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking intohis eyes;--then he would almost yield. But when, what the travellercalled the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, havingescaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury and of her breeding, --hewas fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it shouldnot be that of being the husband of Mrs Hurtle. That he was in a massof troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricatehimself he was well aware;--but if it were true that Mr Hurtle wasalive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be, --not separated, or even divorced, --but dead. And if it were true alsothat she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be areason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and wouldenable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himselfto be a false traitor. 

But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must bemade to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on thescore of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt verystrongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That hewould have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing whichmight perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done what hehad done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He musttell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, andthat therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write toher;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excusehimself, even to himself, for not going. It was his misfortune, --andalso his fault, --that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat. 

But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold ofinformation that might have the appearance of real evidence. Hereturned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday onwhich the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than hedid of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr Melmotte. If hecould come across that traveller he might learn something. Thehusband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc CarsonHurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he feltthat it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it mightbe hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part towithdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though notcorroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot agentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If theywere all true, surely he could justify himself to himself. 

But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After havinghad the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries asthese? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in hisarms again while he was making them, --unless indeed he made them withher knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything toherself? To speak to her thus:--'I am told that your life with your lasthusband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought aduel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel, --certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am toldalso that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be thatthe gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deedso repulsive to me, --no doubt irrationally, --that, on that score also, Imust decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr Hurtle has been seenalive quite lately. I had understood from you that he is dead. Nodoubt you may have been deceived. But as I should not have engagedmyself to you had I known the truth, so now I consider myselfjustified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on amisconception. ' It would no doubt be difficult to get through allthese details; but it might be accomplished gradually, --unless in theprocess of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman inOregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could theground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and wouldbear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on hisjourney up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind whenhe rose up to attack Mr Melmotte single-handed at the Board. 

When the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden. Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him most was theconviction that he was spending money which he would never have had tospend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with this at theBoard-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the moneywhich had been invested in the company of Fisker, Montague, andMontague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to therailway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after aloose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, hecould hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible toall parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at theBeargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. Onthis evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the younglord's instigation. 'What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?'said the young lord. 

'I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselvesDirectors we ought to know something about it. '

'I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I'vebeen thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me aDirector. '

'Because you're a lord, ' said Paul bluntly. 

'I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them?Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm inParliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governorsaid that I was to do it, and so I've done it. '

'They say, you know, --there's something between you and Melmotte'sdaughter. '

'But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? Andwhy should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should oldGrendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pink outthe two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would beold Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal aboutit, and I can't make it out. '

'I have been thinking about it too, ' said Paul. 

'I suppose old Melmotte is all right?' asked Nidderdale. This was aquestion which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he bejustified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be atany rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? 'You canspeak out to me, you know, ' said Nidderdale, nodding his head. 

'I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richestman alive. '

'He lives as though he were. '

'I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knowsvery much about him. '

When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of itall. 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 thatshe had got none. 

A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to thecard-room. 'Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are therewaiting, ' he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troublesfor play. 'Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that, ' saidNidderdale. 

'Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me, ' said Montague. 

'Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as wellas anybody. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershireheaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame. '

'You'll pay him some day. '

'I suppose I shall, --if I don't die first. But I should have gone onwith the horses just the same if there had never been anything tocome;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'mconcerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money ornot. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then Ilike to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things aboutpoor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he wereto lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a £10 note. But because he haswon, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd bettercome up. '

But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left theclub, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till hefound himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there, andcertainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left theBeargarden. His mind was full of Mrs Hurtle. As long as she waspresent in London, --as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himselfthat he had finally broken away from her, --he knew himself to be anunfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he was still undersome promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta'scompany, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would notask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and thenrepented without much attention to words;--but still it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almostunconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paulhad not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember thathe had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr Montague go up and see Miss Carbury?Without much consideration Mr Montague said that he would go up andsee Miss Carbury. 'Mamma is out with Roger, ' said Hetta, endeavouringto save herself from confusion. 'There is a soirée of learned peoplesomewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only forher and her friend, and therefore I could not go. '

'I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met. '

'Hardly since the Melmottes' ball, ' said Hetta. 

'Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has broughtRoger up to town?'

'I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is amystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr Montague. '

'I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board. '

'But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham, '--Paul could not keephimself from blushing as he heard this, --'and that Felix should not bethere. And then there is something going on about that horrid man'sdaughter. '

'She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think. '

'Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it isfor her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel withthem. '

'What man, Miss Carbury?'

'Mr Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end. '

'But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to b the greatestfriends. When I wanted to see Mr Melmotte he bolted himself into aninner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have donethat if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought thathe had consented to the marriage. '

'Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr Melmotte. '

'I know he has, ' said Paul. 

'And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't youthink so, Mr Montague?' Paul did think so, and was by no meansdisposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged tohim; but still he found the subject difficult. 'Of course I will nevergo against mamma, ' continued Hetta, 'but I always feel that my cousinRoger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said onewould never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought thatof, but I do think it of him. '

'No one has more reason to praise him than I have. '

'I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything hesays it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. Ifhe spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it tospend; but other people are not like that. '

'You're thinking of Melmotte. '

'I'm thinking of everybody, Mr Montague;--of everybody except Roger. '

'Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seemeven to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friendthat any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do. '

'I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so. Butall my friends--'

'Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?'

'Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are afriend, --because you are his friend. '

'Look here, Hetta, ' he said. 'It is no good going on like this. I loveRoger Carbury, --as well as one man can love another. He is all that yousay, --and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinksof everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. Henever lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does lovehis neighbour as himself. '

'Oh, Mr Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that. '

'I love him better than any man, --as well as a man can love a man. Ifyou will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man, --Iwill leave England at once, and never return to it. '

'There's mamma, ' said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a doubleknock at the door. 

CHAPTER XXXIX - 'I DO LOVE HIM'

So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learnedpeople, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up tothe drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardlybe said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montaguewas still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequentvisitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meetingbetween the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. Thereader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liableto suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect, --no reason why Paul should nothave been there, --but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in WelbeckStreet; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardlyhave spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul hadbroken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be leftto decide. 

Lady Carbury was the first to speak. 'This is quite an unexpectedpleasure, Mr Montague. ' Whether Roger suspected anything or not, shedid. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meetingbetween Hetta and him had been preconcerted. 

'Yes, ' he said making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have beenmade, --'I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I wouldcome up and see you. ' Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, butRoger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had beenan accident. The man had said so, and that was enough. 

'I thought you were at Liverpool, ' said Roger. 

'I came back to-day, --to be present at that Board in the city. I have hada good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. Whathas brought you to London?'

'A little business, ' said Roger. 

Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardlyknew whether she ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it wasvery awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well hermother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. 'Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?'

'Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?' said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter. 

'Indeed, no, ' said Hetta, attempting to laugh, 'I have been trying towork hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try towork. I was just going to bed when Mr Montague came in. What did youthink of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?'

'I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother likedit. '

'I was very glad indeed to meet Dr Palmoil. It seems that if we canonly open the interior of Africa a little further, we can geteverything that is wanted to complete the chemical combinationnecessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?'

'A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to. '

'Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believethat labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born tolabour. '

'But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr Palmoil will be able to put hisdescendants back into Eden. '

'Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I havequite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled hereas to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It isthe garden of the world. '

This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediatedifficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to getout of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closedbehind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. 'What brought himhere?'

'He brought himself, mamma. '

'Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent. '

'Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that hecame of his own accord. '

'How long was he here?'

'Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me likethis? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might beshown up. '

'You did not know that he was to come?'

'Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us. '

'What do you mean by that?'

'If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did?I knew nothing of his coming. '

'Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?'

'No;--I am not. '

'Has he asked you to marry him?'

Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. 'I do not think he ever has. '

'You do not think?'

'I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has saidthat which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife. '

'What has he said? When did he say it?'

Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforwardsimplicity. 'Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what hesaid; but it meant that. '

'You told me he had been here but a minute. '

'It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost notime, and yet he said it. '

'He had come prepared to say it. '

'How could he, --expecting to find you?'

'Psha! He expected nothing of the kind. '

'I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. Ithink his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--anaccident. '

'An accident!'

'It was not intended, --not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alonetogether. '

'And you;--what did you say?'

'Nothing. You came. '

'I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I mustask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?' Hetta wasagain silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to herbrow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had aright to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mothereverything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no wordspoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that hermother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that shehad so little sympathy from her mother. 'How do you intend to answerhim?' demanded Lady Carbury. 

'I do not know that he will ask again. '

'That is prevaricating. '

'No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I dolove him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to knowthat I should never give him encouragement without telling you aboutit. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else. '

'He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in whichhe is involved will go to pieces. '

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubtthat Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she diddoubt that her mother had believed the story. 'If so, ' said she, 'MrMelmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marryMarie Melmotte. '

'It makes me ill to hear you talk, --as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortuneout of the Railway!' Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremityof scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children ofan advantageous position which she was doing all in her power torecommend to the other child. 

'I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marryinghim, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them. '

'Why will you not marry your cousin?'

'I am not good enough for him. '

'Nonsense!'

'Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much aboveme, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. AndI have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret fromyou now. Good night, mamma, ' she said, coming up to her mother andkissing her. 'Do be kind to me; and pray, --pray, --do believe me. ' LadyCarbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter toleave the room. 

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and PaulMontague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotelhe said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul haddeclared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental, --and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then askedas to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. 'I do not wish it tobe talked of, ' said Roger after a pause, --'and of course I could notspeak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?'

'You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married JohnCrumb. '

'Just so, --but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frameof mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her. '

'Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?'

'No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think downthere that Felix has, --well, made love to her, and that she has beentaken to London by him. '

'That would be very bad. '

'He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when Ifirst spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had beenfriends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of coursehe would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horsecost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to beable to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old asI am he'll be perfect. '

'He knows nothing about her coming to town?'

'He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that Iwas too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followedon the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knewnothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Sincethat he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her. '

'You still believed him?'

'No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. Icannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles hasnow quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back hisgranddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, andhe is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of hismoney. '

After that Paul told all his own story, --the double story, both inregard to Melmotte and to Mrs Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Rogercould only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpoolfriend. 'I never believed in the thing, you know. '

'Nor did I. But what could I do?'

'I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling surethat you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on myown opinion, if it did not seem that Mr Ramsbottom thinks as I do. Insuch a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoveshim to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some manwhom the world esteems and recognizes. You have to bind your characterto another man's character; and that other man's character, if it begood, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr Ramsbottom'scharacter is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what hetells you. '

But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had inthe world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to doabout Mrs Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friendthat Mrs Hurtle had come to London and that he had been with her threeor four times. There was this great difficulty in the matter, too, --thatit was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs Hurtle without insome sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew ofboth loves;--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. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be atan end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs Hurtle, he was todo so as though there were no such person existing as HenriettaCarbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were nosuch person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all, --the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband. 

'It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas and to Oregon, 'said Roger. 

'But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her, ' said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of HettaCarbury, but he said nothing. 'And what would she do, remaining here?'continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. 'I amdetermined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I havebeen a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be afair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can. '

'You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out ofit honestly or--any other way. '

'Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as muchas we do now?'

'I did, --and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may bedishonest to cheat him, --and yet I would have you cheat him if youcould. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I wereyou, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws werestrong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'lldo. I'll go and see her if you like it. '

But Paul would not submit to this. He felt he was bound himself toincur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take hisplace. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolvedbetween them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and shouldend by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would hemarry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever beallowed to get to the end of such a story, --how almost certain it wasthat the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that timeshould come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far ascircumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, clawsor no claws, husband or no husband, --whether the duel or the murder wasadmitted or denied, --that he would never make Mrs Hurtle his wife. 'Iwish it were over, old fellow, ' said Roger. 

'So do I, ' said Paul, as he took his leave. 

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and heawoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook fromhim his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. Butthe man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It wasquite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. Heput his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that hishead was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be as well that heshould think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday?Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islingtonquite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgottenpoint which it would be well that he should discuss with his friendRoger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr Ramsbottom? Why should he go forthto execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself asquickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, andresolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He atehis breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might notbe too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he rememberedthat she was always early. In every respect she was an energeticwoman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, notsleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, wouldit not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I canfancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one hadto be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the firstday of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath dayin this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. Thehorror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realizedsomething of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and orderedthe man to drive to Islington. 

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cabwhen a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing soslow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was thequickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across TottenhamCourt Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems tobe long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in thatdirection, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yetthat Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able toarrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He hadgiven the Street and the number of the street. It was not till afterhe had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that heshould get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house, --so thathe might, as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised tomake every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrivedbefore it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know thegarden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grateddoor, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he hadpaid the cabman, --giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no changein his agony, --pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to thedoor, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened askedfor Mrs Hurtle. 

'Mrs Hurtle is out for the day, ' said the girl who opened the door. 'Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night. 'Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. 'Oh laws, Mr Montague, is that you?' Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down inSuffolk, and recognized him as quickly as he did her. It occurred toher at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that RogerCarbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of courselearned from Sir Felix, --for at this time she had seen the baronet morethan once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury'sintimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terrorshe did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for MrsHurtle. 

'Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had leftyour home. '

'I'm all right, Mr Montague;--I am. Mrs Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never wouldspeak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and letslodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just forone night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've thechildren to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me. '

'Mrs Hurtle has gone down to Southend?'

'Yes, Mr Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs Hurtle issuch a stranger. And Mrs Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying fortwo, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs Pipkin said asthe baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs Hurtle, --she's most as fond ofthe baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs Hurtle, sir?'

'Yes; she's a friend of mine. '

'Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as wasexpected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?'

Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Rubya few questions about herself while he made up his mind what messagehe would leave for Mrs Hurtle. 'I'm afraid they are very unhappy aboutyou down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles. '

'Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by myhair, Mr Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I dideverything for him, --that careful that no one won't do it again;--didhis 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 onlyme and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to doanything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs ofmy head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr Montague;--nor yetwon't the Squire. '

'But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home. '

'John Crumb! Oh yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people togive me a home, Mr Montague. '

'You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought. '

'Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr Montague. I'msure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him, --but I never cared that for him. '

'I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here inLondon. '

'I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr Montague; I can tell youthat. They has to look at me, if they want me. But I am looked after;and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch. ' That told the wholestory. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger'sfear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness totouch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have anopinion of his own on that matter. 'But there's Betsy a-cryingupstairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute. '

'I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles. '

'What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire, --except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling. '

Paul made his way into Mrs Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note forher in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return fromLiverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. Whenshould he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attendto it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himselfmade an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into halfbelieving that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious andcivil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs Hurtlewould not return till late in the evening, and as the following daywas Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note wasfinished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her thathe was going. 'Mr Montague, ' she said in a confidential whisper, asshe tripped clown the stairs, 'I don't see why you need be sayinganything about me, you know. '

'Mr Carbury is up in town looking after you. '

'What am I to Mr Carbury?'

'Your grandfather is very anxious about you. '

'Not a bit of it, Mr Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Whyshould the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself abouthim. '

'He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a youngman who is not trustworthy. '

'I can mind myself very well, Mr Montague. '

'Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been intown?' Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to herforehead. 'You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can comeof an intimacy between you and such a one as he?'

'I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr Montague, as well asyou. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged. '

'But I must tell Mr Carbury. '

'Then I ain't obliged to you one bit, ' said Ruby, shutting the door. 

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice ofRuby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself tobe a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who hadengaged himself to marry Mrs Hurtle, and who the evening before hadfor the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

In regard to Mrs Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for twodays;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walkedback to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to havehad the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of HettaCarbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard thatdeclaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been ablefor the hour to have forgotten Mrs Hurtle. 

CHAPTER XL - 'UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS'

That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden anote from Mr Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messengerfrom the city, --who had expected to have an immediate answer, as thoughMontague lived at the club. 

'DEAR SIR, ' said the letter, If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club. 

 Yours truly, AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE. 

 PAUL MONTAGUE, Esq. , The Beargarden. 

Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Squareat the hour appointed, --abandoning any intentions which he might havehad in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the onlyletter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings, hefound a note, containing only one line, which Mrs Hurtle had found themeans of sending to him after her return from Southend. 'I am sorry tohave been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H. ' The period ofthe reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day. 

On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up toGrosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to sayto him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in theBoard-room, --especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul hadunderstood that war was declared, and had understood also that he wasto fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy aswould be required, while his antagonist was a great master offinancial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference tohis money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his characterand keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to beguided altogether by Mr Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr Ramsbottomto draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him topublish. But it was manifest now that Mr Melmotte would make someproposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr Ramsbottomat his elbow to help him. 

He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but hadcontented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much ofthe splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and thecrowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with HettaCarbury. When he was shown into the hail he was astonished to findthat it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner hadbeen already commenced. Through all this he made his way to thestairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, wherethe servant told him that Mr Melmotte would come to him. Here hewaited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which hecould amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his ownpersonal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in amagnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. 'My dear sir, I amso sorry. You are a punctual man, I see. So am I. A man of businessshould be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert, --from the houseof Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know, --has just been with me. Wehad to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarterlate, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catcha quarter of an hour? I never could do it. ' Montague assured the greatman that the delay was of no consequence. 'And I am so sorry to askyou into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room downstairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished housea little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me hishouse for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the by, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I canlet you have. You know how they're run after. ' Montague had heard ofthe dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any manfrequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the leastwant to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive anyextraordinary civility from Mr Melmotte's hands. 

But he was very anxious to know why Mr Melmotte should offer it. Heexcused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of bigdinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. 'Ah, indeed, ' said Melmotte. 'There are ever so many people of titlewould give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the personswho have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for theMaster of the Buckhounds, and on the other for the Bishop of--; Iforget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. Theysay he must come because he has something to do with getting up themissionaries for Tibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it. 'This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffeas one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that itmight be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. 'You're the only man in London, then, ' said Melmotte, somewhatoffended. 'But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll haveone of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you. ' Paul not knowing how toescape, said that he would come in the evening. 'I am particularlyanxious, ' continued he, 'to be civil to those who are connected withour great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name standsfirst, --next to my own. '

Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it couldbe possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sundaymorning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house afortnight later. But that was impossible. 'Have you anything specialto say about the Railway?' he asked. 

'Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of coursethere are some there who do not understand matters. '

'I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter, 'said Paul. 

Melmotte affected to laugh. 'Well, well; I am not prepared to go quiteso far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in theseaffairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. AndLord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him creditfor. '

'He may easily do that. '

'Well, well. Perhaps you don't know quite as well as I do. ' The scowlbegan to appear on Mr Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been banishedas well as he knew how to banish it. 'What I wanted to say to you wasthis. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting. '

'No; we did not. '

'I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction ofsuch an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything. ' MrMelmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his handsover his head. 'Without unanimity we can do--nothing. ' And the twohands fell. 'Unanimity should be printed everywhere about aBoard-room. It should, indeed, Mr Montague. '

'But suppose the directors are not unanimous. '

'They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. Godbless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!'

'Not if it can be carried on honestly. '

'Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?' Again the browbecame very heavy. 'Look here, Mr Montague. If you and I quarrel inthe Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do toevery individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibilityon my shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for amere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr Montague, sentstraight to the dogs, --annihilated, sir;--so that it all vanished intothin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out tostarve about the streets, --just because one director sat in anotherdirector's chair. I did, by G--! What do you think of that, MrMontague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong itis, --as the air, --to buoy you up; how slight it is, --as a mere vapour, --when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which theythemselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it youwant, Mr Montague?'

'What do I want?' Melmotte's description of the peculiarsusceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been givenwithout some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himselfalmost drove that effect out of his mind. 'I only want justice. '

'But you should know what justice is before you demand it at theexpense of other people. Look here, Mr Montague. I suppose you arelike the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out ofit. '

'For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am notthinking of myself. '

'You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter, ' andhere Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful hewas in mastering details, --'you had about £6, 000 embarked in thebusiness when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to havethat still. '

'I don't know what I've got. '

'I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly athousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money. '

'There was back interest due to me. '

'If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, MrMontague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I wasabout to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, asyou're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should goout to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to getnecessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of courseyou'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personalinterests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power ofattorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, shouldanything occur amiss, --which it won't, for the thing is as sound asanything I know, --of course you, as absent, would not share theresponsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightfultrip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolvenearly the whole management on you;--and I must do something of thekind, as I really haven't the time for it. But, --if it is to be thatway, --do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;--thevery soul, Mr Montague. '

'But if I can't be unanimous?'

'Well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might bethe very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest that youshould take your £6, 000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatlydistressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that youhave your money. I will make myself personally responsible for thepayment of it, --some time before the end of the year. '

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the wholematter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. 'Andnow, good-bye, ' said Mr Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu ina hurry. 'I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the BankDirector, waiting downstairs. '

CHAPTER XLI - ALL PREPARED

During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with herlover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt hissincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection inthe presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to bechopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, tellinghow she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, andhow willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father andmother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt thatshe had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was alittle slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was trueto her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written variousletters to Sir Felix and had received two or three very short notes inreply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she wastold that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with LordNidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to bemarried in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching theend of June. 'You may buy what you like, mamma, ' she said; 'and ifpapa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'llnever be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up inthe things by main force, I wouldn't have him. ' Madame Melmottegroaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished thatshe were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And, ended, as she always did end, by swearing thatMelmotte must manage the matter himself. 'Nobody shall manage thismatter for me, ' said Marie. 'I know what I'm about now, and I won'tmarry anybody just because it will suit papa. ' 'Que nous étions encoreà Frankfort, ou New-York, ' said the elder lady, remembering thehumbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did notcare for Frankfort or New York; for Paris or for London;--but she didcare for Sir Felix Carbury. 

While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his ownhouse with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of thecity, --though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentlemanSir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name wasmentioned, --Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also thereat some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also closealongside of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use;and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not muchfrequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover'sletter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she hadtaxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of theletter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment, --havingbeen assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and thatshe would be there to close it after he had come in, --was of courseready with a lie. 'It was the only thing to do, Marie;--it was indeed. '

'But you said you had accepted some offer. '

'You don't suppose I wrote the letter?'

'It was your handwriting, Felix. '

'Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent youclean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it. '

'And you have accepted nothing?'

'Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him athousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from himyet. ' Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200. 

'Nobody ever does who gives papa money, ' said the observant daughter. 

'Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anythingbetter than a downright quarrel. '

'I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so. '

'It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do youthink we'd best do now?' Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. 'I wonderwhether you're right about that money which you say is settled. '

'I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris, --just when we were comingaway, --that it was done so that there might be something if things wentwrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something fromtime to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't, --ifI should have a husband of my own. ' Felix walked along, pondering thematter, with his hands in his trousers pockets. He entertained thosevery fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There wouldbe no 'cropper' which a man could 'come' so bad as would be hiscropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was notto have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, afterhaving written that letter, the father would certainly not forgivehim. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was toodoubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in thatcase he would certainly get neither his £800, nor the shares. And ifhe were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him withready money. But then there was the girl at his elbow, and he no moredared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than hedared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. 'What areyou thinking of, Felix?' she asked. 

'It's d---- difficult to know what to do. '

'But you do love me?'

'Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walkinground this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdaleabout the end of August. '

'Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can'ttake me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so longago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. Idon't think you care much, Felix. '

'Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in abeastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then Icould say it often enough. '

'I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be. '

'Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet. '

'You're not going to give it up!'

'Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellowdoesn't know what to do. '

'You've heard of young Mr Goldsheiner, haven't you?' suggested Marie. 

'He's one of those city chaps. '

'And Lady Julia Start?'

'She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They gotspliced last winter. '

'Yes;--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went toSwitzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate. '

'How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?'

'I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could toprevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as thetidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier. '

'Oh;--ah. Didon knows all about it. '

'That she does. '

'But she'd lose her place. '

'There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and bemy maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she'd arrange it all. '

'And would you come to Folkstone?'

'I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We shouldmake it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to--NewYork. And then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks. '

'And would Didon go too?'

'That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd callmyself by her name, --any French name you know. I should go as a Frenchgirl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. Wewouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly. '

'That's Didon's plan?'

'That's what she thinks best, --and she'll do it, if you'll give her £50for herself, you know. The "Adriatic, "--that's a White Star boat, goeson Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take usdown that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and takeno notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in amonth, --and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it. '

Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him togo to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as tothe best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all ather fingers' ends, --even to the amount of the fee required by the femalecounsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing wastaking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds ifhe were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been foolenough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was toldthat when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to releaseit. And he had nothing to show;--no security that he could offer toVossner. And then, --this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte'sdaughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing thegirl, frightened him. 

 'There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune. '

Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them camehome to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at whichhe might make himself, or utterly mar himself. 'It's deucedimportant, ' he said at last with a groan. 

'It's not more important for you than me, ' said Marie. 

'If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, whereshould we be then?'

'Nothing venture, nothing have, ' said the heiress. 

'That's all very well; but one might venture everything and getnothing after all. '

'You'd get me, ' said Marie with a pout. 

'Yes;--and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But--'

'Very well then;--if that's your love, said Marie turning back from him. 

Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. 'I'llventure it. '

'Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!'

'There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can beThursday week. ' He was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve. 

'I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long. '

'There's the money to get, and all that. '

'I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house. '

'How much?' asked the baronet eagerly. 

'A hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred. 

'That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won'tthat be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!'

It was decided that they were to go to New York on a Thursday, --onThursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in aday or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get them sent out ofthe house. Didon was to have £50 before she went on board; and as oneof the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunkssmuggled out of the house, he was to have £10. All had been settledbeforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think aboutanything. 'And now, ' said Marie, 'there's Didon. Nobody's looking andshe can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out. Thegate can be left, you know. Then we'll get out on the other side. 'Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl. 

CHAPTER XLII - 'CAN YOU BE READY IN TEN MINUTES?'

After leaving Melmotte's house, on Sunday morning Paul Montague, wentto Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning fromchurch. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made uphis mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would dineearly and be with Mrs Hurtle about seven o'clock. But it was necessarythat Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. 'It's not so badas you thought, ' said he, 'as she is living with her aunt. '

'I never heard of such an aunt. '

'She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't wanther back again. '

'Does she see Felix Carbury?'

'I think she does, ' said Paul. 

'Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll goand see her and try to get her back to Bungay. '

'Why not send for John Crumb?'

Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, 'He'd give Felix sucha thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as wellas any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why Ishould not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don'tsuppose the girl is all bad, --if she could see the truth. '

'I don't think she's bad at all. '

'At any rate I'll go and see her, ' said Roger. 'Perhaps I shall seeyour widow at the same time. ' Paul sighed, but said nothing more abouthis widow at that moment. 'I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now, ' saidRoger, taking his hat. 'Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow. ' Paul feltthat he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend. 

He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made thatjourney to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposalthat had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clearconscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had saidalready more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and thoughhe was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thoughtthat what he had said had been well received. At the moment they hadbeen disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed intobreaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the periodof the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course hewould take care that she should know that he had gone in theperformance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs Hurtle, andwould be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him. It was possible that Mrs Hurtle should offer to go with him, --anarrangement which would not at all suit him. 

That at any rate must be avoided. But then how could he do thiswithout a belief in the railway generally? And how was it possiblethat he should have such belief? Mr Ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did Roger Carbury. He himself did not in the least believe inFisker, and Fisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not bebest that he should take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? Ifhe could get his £6, 000 back and have done with the railway, he wouldcertainly think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far hecould with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubtedwhether he could put implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guaranteefor the amount. This at any rate was clear to him, --that Melmotte wasvery anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board. 

Now he was again at Mrs Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by RubyRuggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he hadto say. 'The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?'

'Oh yes, sir, and Mrs Hurtle is expecting you all the day. ' Then sheput in a whisper on her own account. 'You didn't tell him as you'dseen me, Mr Montague?'

'Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles. '

'Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have beenill-natured, --that's all, ' said Ruby as she opened the door of MrsHurtle's room. 

Mrs Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile, --and her smilecould be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like mostwitches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm. 'Only fancy, ' she said, 'that you should have come the only day I havebeen two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when youtook me to the play. I was so sorry. '

'Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again. '

'Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs Pipkin took a brightidea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to goherself. She declared that Southend was Paradise. '

'A cockney Paradise. '

'Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend andfancy that that is the sea?'

'I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself, --so that you knowmore about it than I do. '

'How very English it is, --a little yellow river, --and you call it thesea! Ah;--you never were at Newport!'

'But I've been at San Francisco. '

'Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling. Well;that's better than Southend. '

'I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It's generally supposedwe're an island. '

'Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west ofIreland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does gothere for fear of being murdered. ' Paul thought of the gentleman inOregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition, andremembered that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregonor the west of Ireland. 'But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs Pipkinand the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid thatthe baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the bestof it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You mustacknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out ofthese lodgings. People are just as poor with us;--and other people whohappen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humbleto another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as wellas you do, but it doesn't make so much difference. '

'He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself asagreeable as he can to him who can give. '

'But Mrs Pipkin was so humble. However, we got back all rightyesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here, --at last. '

'You knew that I had to go to Liverpool. '

'I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?'

'Yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything verysatisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway. '

'I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks ofit as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man thatI might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hatelittle peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank inthe world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make thelargest railway. It would be better even than being President of aRepublic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is itthat you do in it, Paul?'

'They want me now to go out to Mexico about it, ' said he slowly. 

'Shall you go?' said she, throwing herself forward and asking thequestion with manifest anxiety. 

'I think not. '

'Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not go?It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway willmake Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had doneit. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will nevercome again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico andhave been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can doanything. Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!'

'Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means ofdoing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely thatone might be out of the way'

'I would make the means of doing something. '

'Means are money. How can I make that?'

'There is money going. There must be money where there is all thisbuying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money withwhich he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fiskerget the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where doesMelmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world?Why should not you get it as well as the others?'

'If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it. '

'Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace andspend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to haveambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your way, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make peoplethere believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficultyabout the money. '

He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which heshould have to discuss before he left her, --or rather the statementwhich he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which heallowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him fartheraway from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should not bemade; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she mightbe one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied anunderstanding that his former abnegation of the engagement had beenwithdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in asideway fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship eitherfor the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. The thingmust be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its ownbasis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the introductionof it infinitely more difficult. 

'You are not in a hurry?' she said. 

'Oh no. '

'You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I'llask them to let us have tea. ' She rang the bell and Ruby came in, andthe tea was ordered. 'That young lady tells me that you are an oldfriend of hers. '

'I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to findher here yesterday. '

'There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she doesnot like?'

'And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like. '

'That's quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn't thegirl to have come to her time of life without a preference. Thenatural 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, --justas we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all, --is one of the evils ofthe inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love withouthaving the love justified, because the object is more desirable. Shecan only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If allmen wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of thework of the world equally between them, that evil would come to anend. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseasedpassions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at anend. '

'If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they wouldwear different coats the next day. '

'Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. It isn't to be done in a day of course, nor yetin a century, --nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being wholooks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made inthat direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that. '

Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questionsof women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. Buthaving got on to these rocks, --having, as the reader may perceive, beentaken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman, --he did not knowhow to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his ownsubject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws, andthe possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freelyon the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in formeryears. 'Thanks, ' he said, changing his cup. 'How well you remember!'

'Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Doyou recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I shouldnever wear blue?'

She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so thathe was obliged to speak. 'Of course I do. Black is your colour;--blackand grey; or white, --and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous;crimson possibly. But not blue or green. '

'I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word forgospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things, --as you have, Paul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forebodes, aneffete civilization. '

'I am sorry that mine should be effete, ' he said smiling. 

'You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals. Civilization was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the timeof the great painters; but Savonarola and Galileo were individuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexicogives you the chance. '

'Are the Mexicans a new people?'

'They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare sayhave bad taste in gowns, --and so the vain ones and rich ones send toParis for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generallygood. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuineworkmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul. ' He gotup from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. Tobe told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in hislife in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given upto cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! Andyet, with what utmost stretch of courage, --even though he were willingto devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that hehad pictured to himself, --could he immediately rush away from theseabstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! It was the unfitnessthat deterred him and not the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, throughit all, he was sure, --nearly sure, --that she was playing her game, andplaying it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that hewanted to play. Would it not be better that he should go away andwrite another letter? In a letter he could at any rate say what he hadto say;--and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhereto it. 

'What makes you so uneasy?' she asked; still speaking in her mostwinning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. 'Do you notlike me to say that I would have you be a hero?'

'Winifred, ' he said, 'I came here with a purpose, and I had bettercarry it out. '

'What purpose?' She still leaned forward, but now supported her faceon her two hands, with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at himintently. But one would have said that there was only love in hereyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with hishands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to findfitting words for the occasion. 'Stop, my dear, ' she said. 'Must thepurpose be told to-night?'

'Why not to-night?'

'Paul, I am not well;--I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know thedelight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friendafter the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs Pipkin is not verycharming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, ifit was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you arestill my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or withpleasure of those that are past, --then carry out your purpose. But if itbe cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--thendrop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude musthave been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort. '

Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have thatsolace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. 'I will notharass you, if you are ill, ' he said. 

'I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really illthat I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sunhere is not as we have it. But the air is heavy, --what Mrs Pipkin callsmuggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it woulddo me good. Where had I better go?' Paul suggested Brighton. 'That isfull of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?'

'Not at this time of the year. '

'But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;--not thatany place can be very far from here. ' Paul, in his John Bulldispleasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it wouldtake twenty-four hours. 'Not Penzance then, which I know is your veryUltima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other placeexcept Southend?'

'There is Cromer in Norfolk, --perhaps ten hours. '

'Is Cromer by the sea?'

'Yes;--what we call the sea. '

'I mean really the sea, Paul?'

'If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhapstake you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps. '

'Ah, --now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?'

'Well, yes;--I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remembermuch. There's Ramsgate. '

'Mrs Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should likeRamsgate. '

'There's the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty. '

'That's the Queen's place. There would not be room for her and metoo. '

'Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is arailway all the distance. '

'And sea?'

'Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there arewaves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every otherday, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand. '

'A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southendit isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. Youmust admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs Pipkin. Youwould not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for theocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?'

'A small little place. '

'Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do forme. '

'They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States itwould be very small. '

'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. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of theSouthend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft. ' Then she rose up and came tohim, and took his arm. 'You will take me down, will you not? It isdesolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not askyou to stay. And I can return by myself. ' She had put both hands onone arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. 'You willdo that for old acquaintance sake?' For a moment or two he made noanswer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He wasendeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and couldsee no way through it. 'I don't think you will let me ask in vain forsuch a favour as that, ' she said. 

'No;' he replied. 'I will take you down. When will you go?' He hadcockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriagewould be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhapsthe sands at Lowestoft. 

'When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, andshares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman withnothing on hand but Mrs Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in tenminutes?--because I could. ' Paul shook his head and laughed. 'I'venamed a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, andI'll promise it shall suit. ' Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. Hemust attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte beforethe Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs Hurtle. Should shemeet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come andfetch her. 

Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put hercheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds itutterly impossible that he should be prudent, --as to which, when hethought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself forprudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took herin his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks. 

CHAPTER XLIII - THE CITY ROAD

The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs Pipkin wasquite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had diedleaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acrefarm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to hisdaughter-in-law, --or to his son after the marriage, and had steeledhimself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge ofRuby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have nointercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. Whentherefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could withherself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs Pipkin was a poor woman, andcould not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for amonth, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it apart of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. 'I'm all right, ' saidRuby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come andsee her? This was Mrs Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs Pipkin thought thatscandal might in this way be avoided 'That's as it may be, by-and-by, 'said Ruby. 

Then she told all the story of John Crumb;--how she hated John Crumb, how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and MrMixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which hergrandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. MrsPipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferringrespectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. She gaveRuby very good advice. Of course if she was 'dead-set' against JohnCrumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young womanshould look to so much as a decent house over her head, --and victuals. 'What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?'Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and coulddo very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going tobe put off it. Mrs Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but shewas not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about herlover she must. Mrs Pipkin had an idea that young women in these daysdid have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowedwhen she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs Pipkinknew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to thetheatre once and again, --by herself as far as Mrs Pipkin knew, butprobably in company with her lover, --and did not get home till pastmidnight, Mrs Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novelcircumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had notbeen allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been agirl, --but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteenyears ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yettold the name of her lover to Mrs Pipkin, having answered allinquiries by saying that she was right. Sir Felix's name had nevereven been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion, --notaltogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but nowshe knew that interference would come. Mr Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord. The Squire would be afterher, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by MrMixet, --and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to thecouch which she shared with two little Pipkins, 'the fat would be inthe fire. '

'Who do you think was at our place yesterday?' said Ruby one eveningto her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall, --halfmusic-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements ofthe gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard onthose of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himselfcalled it, 'incognito, ' with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silkcravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felixentertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in thisattire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him aglass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby. He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grandthing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her youngman. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance andwalk about with their young men, --when they had any. Why was she to begiven up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, withoutseeing anything of the world? But yet, as she sat sipping her lover'sbrandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in theCity Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things whichshe did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not liketo hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful, --oh, so beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid ofhim, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which sheexpected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon--marriage, but theword had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waistwas heaven to her. Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were ofthe same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even MrsPipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always withMrs Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hearmusic with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the firstopportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. 'Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?'

Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking thatperhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhapsDidon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings ofhis in London; but the business of his life was about to take him toNew York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had aninterview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon hadheard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, andhad been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though hisbody was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City RoadMusic-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. 'Who was it, Ruby?'

'A friend of the Squire's, a Mr Montague. I used to see him about inBungay and Beccles. '

'Paul Montague!'

'Do you know him, Felix?'

'Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly inthe city--and I know him at home. '

'Is he nice?'

'Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow. '

'He's got a lady friend where I live. '

'The devil he has!' Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury'ssuit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part ofHetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preferencefor Paul Montague. 'Who is she, Ruby?'

'Well;--she's a Mrs Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's anAmerican. She's got lots of money. '

'Is Montague going to marry her?'

'Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr Montague comes quite regular tosee her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixedas they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonderwhether it'll be the same with you?'

'Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?'

'Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd beenregular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork, --only theslowest clock out. But Mr Montague has been and told the Squire as hesaw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. Iknow that. What am I to tell him, Felix?'

'Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you. '

'No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can'tsend for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he cantalk, --and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind abouttheir characters, --so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm withyou?'

'Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?'

'I didn't know. I must say something. '

'Tell him you're nothing to him. '

'But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I knowshe will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that. '

'Your aunt does not know?'

'No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, youknow, --will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?'

'It's very jolly, I think. '

'It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to bedoing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it. '

'What is the worst of it?'

'I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am. ' And now Ruby burst outinto tears. 'Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be abad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turnsagainst me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said lastnight that--'

'Bother what she says!' Felix was not at all anxious to hear what auntPipkin might have to say upon such an occasion. 

'She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't sucha fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with alot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out hismind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mindherself, though she's ever so fond of a young man. '

Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy andwater. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped, for the waiterand called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of makingany direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New Yorkvery shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in hisfuture beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any fartherdistance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be withRuby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would orwould not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was nothis fault that she had come up to London. She was an 'awfully jollygirl, ' and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better, perhaps, thanthe girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to givehimself any 'd---d trouble. ' The idea of John Crumb coming up to Londonin his wrath had never occurred to him, --or he would probably havehurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he wasdoing now. 'Let's go in, and have a dance, ' he said. 

Ruby was very fond of dancing, --perhaps liked it better than anything inthe world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big roomwith her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his andher other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved themotion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she neverlacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, andfeel at the time that the world could have nothing to give betterworth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have someanswer to her question before she left her lover on that night. 

'And now I must go, ' she said at last. 'You'll see me as far as theAngel, won't you?' Of course he was ready to see her as far as theAngel. 'What am I to say to the Squire?'

'Say nothing. '

'And what am I to say to aunt?'

'Say to her? Just say what you have said all along. '

'I've said nothing all along, --just to oblige you, Felix. I must saysomething. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say tome, Felix?'

He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. 'If youbother me I shall cut it, you know. '

'Cut it!'

'Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?'

'Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I togo, if Mrs Pipkin won't have me no more?'

'I'll find a place for you. '

'You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or--'

'Go back to John Crumb. '

'John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wifeto-morrow, and only be too happy. '

'I didn't tell you to come away from him, ' said Sir Felix. 

'Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I sawyou at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?'

'So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is. '

'No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingersoff. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!'

As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, thatwould have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would beout of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kindto young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards thatthey had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation'confounded impudence' on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be hiswife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem tolower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. 'Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. Iknow a trick worth two of that. '

She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state ofthings of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a manshould wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declareto his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thingthat she could not understand. What business had such a man to goafter any young woman? 'And what do you mean that I'm to do, SirFelix?' she said. 

'Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother. '

'Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carryingon with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me thatyou don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?'

'Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?'

'Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girlsto keep him company. '

'That's more than you know, Ruby. '

'If he did he'd marry her out of hand, --because he's a gentleman. That'swhat he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl, --not todo her any harm, I'm sure, ' and Ruby began to, cry. 'You mustn't comeno further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're thefalsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I everheard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Thingsturn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or thereain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a youngwoman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, isthe lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a onein none of the books. No, I won't. You go your way, and I'll go mine. 'In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind afeeling of anger against the man, which she did not herselfunderstand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would noteven make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour mightbe made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and criedherself to sleep with a child on each side of her. 

On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs Pipkin to attend thedoor, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for RubyRuggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs Pipkin had not refused to doso; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the causewhich might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up hermind that Ruby's present condition of independence was equallyunfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determinedthat the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. Whentherefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found RogerCarbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She hadbeen very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been ableon the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply thatshe never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of theloss came upon her amidst her daily work, --when she could no longerconsole herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful thingsthat were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though atthis moment she was little better than a maid of all work in alodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forthas a baronet's bride, --now in her solitude she almost regretted theprecipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never seehim again;--that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon?And might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? Abaronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she couldbring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet, --that he should havesaid never;--that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, shewas very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cureher misery. 

Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding hersit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she wascomfortably settled with her aunt. 'We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going. '

'Grandfather'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him. '

'He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours. '

'To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make agirl keep her word;--was it, Mr Carbury? That's what he did, then;--andSally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't have treatedme like that. No girl'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairsof her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed. '

The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be aviolent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprisehim. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, hadnot done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard afew words from Mrs Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard also thatthere was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also wasquite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John Crumb was agallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, ifRuby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, aftersome slow fashion of his own, and 'see the matter out, ' as he would sayhimself, if she did not go back. 'As you found yourself obliged to runaway, ' said Roger, 'I'm glad that you should be here; but you don'tmean to stay here always?'

'I don't know, ' said Ruby. 

'You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always youraunt's maid. '

'Oh dear, no. '

'It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such aman as Mr Crumb. '

'Oh, Mr Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr Crumb. I don't like MrCrumb, and I never will like him. '

'Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, andI expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr Crumb, unlessyou please. '

'Nobody can't, of course, sir. '

'But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainlywon't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you. '

'Nobody won't ruin me, ' said Ruby. 'A girl has to look to herself, andI mean to look to myself. '

'I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a oneas Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going tothe devil head foremost. '

'I ain't a going to the devil, ' said Ruby, sobbing and blushing. 

'But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged totell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but werehe to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, andwould ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough tobe your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile ayoung man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without apang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none. ' Ruby had nowgiven way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes inone corner of the room. 'That's what Sir Felix Carbury is, ' said theSquire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, andtalk her down more thoroughly. 'And if I understand it rightly, ' hecontinued, 'it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left aman who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above theearth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a finecoat. '

'I don't care about any man's coat, ' said Ruby; 'but John hasn't evera word to say, was it ever so. '

'Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you afterthat fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not tomake you a bye-word and a disgrace. ' Ruby struggled hard to make someopposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable ofspeech at the moment. 'He thinks more of you than of himself, andwould give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? Ifyou were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you bythe hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or anydisgrace?'

'There ain't no disgrace, Mr Carbury. '

'No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as FelixCarbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. Ifyou are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg thatman's pardon. '

'John Crumb's pardon! No!'

'Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly Ithink of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, andregard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps changeyour mind a little. '

Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, thoughthe poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in uponher. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. Butshe had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, andhe said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and troubleshe still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy, --and also adumb nobility. 

'I'll tell you what will take place, ' continued Roger. 'Mr Crumb won'tput up with this you know. '

'He can't do nothing to me, sir. '

'That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and pressyou to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'dinjure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think itwould be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together andnobody else by?'

'John's mortial strong, Mr Carbury. '

'If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is abrave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?'

'He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everythingagain him. '

'You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I domyself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man wholoves you over, --for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, andbeg his pardon. '

'I never will;--never. '

'I've spoken to Mrs Pipkin, and while you're here she will see thatyou don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're notdisgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguardlike that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. ButI'll let your grandfather know. '

'Grandfather don't want me no more. '

'And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let youhave it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix Carburyany more. ' Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress herwith admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been efficacious inlessening that which she had entertained for Sir Felix. 

CHAPTER XLIV - THE COMING ELECTION

The very greatness of Mr Melmotte's popularity, the extent of theadmiration which was accorded by the public at large to his commercialenterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar bitterness inthe opposition that was organized against him at Westminster. As thehigh mountains are intersected by deep valleys, as puritanism in oneage begets infidelity in the next, as in many countries the thicknessof the winter's ice will be in proportion to the number of the summermusquitoes, so was the keenness of the hostility displayed on thisoccasion in proportion to the warmth of the support which wasmanifested. As the great man was praised, so also was he abused. As hewas a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend to others. And indeed therewas hardly any other way in which it was possible to carry on thecontest against him. From the moment in which Mr Melmotte had declaredhis purpose of standing for Westminster in the Conservative interest, an attempt was made to drive him down the throats of the electors byclamorous assertions of his unprecedented commercial greatness. Itseemed that there was but one virtue in the world, commercialenterprise, --and that Melmotte was its prophet. It seemed, too, that theorators and writers of the day intended all Westminster to believethat Melmotte treated his great affairs in a spirit very differentfrom that which animates the bosoms of merchants in general. He hadrisen above feeling of personal profit. His wealth was so immense thatthere was no longer place for anxiety on that score. He alreadypossessed, --so it was said, --enough to found a dozen families, and he hadbut one daughter! But by carrying on the enormous affairs which heheld in his hands, he would be able to open up new worlds, to affordrelief to the oppressed nationalities of the over-populated oldcountries. He had seen how small was the good done by the Peabodys andthe Bairds, and, resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions, was intent on projects for enabling young nations to earn plentifulbread by the moderate sweat of their brows. He was the head and frontof the railway which was to regenerate Mexico. It was presumed thatthe contemplated line from ocean to ocean across British America wouldbecome a fact in his hands. It was he who was to enter into terms withthe Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast country. He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from Moscow toKhiva. He had a fleet, --or soon would have a fleet of emigrant ships, --ready to carry every discontented Irishman out of Ireland to whateverquarter of the globe the Milesian might choose for the exercise of hispolitical principles. It was known that he had already floated acompany for laying down a submarine wire from Penzance to Point deGalle, round the Cape of Good Hope, --so that, in the event of generalwars, England need be dependent on no other country for itscommunications with India. And then there was the philanthropic schemefor buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs from the Khedive ofEgypt for thirty millions sterling, --the compensation to consist of theconcession of a territory about four times as big as Great Britain inthe lately annexed country on the great African lakes. It may havebeen the case that some of these things were as yet only matters ofconversation, --speculations as to which Mr Melmotte's mind andimagination had been at work, rather than his pocket or even hiscredit; but they were all sufficiently matured to find their way intothe public press, and to be used as strong arguments why Melmotteshould become member of Parliament for Westminster. 

All this praise was of course gall to those who found themselvescalled upon by the demands of their political position to oppose MrMelmotte. You can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be ademi-devil. These very persons, the leading Liberals of the leadingborough in England as they called themselves, would perhaps have caredlittle about Melmotte's antecedents had it not become their duty tofight him as a Conservative. Had the great man found at the lastmoment that his own British politics had been liberal in their nature, these very enemies would have been on his committee. It was theirbusiness to secure the seat. And as Melmotte's supporters began thebattle with an attempt at what the Liberals called 'bounce, '--to carrythe borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of theircandidate's virtues, --the other party was driven to make some enquiriesas to that candidate's antecedents. They quickly warmed to the work, and were not less loud in exposing the Satan of speculation, than hadbeen the Conservatives in declaring the commercial Jove. Emissarieswere sent to Paris and Frankfort, and the wires were used to Viennaand New York. It was not difficult to collect stories, --true or false;and some quiet men, who merely looked on at the game, expressed anopinion that Melmotte might have wisely abstained from the glories ofParliament. 

Nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a properLiberal candidate to run against him. The nobleman who had beenelevated out of his seat by the death of his father had been a greatWhig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense wealth and ofpopularity equal to its possessions. One of that family might havecontested the borough at a much less expense than any other person, --and to them the expense would have mattered but little. But there wasno such member of it forthcoming. Lord This and Lord That, --and theHonourable This and the Honourable That, sons of other cognate Lords, --already had seats which they were unwilling to vacate in the presentstate of affairs. There was but one other session for the existingParliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in Melmotte'sfavour. Many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were eitherafraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence. Lord Buntingford wasasked, and he and his family were good old Whigs. But he was nephew toLord Alfred Grendall, first cousin to Miles Grendall, and abstained onbehalf of his relatives. An overture was made to Sir Damask Monogram, who certainly could afford the contest. But Sir Damask did not see hisway. Melmotte was a working bee, while he was a drone, --and he did notwish to have the difference pointed out by Mr Melmotte's supporters. Moreover, he preferred his yacht and his four-in-hand. 

At last a candidate was selected, whose nomination and whose consentto occupy the position created very great surprise in the Londonworld. The press had of course taken up the matter very strongly. The'Morning Breakfast Table' supported Mr Melmotte with all its weight. There were people who said that this support was given by Mr Brouneunder the influence of Lady Carbury, and that Lady Carbury in this wayendeavoured to reconcile the great man to a marriage between hisdaughter and Sir Felix. But it is more probable that Mr Broune saw, --orthought that he saw, --which way the wind sat, and that he supported thecommercial hero because he felt that the hero would be supported bythe country at large. In praising a book, or putting foremost themerits of some official or military claimant, or writing up a charity, --in some small matter of merely personal interest, --the Editor of the'Morning Breakfast Table' might perhaps allow himself to listen to alady whom he loved. But he knew his work too well to jeopardize hispaper by such influences in any matter which might probably becomeinteresting to the world of his readers. There was a strong belief inMelmotte. The clubs thought that he would be returned for Westminster. The dukes and duchesses fêted him. The city, --even the city was showinga wavering disposition to come round. Bishops begged for his name onthe list of promoters of their pet schemes. Royalty without stint wasto dine at his table. Melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand ofthe brother of the Sun and of the uncle of the Moon, and BritishRoyalty was to be arranged opposite, so that every one might seem tohave the place of most honour. How could a conscientious Editor of a'Morning Breakfast Table, ' seeing how things were going, do other thansupport Mr Melmotte? In fair justice it may be well doubted whetherLady Carbury had exercised any influence in the matter. 

But the 'Evening Pulpit' took the other side. Now this was the moreremarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch as the'Evening Pulpit' had never supported the Liberal interest. As was saidin the first chapter of this work, the motto of that newspaper impliedthat it was to be conducted on principles of absolute independence. Had the 'Evening Pulpit, ' like some of its contemporaries, lived bydeclaring from day to day that all Liberal elements were godlike, andall their opposites satanic, as a matter of course the same line ofargument would have prevailed as to the Westminster election. But asit had not been so, the vigour of the 'Evening Pulpit' on thisoccasion was the more alarming and the more noticeable, --so that theshort articles which appeared almost daily in reference to Mr Melmottewere read by everybody. Now they who are concerned in the manufactureof newspapers are well aware that censure is infinitely moreattractive than eulogy, --but they are quite as well aware that it ismore dangerous. No proprietor or editor was ever brought before thecourts at the cost of ever so many hundred pounds, --which if things gobadly may rise to thousands, --because he had attributed all but divinityto some very poor specimen of mortality. No man was ever called uponfor damages because he had attributed grand motives. It might be wellfor politics and Literature and art, --and for truth in general, if itwas possible to do so, but a new law of libel must be enacted beforesuch salutary proceedings can take place. Censure on the other hand isopen to very grave perils. Let the Editor have been ever soconscientious, ever so beneficent, --even ever so true, --let it be everso 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 amoment been allured from public to private matters, --and he may still bein danger of ruin. A very long purse, or else a very high courage isneeded for the exposure of such conduct as the 'Evening Pulpit'attributed to Mr Melmotte. The paper took up this line suddenly. Afterthe second article Mr Alf sent back to Mr Miles Grendall, who in thematter was acting as Mr Melmotte's secretary, the ticket of invitationfor the dinner, with a note from Mr Alf stating that circumstancesconnected with the forthcoming election for Westminster could notpermit him to have the great honour of dining at Mr Melmotte's tablein the presence of the Emperor of China. Miles Grendall showed thenote to the dinner committee, and, without consultation with MrMelmotte, it was decided that the ticket should be sent to the Editorof a thorough-going Conservative journal. This conduct on the part ofthe 'Evening Pulpit' astonished the world considerably; but the worldwas more astonished when it was declared that Mr Ferdinand Alf himselfwas going to stand for Westminster on the Liberal interest. 

Various suggestions were made. Some said that as Mr Alf had a largeshare in the newspaper, and as its success was now an establishedfact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious position whichhe filled, and was therefore free to go into Parliament. Others wereof opinion that this was the beginning of a new era in literature, ofa new order of things, and that from this time forward editors wouldfrequently be found in Parliament, if editors were employed ofsufficient influence in the world to find constituencies. Mr Brounewhispered confidentially to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool forhis pains, and that he was carried away by pride. 'Very clever, --anddashing, ' said Mr Broune, 'but he never had ballast. ' Lady Carburyshook her head. She did not want to give up Mr Alf if she could helpit. He had never said a civil word of her in his paper;--but still shehad an idea that it was well to be on good terms with so great apower. She entertained a mysterious awe for Mr Alf, --much in excess ofany similar feeling excited by Mr Broune, in regard to whom her awehad been much diminished since he had made her an offer of marriage. Her sympathies as to the election of course were with Mr Melmotte. Shebelieved in him thoroughly. She still thought that his nod might bethe means of making Felix, --or if not his nod, then his money withoutthe nod. 

'I suppose he is very rich, ' she said, speaking to Mr Brounerespecting Mr Alf. 

'I dare say he has put by something. But this election will cost him£10, 000;--and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allowanother £10, 000 for action for libel. They've already declared thatthey will indict the paper. '

'Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?' This was amatter as to which Mr Melmotte was supposed to have retired from Parisnot with clean hands. 

'I don't believe the "Evening Pulpit" can prove it, --and I'm sure thatthey can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or fourthousand pounds. That's a game in which nobody wins but the lawyers. Iwonder at Alf. I should have thought that he would have known how toget all said that he wanted to have said without running with his headinto the lion's mouth. He has been so clever up to this! God knows hehas been bitter enough, but he has always sailed within the wind. '

Mr Alf had a powerful committee. By this time an animus in regard tothe election had been created strong enough to bring out the men onboth sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there might only havebeen a warmth or, possibly, frigidity. The Whig Marquises and the WhigBarons came forward, and with them the liberal professional men, andthe tradesmen who had found that party to answer best, and thedemocratical mechanics. If Melmotte's money did not, at last, utterlydemoralise the lower class of voters, there would still be a goodfight. And there was a strong hope that, under the ballot, Melmotte'smoney might be taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting. It was found upon trial that Mr Alf was a good speaker. And though hestill conducted the 'Evening Pulpit', he made time for addressingmeetings of the constituency almost daily. And in his speeches henever spared Melmotte. No one, he said, had a greater reverence formercantile grandeur than himself. But let them take care that thegrandeur was grand. How great would be the disgrace to such a boroughas that of Westminster if it should find that it had been taken in bya false spirit of speculation and that it had surrendered itself togambling when it had thought to do honour to honest commerce. This, connected, as of course it was, with the articles in the paper, wasregarded as very open speaking. And it had its effect. Some men beganto say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to deserveconfidence in his riches, and the Lord Mayor was already beginning tothink that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse. 

Melmotte's committee was also very grand. If Alf was supported byMarquises and Barons, he was supported by Dukes and Earls. But hisspeaking in public did not of itself inspire much confidence. He hadvery little to say when he attempted to explain the politicalprinciples on which he intended to act. After a little he confinedhimself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the otherside, and even in doing that was reiterative rather than diffusive. Let them prove it. He defied them to prove it. Englishmen were toogreat, too generous, too honest, too noble, --the men of Westminsterespecially were a great deal too highminded to pay any attention tosuch charges as these till they were proved. Then he began again. Letthem prove it. Such accusations as these were mere lies till they wereproved. He did not say much himself in public as to actions forlibel, --but assurances were made on his behalf to the electors, especially by Lord Alfred Grendall and his son, that as soon as theelection was over all speakers and writers would be indicted for libel, who should be declared by proper legal advice to have made themselvesliable to such action. The 'Evening Pulpit' and Mr Alf would of coursebe the first victims. 

The dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th. The election for theborough was to be held on Tuesday the 9th. It was generally thoughtthat the proximity of the two days had been arranged with the view ofenhancing Melmotte's expected triumph. But such in truth, was not thecase. It had been an accident, and an accident that was distressing tosome of the Melmottites. There was much to be done about the dinner, --which could not be omitted; and much also as to the election, --whichwas imperative. The two Grendalls, father and son, found themselves tobe so driven that the world seemed for them to be turned topsy-turvy. The elder had in old days been accustomed to electioneering in theinterest of his own family, and had declared himself willing to makehimself useful on behalf of Mr Melmotte. But he found Westminster tobe almost too much for him. He was called here and sent there, till hewas very near rebellion. 'If this goes on much longer I shall cut it, 'he said to his son. 

'Think of me, governor, ' said the son 'I have to be in the city fouror five times a week. '

'You've a regular salary. '

'Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. What's my salary tothe shares you've had? The thing is;--will it last?'

'How last?'

'There are a good many who say that Melmotte will burst up. '

'I don't believe it, ' said Lord Alfred. 'They don't know what they'retalking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burstup. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell himafter this that he must make it easier. He wants to know who's to haveevery ticket for the dinner, and there's nobody to tell him except me. And I've got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help me exceptthat fellow from the Herald's office. I don't know about people'srank. Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a fellowwho writes books?' Miles suggested that the fellow from the Herald'soffice would know all about that, and that his father need not troublehimself with petty details. 

'And you shall come to us for three days, --after it's over, ' said LadyMonogram to Miss Longestaffe; a proposition to which Miss Longestaffeacceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as though a favour hadbeen conferred upon her. Now the reason why Lady Monogram had changedher mind as to inviting her old friend, and thus threw open herhospitality for three whole days to the poor young lady who haddisgraced herself by staying with the Melmottes, was as follows. MissLongestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for MadameMelmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the Melmottes risen ingeneral appreciation that Lady Monogram had found that she was bound, on behalf of her own position in society, to be present on thatoccasion. It would not do that her name should not be in the printedlist of the guests. Therefore she had made a serviceable bargain withher old friend Miss Longestaffe. She was to have her two tickets forthe reception, and Miss Longestaffe was to be received for three daysas a guest by Lady Monogram. It had also been conceded that at anyrate on one of these nights Lady Monogram should take Miss Longestaffeout with her, and that she should herself receive company on another. There was perhaps something slightly painful at the commencement ofthe negotiation; but such feelings soon fade away, and Lady Monogramwas quite a woman of the world. 

CHAPTER XLV - Mr MELMOTTE IS PRESSED FOR TIME

About this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election, MrLongestaffe came up to town and saw Mr Melmotte very frequently. Hecould not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to thegreat financier, nor had he any establishment in town; but he slept atan hotel and lived at the Carlton. He was quite delighted to find thathis new friend was an honest Conservative, and he himself proposed thehonest Conservative at the club. There was some idea of electing MrMelmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club could not gobeyond its rule, and could only admit Mr Melmotte out of his regularturn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the House of Commons. MrMelmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was heard to declarethat if the club did not take him when he was willing to be taken, itmight do without him. If not elected at once, he should withdraw hisname. So great was his prestige at this moment with his own party thatthere were some, Mr Longestaffe among the number, who pressed thething on the committee. Mr Melmotte was not like other men. It was agreat thing to have Mr Melmotte in the party. Mr Melmotte's financialcapabilities would in themselves be a tower of strength. Rules werenot made to control the club in a matter of such importance as this. Anoble lord, one among seven who had been named as a fit leader of theUpper House on the Conservative side in the next session, was asked totake the matter up; and men thought that the thing might have beendone had he complied. But he was old-fashioned, perhaps pig-headed;and the club for the time lost the honour of entertaining Mr Melmotte. 

It may be remembered that Mr Longestaffe had been anxious to becomeone of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was rathersnubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to Mr Melmotte. Like other great men, Mr Melmotte liked to choose his own time forbestowing favours. Since that request was made the proper time hadcome, and he had now intimated to Mr Longestaffe that in a somewhataltered condition of things there would be a place for him at theBoard, and that he and his brother directors would be delighted toavail themselves of his assistance. The alliance between Mr Melmotteand Mr Longestaffe had become very close. The Melmottes had visitedthe Longestaffes at Caversham. Georgiana Longestaffe was staying withMadame Melmotte in London. The Melmottes were living in MrLongestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month at a very highrent. Mr Longestaffe now had a seat at Mr Melmotte's board. And MrMelmotte had bought Mr Longestaffe's estate at Pickering on terms veryfavourable to the Longestaffes. It had been suggested to MrLongestaffe by Mr Melmotte that he had better qualify for his seat atthe Board by taking shares in the Company to the amount of--perhaps twoor three thousand pounds, and Mr Longestaffe had of course consented. There would be no need of any transaction in absolute cash. The sharescould of course be paid for out of Mr Longestaffe's half of thepurchase money for Pickering Park, and could remain for the present inMr Melmotte's hands. To this also Mr Longestaffe had consented, notquite understanding why the scrip should not be made over to him atonce. 

It was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that noready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. Great purchaseswere made and great transactions apparently completed without thesigning even of a cheque. Mr Longestaffe found himself to be afraideven to give a hint to Mr Melmotte about ready money. In speaking ofall such matters Melmotte seemed to imply that everything necessaryhad been done, when he had said that it was done. Pickering had beenpurchased and the title-deeds made over to Mr Melmotte; but the£80, 000 had not been paid, --had not been absolutely paid, though ofcourse Mr Melmotte's note assenting to the terms was securitysufficient for any reasonable man. The property had been mortgaged, though not heavily, and Mr Melmotte had no doubt satisfied themortgagee; but there was still a sum of £50, 000 to come, of whichDolly was to have one half and the other was to be employed in payingoff Mr Longestaffe's debts to tradesmen and debts to the bank. Itwould have been very pleasant to have had this at once, --but MrLongestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing such a man as Mr Melmotte, and was partly conscious of the gradual consummation of a new era inmoney matters. 'If your banker is pressing you, refer him to me, ' MrMelmotte had said. As for many years past we have exchanged paperinstead of actual money for our commodities, so now it seemed that, under the new Melmotte regime, an exchange of words was to suffice. 

But Dolly wanted his money. Dolly, idle as he was, foolish as he was, dissipated as he was and generally indifferent to his debts, liked tohave what belonged to him. It had all been arranged. £5, 000 would payoff all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed ofmoney in hand, while the other £20, 000 would make his own propertyfree. There was a charm in this which awakened even Dolly, and for thetime almost reconciled him to his father's society. But now a shade ofimpatience was coming over him. He had actually gone down to Cavershamto arrange the terms with his father, --and had in fact made his ownterms. His father had been unable to move him, and had consequentlysuffered much in spirit. Dolly had been almost triumphant, --thinkingthat the money would come on the next day, or at any rate during thenext week. Now he came to his father early in the morning, --at about twoo'clock, --to inquire what was being done. He had not as yet been madeblessed with a single ten-pound note in his hand, as the result of thesale. 

'Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?' he asked somewhat abruptly. 

'Yes;--I'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to theBoard. '

'You're going in for that, are you, sir? Do they pay anything?'

'I believe not. '

'Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it. It's a sort of Beargardenaffair. '

'A bear-garden affair, Adolphus. How so?'

'I mean the club. We had them all there for dinner one day, and ajolly dinner we gave them. Miles Grendall and old Alfred belong to it. I don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going. I'dmake them fork out something if I took the trouble of going all thatway. '

'I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things. '

'No, I don't. I don't understand much about business, I know. What Iwant to understand is, when Melmotte is going to pay up this money. '

'I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks, ' said the father. 

'I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. You'dbetter tell him not. A cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to mineis about the best thing going. You'll be in the city to-morrow, andyou'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get Squercumto do it. ' Mr Squercum was a lawyer whom Dolly had employed of lateyears much to the annoyance of his parent. Mr Squercum's name wasodious to Mr Longestaffe. 

'I beg you'll do nothing of the kind. It will be very foolish if youdo;--perhaps ruinous. '

'Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else, ' said Dolly as he leftthe room. The father knew the son, and was quite sure that Squercumwould have his finger in the pie unless the money were paid quickly. When Dolly had taken an idea into his head, no power on earth, --nopower at least of which the father could avail himself, --would turnhim. 

On that same day Melmotte received two visits in the city from two ofhis fellow directors. At the time he was very busy. Though hiselectioneering speeches were neither long nor pithy, still he had tothink of them beforehand. Members of his Committee were always tryingto see him. Orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the housecould not be given by Lord Alfred without some reference to him. Andthen those gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in thelast chapter could not be adjusted without much labour on his part. His hands were not empty, but still he saw each of these young men, --for a few minutes. 'My dear young friend, what can I do for you?' hesaid to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so that Sir Felix also shouldremain standing. 

'About that money, Mr Melmotte?'

'What money, my dear fellow? You see that a good many money matterspass through my hands. '

'The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, and asthe shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back. '

'It was only the other day you had £200, ' said Melmotte, showing thathe could apply his memory to small transactions when he pleased. 

'Exactly;--and you might as well let me have the £800. '

'I've ordered the shares;--gave the order to my broker the other day. '

'Then I'd better take the shares, ' said Sir Felix, feeling that itmight very probably be that day fortnight before he could start forNew York. 'Could I get them, Mr Melmotte?'

'My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of mytime when you come to me about such an affair as this. '

'I'd like to have the money or the shares, ' said Sir Felix, who wasnot specially averse to quarrelling with Mr Melmotte now that he hadresolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York in directopposition to his written promise. Their quarrel would be sothoroughly internecine when the departure should be discovered, thatany present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. What Felixthought of now was simply his money, and the best means of getting itout of Melmotte's hands. 

'You're a spendthrift, ' said Melmotte, apparently relenting, 'and I'mafraid a gambler. I suppose I must give you £200 more on account. '

Sir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented totake the sum offered. As he pocketed the cheque he asked for the nameof the brokers who were employed to buy the shares. But here Melmottedemurred 'No, my friend, ' said Melmotte; 'you are only entitled toshares for £600 pounds now. I will see that the thing is put right. 'So Sir Felix departed with £200 only. Marie had said that she couldget £200. Perhaps if he bestirred himself and wrote to some of Miles'sbig relations he could obtain payment of a part of that gentleman'sdebt to him. 

Sir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul Montaguecoming up. Carbury, on the spur of the moment, thought that he would'take a rise' as he called it out of Montague. 'What's this I hearabout a lady at Islington?' he asked. 

'Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?'

'A little bird. There are always little birds about telling of ladies. I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on your coming marriage. '

'Then you've been told an infernal falsehood, ' said Montague passingon. 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. ' As hewas waiting in Melmotte's outer room while the duke's nephew went into see whether it was the great man's pleasure to see him, heremembered whence Carbury must have heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle. Ofcourse the rumour had come through Ruby Ruggles. 

Miles Grendall brought out word that the great man would see MrMontague; but he added a caution. 'He's awfully full of work justnow, --you won't forget that;--will you?' Montague assured the duke'snephew that he would be concise, and was shown in. 

'I should not have troubled you, ' said Paul, 'only that I understoodthat I was to see you before the Board met. '

'Exactly;--of course. It was quite necessary, --only you see I am alittle busy. If this d----d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. It's adeal easier to make a treaty with an Emperor, than to give him a dinner;I can tell you that. Well;--let me see. Oh;--I was proposing that youshould go out to Pekin?'

'To Mexico. '

'Yes, yes;--to Mexico. I've so many things running in my head! Well;--if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up something ofinstructions. You'd know better, however, than we can tell you, whatto do. You'll see Fisker, of course. You and Fisker will manage it. The chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh? We must getthat passed at the next Board. '

Mr Melmotte had been so quick that Montague had been unable tointerrupt him. 'There need be no trouble about that, Mr Melmotte, as Ihave made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go. '

'Oh, indeed!'

There had been a shade of doubt on Montague's mind, till the tone inwhich Melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his ears. Thereference to the expenses disgusted him altogether. 'No;--even did I seemy way to do any good in America my duties here would not becompatible with the undertaking. '

'I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? What good areyou doing the Company? If you do stay, I hope you'll be unanimous;that's all;--or perhaps you intend to go out. If that's it, I'll look toyour money. I think I told you that before. '

'That, Mr Melmotte, is what I should prefer. '

'Very well, --very well. I'll arrange it. Sorry to lose you, --that'sall. Miles, isn't Mr Goldsheiner waiting to see me?'

'You're a little too quick, Mr Melmotte, ' said Paul. 

'A man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir. '

'But I must be precise. I cannot tell you as a fact that I shallwithdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend withwhom I am consulting. I hardly yet know what my duty may be. '

'I'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty. It cannot be your dutyto make known out of that Board-room any of the affairs of theCompany which you have learned in that Board-room. It cannot be yourduty to divulge the circumstances of the Company or any differenceswhich may exist between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman whois a stranger to the Company. It cannot be your duty. '

'Thank you, Mr Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I cansee my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board withoutunderstanding what duties I should have to perform--. '

'Very much in fault, I should say, ' replied Melmotte, whose arrogancein the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him. 

'But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or howfar I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do notwant advice from you. '

'Very well;--very well. I can't ask you to stay, because a partner fromthe house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is waiting to see me, about matters which are rather more important than this of yours. 'Montague had said what he had to say, and departed. 

On the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the meeting ofthe Board of Directors, old Mr Longestaffe called in Abchurch Lane. Hewas received very civilly by Miles Grendall, and asked to sit down. MrMelmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over to theoffices of the railway, and introduce him to the Board. MrLongestaffe, with some shyness, intimated his desire to have a fewmoments conversation with the chairman before the Board met. Fearinghis son, especially fearing Squercum, he had made up his mind tosuggest that the little matter about Pickering Park should be settled. Miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him, but thatat the present moment the chief secretary of the Russian Legation waswith Mr Melmotte. Either the chief secretary was very tedious with hisbusiness, or else other big men must have come in, for Mr Longestaffewas not relieved till he was summoned to walk off to the Board fiveminutes after the hour at which the Board should have met. He thoughtthat he could explain his views in the street; but on the stairs theywere joined by Mr Cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in theBoard room. Mr Longestaffe was then presented, and took the chairopposite to Miles Grendall. Montague was not there, but had sent aletter to the secretary explaining that for reasons with which thechairman was acquainted he should absent himself from the presentmeeting. 'All right, ' said Melmotte. 'I know all about it. Go on. I'mnot sure but that Mr Montague's retirement from among us may be anadvantage. He could not be made to understand that unanimity in suchan enterprise as this is essential. I am confident that the newdirector whom I have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day willnot sin in the same direction. ' Then Mr Melmotte bowed and smiled verysweetly on Mr Longestaffe. 

Mr Longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was done, and how very little he had been called on to do. Miles Grendall hadread something out of a book which he had been unable to follow. Thenthe chairman had read some figures. Mr Cohenlupe had declared thattheir prosperity was unprecedented;--and the Board was over. When MrLongestaffe explained to Miles Grendall that he still wished to speakto Mr Melmotte, Miles explained to him that the chairman had beenobliged to run off to a meeting of gentlemen connected with theinterior of Africa, which was now being held at the Cannon StreetHotel. 

CHAPTER XLVI - ROGER CARBURY AND HIS TWO FRIENDS

Roger Carbury, having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained thatshe was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt, returned to Carbury. He had given the girl his advice, and had doneso in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. He had frightenedher, and had also frightened Mrs Pipkin. He had taught Mrs Pipkin tobelieve that the new dispensation was not yet so completelyestablished as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece'sconduct. Having done so much, and feeling that there was no more tobe done, he returned home. It was out of the question that he shouldtake Ruby with him. In the first place she would not have gone. Andthen, --had she gone, --he would not have known where to bestow her. For it was now understood throughout Bungay, --and the news had spreadto Beccles, --that old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that hisgranddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm. The squire on his return home heard all the news from his ownhousekeeper. John Crumb had been at the farm and there had been afierce quarrel between him and the old man. The old man had calledRuby by every name that is most distasteful to a woman, and John hadstormed and had sworn that he would have punched the old man's headbut for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby, --or if he didhe was ready to forgive that harm. But as for the Baro-nite;--theBaro-nite had better look to himself! Old Ruggles had declared thatRuby should never have a shilling of his money;-hereupon Crumb hadanathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he wasan old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty. Roger at once sent over to Bungay for the dealer in meal, who waswith him early on the following morning. 

'Did ye find her, squoire?'

'Oh, yes, Mr Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, MrsPipkin, at Islington. '

'Eh, now;--look at that. '

'You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London. '

'Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire. I a' heard tell of Mrs Pipkin, but Inever see'd her. '

'I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there. ' JohnCrumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming ofhis own intellect. 'Of course if she was to go to London it was theproper thing for her to do. '

'I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. Darnedif I didn't. You ask Mixet, squoire, --him as is baker down Bardsey Lane. I allays guy' it her that she'd do the thing as was right. But howabout she and the Baro-nite?'

Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. 'I supposethe old man down here did ill-use her?'

'Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged herabout awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. D'yethink she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, MusterCarbury?'

'I think she's a good girl, if you mean that. '

'I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire. Tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. Iallays had a leaning to you, squoire; but I'll more nor lean to you, now. I've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in Bungaysaid she warn't--; well, I was there and ready. '

'I hope nobody has said so. '

'You can't stop them women, squoire. There ain't no dropping intothem. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my houseto-morrow, and what'll it matter her then what they say? But, squoiredid ye hear if the Baro-nite had been a' hanging about that place?'

'About Islington, you mean. '

'He goes a hanging about; he do. He don't come out straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. There ain't onein Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals and allthe Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles. Huggery-Muggeryis pi'son to me, squoire. '

'We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up yourmind. '

'I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is heraunt now, squoire?'

'She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say. '

'She won't let the Baro-nite come there?'

'Certainly not, ' said Roger, who felt that he was hardly dealingsincerely with this most sincere of meal-men. Hitherto he had shuffledoff every question that had been asked him about Felix, though he knewthat Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. 'Mrs Pipkinwon't let him come there. '

'If I was to give her a ge'own now, --or a blue cloak;--themlodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawerslike, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?'

'I think she'll try to do her duty without that. '

'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. '

'I wouldn't go just yet, Mr Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't forgottenthe scene at the farm yet. '

'I said nothing as wasn't as kind as kind. '

'But her own perversity runs in her own head. If you had been unkindshe could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she wascross, she can't forgive that. ' John Crumb again scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gaugingthan he had yet given to it. 'And to tell you the truth, my friend, Ithink that a little hardship up at Mrs Pipkin's will do her good. '

'Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?' asked John Crumb, with intenseanxiety. 

'I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But ofcourse she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or fourchildren to look after. '

'That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?' said JohnCrumb grinning. 

'As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her inanother sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should notbe surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house inBungay was more comfortable than Mrs Pipkin's kitchen in London. '

'My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster, mostas big as any in Bungay. '

'I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows itherself. Let her think about all that, --and do you go and tell her againin a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters then thanshe is now. '

'But the Baro-nite!'

'Mrs Pipkin will allow nothing of that. '

'Girls is so 'cute. Ruby is awful 'cute. It makes me feel as though Ihad two hun'erdweight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights andthinking as how he is, may be, --pulling of her about! If I thought thatshe'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury. They'd have tomake an eend o' me at Bury, if it was that way. They would then. '

Roger assured him again and again that he believed Ruby to be a goodgirl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce MrsPipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made nopromise that he would abstain from his journey to London afterSaxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that hispurpose of doing so was shaken. He was still however resolved to sendMrs Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose ofgetting Mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order. JohnCrumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in literaryacquirements. He was able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, butdid little beyond that in the way of writing letters. 

This happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon RogerCarbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church mattersat which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting was over hedined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or threeneighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the longstrand which has made Lowestoft what it is. It was now just the endof June, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not as yetflocking to the sea-shore. Every shopkeeper in every little townthrough the country now follows the fashion set by Parliament andabstains from his annual holiday till August or September. The placetherefore was by no means full. Here and there a few of thetownspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to thesea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion, had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which hadbeen described as being small and insignificant, --and making up only ahundred beds. Roger Carbury, whose house was not many miles distantfrom Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiterthere for a while when any cause brought him into the town. Now he waswalking close down upon the marge of the tide, --so that the last littleroll of the rising water should touch his feet, --with his hands joinedbehind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when hecame upon a couple who were standing with their backs to the land, looking forth together upon the waves. He was close to them before hesaw them, and before they had seen him. Then he perceived that the manwas his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on Paul's arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark straw hat on her head;--very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossibleto pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs Hurtle. 

Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly hadbeen natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when faulthad been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sandswhich were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot whichMrs Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken downout of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to becharmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had hadno right to expect that Mrs Pipkin should understand what sort ofplace she needed. But Paul would understand, --and had understood. 'Ithink the hotel charming, ' she said. 'I don't know what you mean byyour fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!' Hotel people always are civil before thecrowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return toLondon by the mail train which started about an hour after hisarrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and ofcourse he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothingin the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Ofcourse he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; butwas indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very triteraptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples whichconnected shore with shore. Mrs Hurtle, too, as she leaned withfriendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouringcare, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to behung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like thecompanionship of Mrs Hurtle because her attire, though simple, wasbecoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of thebrightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and thedangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of herclose vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from herhair, --though he would have given all that he possessed that she hadbeen removed from him by some impassable gulf. As he had to be hanged, --and this woman's continued presence would be as bad as death to him, --he liked to have his meal well dressed. 

He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and theclose neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;--and now he felt his folly. Assoon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and thenleaving Mrs Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with hisfriend. 'It is Mrs Hurtle, ' he said, 'I must introduce you, ' and theintroduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did sowith the coldest ceremony. Mrs Hurtle, who was quick enough atgathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold inher acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard muchof Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. 'I didnot know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft, ' said Rogerin a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the presentmoment was severe, and he could not hide his mind. 

'I was not thinking of it. Mrs Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and asshe knew no one else here in England, I brought her. '

'Mr Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now, 'she said, 'that a few additional will not make much difference. '

'Do you stay long?' asked Roger in the same voice. 

'I go back probably on Monday, ' said Montague. 

'As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to anyone after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on mefor two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr Carbury, this evening?'

'Thank you, madam;--I have dined. '

'Then, Mr Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dineyou know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to joinus. ' So saying, Mrs Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards thehotel. 

'Is this wise?' demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing. 

'You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it sothoroughly as I do. '

'Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?'

'No; certainly not. '

'Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with herin this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?'

'I have told her that I would not. I have told her--. ' Then he stopped. He was going on to declare that he had told her that he loved anotherwoman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speakingto Roger Carbury. 

'What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?'

'I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you wouldnever have the patience to hear me. '

'I am not naturally impatient. '

'But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that itmust be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not boundto go to her?'

'Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter. '

'I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it. '

'Then you should have left her. '

'Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert herin her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could notdesert her. '

'I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourselfto be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasonswhich we will not go into now but which we both thought to beadequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you wouldbe justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living withthe lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose thatyour old promise holds good. '

'She does not think so. She cannot think so. '

'Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, tobe here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why Ishould trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that Idon't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right tocomplain. '

'For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds asthough you meant to throw me over. '

'I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here tothis hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are notgoing to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it, ofcourse I could have turned the other way. But coming on you byaccident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak, whatam I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marryingyou. '

'Never. '

'And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she isgood-looking. '

'Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of hercountry are not as the manners of this country. '

'Then if I marry at all, ' said Roger, with all his prejudice expressedstrongly in his voice, 'I trust I may not marry a lady of her country. She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes downhere and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it. I believe you, butI don't believe her. She is here with you in order that she may marryyou. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. Believing asI do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell her mymind, --and leave her. ' Paul at the moment thought of the gentleman inOregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. 'That's what I shoulddo. You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner. '

'I may come to the hall as I go back home?'

'Certainly you may come if you please, ' said Roger. Then he bethoughthimself that his welcome had not been cordial. 'I mean that I shall bedelighted to see you, ' he added, marching away along the strand. Pauldid go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. In the meantime RogerCarbury marched far away along the strand. In all that he had said toMontague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to bethe truth. He had not been influenced for a moment by any reference tohis own affairs. And yet he feared, he almost knew, that this man, --who had promised to marry a strange American woman and who was at thisvery moment living in close intercourse with the woman after he hadtold her that he would not keep his promise, --was the chief barrierbetween himself and the girl that he loved. As he had listened to JohnCrumb while John spoke of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that heand John Crumb were alike. With an honest, true, heartfelt desirethey both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom eachhad chosen. And each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard ofunworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb, by dogged perseveranceand indifference to many things, would probably be successful at last. But what chance was there of success for him? Ruby, as soon as want orhardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could betrusted to provide her with plenty and comparative ease. But HettaCarbury, if once her heart had passed from her own dominion into thepossession of another, would never change her love. It was possible, no doubt, --nay, how probable, --that her heart was still vacillating. Rogerthought that he knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared herlove. If she were now to know, --if she could now learn, --of what naturewas the love of this other man; if she could be instructed that he wasliving alone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry, --if she could be made to understand this whole story of Mrs Hurtle, would not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she couldtrust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would certainlybe shipwrecked!

'Never, ' said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beachwith his stick. 'Never. ' Then he got his horse and rode back toCarbury Manor. 

CHAPTER XLVII - MRS HURTLE AT LOWESTOFT

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 thecover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and made herselfespecially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everythingwas not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner. He almost knew that she wasonly waiting till the man should have left the room to speak in adifferent strain. And so it was. As soon as the last lingering dishhad been removed, and when the door was finally shut behind theretreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been onher mind since she had walked across the strand to the hotel. 'Yourfriend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?'

'Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was truethat he had dined. '

'I am quite indifferent about his dinner, --but there are two ways ofdeclining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimateterms with you?'

'Oh, yes. '

'Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. Inpoint of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?' To this questionMontague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediateanswer. 'I can well understand that it should be so. An intimatefriend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence. But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to hisfriend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told methat Mr Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman. '

'So he is. '

'Then why didn't he behave as such?' and Mrs Hurtle again smiled. 'Didnot you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority overyou?'

'Of course he has not. What authority could he have?'

'Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-goingcountry young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are pastthirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that heintended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he didafter I had gone. '

This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was hesure that it would be well that he should deny it. The time must come, and why not now as well as at any future moment? He had to make herunderstand that he could not join his lot with her, --chiefly indeedbecause his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardlyinsist because she could allege that she had a prior right to hisheart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to cause allhis friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he plucked upcourage for the battle. 'It was nearly that, ' he said. 

There are many--and probably the greater portion of my readers will beamong the number, --who will declare to themselves that Paul Montague wasa poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance to face thiswoman with the truth. His folly in falling at first under the batteryof her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement, unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his engagement, will bepardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, will feel that it wasnatural that he should have been charmed, natural that he should haveexpressed his admiration in the form which unmarried ladies expectfrom unmarried men when any such expression is to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to escape from the dilemma whenhe found the manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed totake. No woman, I think, will be hard upon him because of his breachof faith to Mrs Hurtle. But they will be very hard on him on the scoreof his cowardice, --as, I think, unjustly. In social life we hardly stopto consider how much of that daring spirit which gives mastery comesfrom hardness of heart rather than from high purpose, or true courage. The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to herdaughter, the master who succumbs to his servant, is as often broughtto servility by a continual aversion to the giving of pain, by asoftness which causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony tohimself, --as by any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious onemay have produced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of themind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of thetroubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin tofear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with absolutefirmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so stronglyas to assert itself. With this man it was not really that. He fearedthe woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to besilent; but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utterdesertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bringhimself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go. But that was what he had to do. And for that his answer to her lastquestion prepared the way. 'It was nearly that, ' he said. 

'Mr Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showingyourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?'

'He knew of the letter which I wrote to you. '

'You have canvassed me between you?'

'Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me be silentabout you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the world?'

'No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and bestfriend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should nothave supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travellingwith you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your ownactions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes holdthemselves at the disposal of their friends, --but I did not dream thatsuch could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world tomake his fortune. '

Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was beingcommenced. 'Of course you can say bitter things, ' he replied. 

'Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitterthings to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn thatyou should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and Ihave to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say butone word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will besoon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr Carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speakbut that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you rememberhow urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that yourhappiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though I lovedyou, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which have nowvanished. But I spoke it, --because I loved you, and because I believedyou. Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my giftto you. '

'I cannot say that word. '

'Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove?I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like that. No manhas ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall dare. '

'I wrote to you. '

'Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I thinkbut little of my life and have but little for which to live. But whileI do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice andto expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote to me! Heavenand earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!' Sheclenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she lookedat him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance. 'Wroteto me! Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by whichwe were bound together? Had not the distance between us seemed to havemade you safe would you have dared to write that letter? The lettermust be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct tome since I have been in this country. '

'I am sorry to hear you say that. '

'Am I not justified in saying it?'

'I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I havebeen wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it. '

'This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with thepurpose. Had you told him you were to be here?'

'His coming was an accident. '

'It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to me?Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all thatis required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue thematter out with your--friend, Mr Carbury. '

'What has to be said, I believe I can say myself. '

'Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it that the words stick in yourthroat?'

'There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say thatwhich will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had Ibeen fairly careful. '

Then he paused. 'Don't spare me, ' she said. 'I know what it all is aswell as though it were already told. I know the lies with which theyhave crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at myfeet. ' Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him. 'Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate totell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dyingwretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunkenscreech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heapjust below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alonethat I could save myself, --and that had I spared him, I must afterwardshave destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me forhis murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hemsof my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing ofsuch necessity. A woman here is protected, --unless it be from lies. '

'It was not that only, ' he whispered. 

'No; they told you other things, ' she continued, still standing overhim. 'They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, andwho made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of myformer husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and ascoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you canhardly know what my life has been. '

'They told me that--you fought him. '

'Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are youto do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud andtreachery, --when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but forfighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about aduel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went awayto the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That wasthe duel. And they have told you that he is not dead. '

'Yes;--they have told me that. '

'Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen him dead. How should I?'

'There would be a certificate. '

'Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from Galveston!And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him according tothe law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make a woman freehere to marry again, --and why not with us? I sued for a divorce on thescore of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Courtgranted it me. Am I disgraced by that?'

'I heard nothing of the divorce. '

'I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before, youdid not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to hearlittle or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become moreparticular. I told you that he was dead, --as I believed myself, and dobelieve. Whether the other story was told or not I do not know. '

'It was not told. '

'Then it was your own fault, --because you would not listen. And theyhave made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back myproperty?'

'I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself havesaid unasked. I have asked no question about your property. '

'You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir, what else is there? I think I have been open with you. Is it becauseI protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? AmI to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of areprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--orbecause by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am notto be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned. '

She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but indoing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to shootingthe man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoota man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her husband, --she hadhalf denied and half confessed it. He presumed that she had been armedwith a pistol when she refused Mr Hurtle admittance into the nuptialchamber. As to the question of Hurtle's death, --she had confessed thatperhaps he was not dead. But then, --as she had asked, --why should not adivorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death? Hecould not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from thestory as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her? She hadseen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and haddone so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might wellhesitate before he assumed to be her master. 'I do not condemn you, 'he replied. 

'At any rate, Paul, do not lie, ' she answered. 'If you tell me thatyou will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?'

'I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--'

'Well--rather. How often before I consented?'

'It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have sincesatisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both ofus. '

'You have. '

'I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of meas you please. I can hardly defend myself. '

'Hardly, I think. '

'But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for thebest in declaring that I will not become--your husband. '

'You will not?' She was still standing, and stretched out her righthand as though again to grasp something. 

He also now rose from his chair. 'If I speak with abruptness it isonly to avoid a show of indecision. I will not. '

'Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man afterman false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bearit! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is itthat you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak forherself, --and even act for herself if some action be necessary? Perhapsyou think that I am--old. ' He was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face. Itwas full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery wasgone, and the colour was fixed and her eyes seemed to be deep in herhead. 'Speak, man, --is it that you want a younger wife?'

'You know it is not. '

'Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what youtell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from yourcharacter. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came toyou, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between meand him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing whatyou would be at, from anything that you would say, --that is impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh, fool!--that men shouldbe so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! My last word toyou is, that you are--a liar. Now for the present you can go. Tenminutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shotanother man. '

Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not butthink that perhaps Mrs Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed atany rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her, --though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the presentoccasion. 'I will say good-bye to you, ' he said, when he had found hishat. 

'Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me. Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy. Tell methat an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman. Youwould, --were you not afraid to indulge yourself. ' He was now standingin the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperativecommand. 'I shall not stay here now, ' she said--'I shall return onMonday. I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what Imyself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking a means ofpunishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to come to me onMonday. '

He closed the door as he answered her. 'I do not see that it willserve any purpose. '

'It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much acoward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you;and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myselfand to tell my story. ' He ended by saying that if she desired it hewould wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. Onhis return to town he would write to her. 

When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then sheclosed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the doorand with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, andfalling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table. Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling uponthe floor. 

Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never haveone draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end tothe storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that shehad said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth, --as which among us would in giving the story of his life? She hadendured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed against, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which had befallenher. But in regard to money, she had been honest and she had beenloving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this youngEnglishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with allher charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey wouldthis be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone!

But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that ofdisappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she hadpoured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm ofabuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after allsomething counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was nocounterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and takenher in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessedhim also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of violenceand rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs the oldhabit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the wrongs, ifshe could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all thegenuine kindness of her woman's nature, --then, she thought she could putaway violence and be gentle as a young girl. When she first met thisEnglishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she hadventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. But thereek 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 muzzleagainst her own bosom. 

After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had toldherself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter firstreached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural. Inmarrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old haunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough of herself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past life shouldbe known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in England. Withall the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of theold country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the mindsof American men and women, an almost envious admiration of Englishexcellence. To have been allowed to forget the past and to live thelife of an English lady would have been heaven to her. But she, whowas sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities ofher own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violenceout in the far West, --how could she dare to hope that her lot should beso changed for her?

She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often beforeshe had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that thathesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness. But it had been so. Circumstances had made her what she was. Circumstances had been cruel to her. But she could not now alter them. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lostherself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed. She had, however, almost known that it could not be so. But this manhad relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Thoughshe could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous lifebe opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of thatjourney to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinarykind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she haveaccompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have beenfit. 

She was conscious, perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That atany rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware thattime was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable ofcausing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities of agood comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this ofherself. If he and she could be together in some country in whichthose stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, couldshe not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give upeverything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarouscountry for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with himin that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been shemust play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It wasconsonant with her old character, it was consonant with her presentplans that she should at any rate seem to be angry. 

Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but theplan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was thewriting of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondestlove, and telling him that he was right. She did write the letter, butwrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength tosend it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling she wrote thefollowing words:--

 DEAR PAUL

 You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. 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. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered. 

 Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me. 

 For ever

 W. H. 

This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read ittwice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that sheought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bringherself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went to bedbut she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had left her. 

Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to thesea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyanceto take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast hepresented himself to the squire. 'I have come earlier than youexpected, ' he said. 

'Yes, indeed;--much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoft?'

Then he told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return. 'Lether follow you, and bear it, ' he said. 'Of course you must suffer theeffects of your own imprudence. ' On that evening Paul Montaguereturned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thusavoid a meeting with Mrs Hurtle in the railway-carriage. 

CHAPTER XLVIII - RUBY A PRISONER

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance atthe Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see himagain. But when reflection came with the morning her misery wasstronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without herlover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly hadnot intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at aLondon lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hardlife, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some comingdelight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were threedays distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could washand dress all the children without complaint. Mrs Pipkin was forced toown to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had partedwith her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meetagain, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had beenwrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be toldabout marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he wouldspeak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And soshe wrote him a letter. 

Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardlybear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscoredthe expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want tohurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the MusicHall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very shortreply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the Tuesday. As atthis time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way toNew York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to thecompanionship of Ruby Ruggles. 

Mrs Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It iscertainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall sendand receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury'svisit Mrs Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched herniece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearlyas far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups andsaucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs Pipkin's mindwas intent on obeying Mr Carbury's behests. She had already hintedsomething as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose totell her and to swear to her most, --solemnly should she find herpreparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening, --that sheshould be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear inher own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessfulin her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby wentup to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a betterprecaution struck Mrs Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless, --had lefther lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out withthe children, and Mrs Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clockwhen Ruby went upstairs, --and then Mrs Pipkin locked both the front doorand the area gate. Mrs Hurtle had come home on the previous day. 'Youwon't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs Hurtle?' said MrsPipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs Hurtle declared her purposeof remaining at home all the evening. 'If you should hear wordsbetween me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am. '

'I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs Pipkin?'

'She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right; isit, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays ofdoing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to comenext. ' Mrs Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thustook her lodger into her confidence. 

Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made herusual little speech. 'I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a littletime to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite quiet. '

'Indeed, Ruby, you won't, ' said Mrs Pipkin. 

'Won't what, aunt?'

'Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'llstay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't comeback here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that I should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatestscamp in all England. '

'They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin. '

'Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house;so that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, youneedn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to takeoff again. '

Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition, --whatshe would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that heraunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It seemed toher that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by hard work. Nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat. 'I've a right to go if I like, ' she said. 

'That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, anyway. '

'Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girldownstairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and aright to come back;--and go I shall. '

'You'll be no better than you should be, if you do. '

'Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about allday till my legs won't carry me, --and then I ain't to go out, not oncein a week?'

'Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throwyourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me. '

'Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into nogutter. I know what I'm about. '

'There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about. '

'I shall just go then. ' And Ruby walked off towards the door. 

'You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and thearea gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off. '

Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. MrsPipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than shepossessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, orattempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of Ruby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her asover a servant. And though she was now determined in her conduct, --beingfully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in herpocket, --still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall awayinto tears, should Ruby be violent. But Ruby was crushed. Her loverwould be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken byher! 'Aunt Pipkin, ' she said, 'let me go just this once. '

'No, Ruby;--it ain't proper. '

'You don't know what you're a doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruinme, --you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if youdon't like. '

Mrs Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. ButMr Carbury had spoken so very plainly! 'It ain't the thing, Ruby; andI won't do it. '

'And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? Idon't believe as you've any right to lock me up. '

'I've a right to lock my own doors. '

'Then I shall go away to-morrow. '

'I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if youchoose to go out. '

'Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?' But Mrs Pipkinwas stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to hergarret. 

Mrs Pipkin knocked at Mrs Hurtle's door again. 'She's gone to bed, ' shesaid. 

'I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?'

'Not as I expected, Mrs Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a bit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing aswell as any one, --and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. And she'sgot it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentlemanwill marry her. '

'She is pretty!'

'But what's beauty, Mrs Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as thescriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marryher? She says she'll leave to-morrow. '

'And where will she go?'

'Just nowhere. After this gentleman, --and you know what that means!You're going to be married yourself, Mrs Hurtle. '

'We won't mind about that now, Mrs Pipkin. '

'And this'll be your second, and you know how these things aremanaged. No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after him. Girlsas knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. That's my way of looking at it. '

'Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?'

'Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after thegentlemen. A gentlemen goes here and he goes there, and he speaks upfree, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned, ' added Mrs Pipkin, thinking of the newdispensation. 

'I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly. '

'A deal more, Mrs Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk ofspooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow, --and thatbefore their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to doit, I suppose, --only not like that. '

'You did it on the sly. '

'I think we got married quicker than they do, anyway. When thegentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But ifyou wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs Hurtle, she'd listento you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want herto go away from this, out into the Street, till she knows where she'sto go to, decent. As for going to her young man, --that's just walkingthe streets. '

Mrs Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when makingthe promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. Sheknew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it, butPaul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion asRuby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover. Who was she thatshe should take upon herself to give advice to any female?

She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in herpocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; andat others she told herself that she would never surrender this lasthope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible toshame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on theMonday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs Pipkin in her mildestvoice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had notliked the hotel. Mrs Pipkin was very glad to see her back again. 

CHAPTER XLIX - SIR FELIX MAKES HIMSELF READY

Sir Felix, when he promised to meet Ruby at the Music Hall on theTuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte for NewYork on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool on theWednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoyhimself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor littleRuby. The details of his journey were settled between him and Marie, with no inconsiderable assistance from Didon, in the garden of GrosvenorSquare, on the previous Sunday, --where the lovers had again met duringthe hours of morning service. Sir Felix had been astonished at thecompletion of the preparations which had been made. 'Mind you go bythe 5 p. M. Train, ' Marie said. 'That will take you into Liverpool at10:15. There's an hotel at the railway station. Didon has got ourtickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are tohave one cabin between us. You must get yours to-morrow. She has foundout that there is plenty of room. '

'I'll be all right. '

'Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure tosuspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We leaveat 7 a. M. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be intime. Robert, --he's the man, --will start a little earlier in the cabwith my heavy box. What do you think is in it?'

'Clothes, ' suggested Felix. 

'Yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. Think of that! What a jobto get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon andMadame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but Ishall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all myjewels. I'm not going to leave them behind. They'll go off in our cab. We can get the things out behind the house into the mews. Then Didonand I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near nine, and Idon't think we shall be interrupted. '

'If the servants were to hear. '

'I don't think they'd tell. But if I was to be brought back again, Ishould only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent memarrying. '

'Won't your mother find out?'

'She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if sheknew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be likethat. '--And she looked up into his face, and thought that it would beimpossible that he should be. 

'I'm all right, ' said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the time. This great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been apleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the greatheiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed, --andexecuted after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wishedthat he had not undertaken it. It must have been much nicer when menran away with their heiresses only as far as Gretna Green. And evenGoldsheiner with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison withthis which he was expected to perform. And then if they should bewrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented. He did repent, buthe had not the courage to recede. 'How about money though?' he saidhoarsely. 

'You have got some?'

'I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and nota shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not letme have it back. '

'Look here, ' said Marie, and she put her hand into her pocket. 'I toldyou I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two hundred andfifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets. '

'And whose is this?' said Felix, taking the bit of paper with muchtrepidation. 

'It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on thehouse and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that shedoesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't. ' Felix looked at thecheque and saw that it was payable to House or Bearer, and that it wassigned by Augustus Melmotte. 'If you take it to the bank you'll getthe money, ' said Marie. 'Or shall I send Didon, and give you the moneyon board the ship?'

Felix thought over the matter very anxiously. If he did go on thejourney he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. Heliked the feeling of having money in his pocket. Perhaps if Didon wereentrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. But thenmight it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself hemight be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money? 'I think Didon hadbetter get the money, ' he said, 'and bring it to me to-morrow, at fouro'clock in the afternoon, to the club. ' If the money did not come hewould not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the expense of histicket for New York. 'You see, ' he said, 'I'm so much in the City thatthey might know me at the bank. ' To this arrangement Marie assentedand took back the cheque. 'And then I'll come on board on Thursdaymorning, ' he said, 'without looking for you. '

'Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till weare out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on thedeck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you think?Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman onboard. I wonder whether he'd marry us. '

'Of course he will. '

'Won't that be jolly? I wish it was all done. Then, directly it'sdone, 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? Of course he'll makethe best of it. '

'But he's so savage; isn't he?'

'When there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. But I don't thinkhe minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything;--misfortunes and all. Things go wrong so often that if he was to go onthinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. It'll be allright in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look whenhe hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see him. He nevercan say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged, but it was hebroke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to bemarried, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!' Felix atthis moment almost wished that he had never done so. As to what theother man had done, he cared nothing at all. 

Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see eachother again till they met on board the boat. All arrangements weremade. But Felix was determined that he would not stir in the matterunless Didon brought him the full sum of £250; and he almost thought, and indeed hoped, that she would not. Either she would be suspected atthe bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the money on herown account when she got it;--or the cheque would have been missed andthe payment stopped. Some accident would occur, and then he would beable to recede from his undertaking. He would do nothing till afterMonday afternoon. 

Should he tell his mother that he was going? His mother had clearlyrecommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approveof the measure. His mother would understand how great would be theexpense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stockof money. He determined that he could tell his mother;--that is, ifDidon should bring him full change for the cheque. 

He walked into the Beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the Monday, and there he found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank withinhim as he saw her. Now must he certainly go to New York. She made hima little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft andfat with rich enclosures. He bade her wait a moment, and going into alittle waiting-room counted the notes. The money was all there;--thefull sum of £250. He must certainly go to New York. 'C'est tout ènregle?' said Didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. Sir Felixnodded his head, and Didon took her departure. 

Yes; he must go now. He had Melmotte's money in his pocket, and wastherefore bound to run away with Melmotte's daughter. It was a greattrouble to him as he reflected that Melmotte had more of his moneythan he had of Melmotte's. And now how should he dispose of his timebefore he went? Gambling was too dangerous. Even he felt that. Wherewould he be were he to lose his ready money? He would dine that nightat the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. On the Tuesday hewould take his place for New York in the City, and would spend theevening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would startfor Liverpool, --according to his instructions. He felt annoyed thathe had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out wellnobody would know that. All the fellows would give him credit for theaudacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America. 

At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck Street--'What; Felix?' exclaimed Lady Carbury. 

'You're surprised; are you not?' Then he threw himself into a chair. 'Mother, ' he said, 'would you mind coming into the other room?' LadyCarbury of course went with him. 'I've got something to tell you, ' hesaid. 

'Good news?' she asked, clasping her hands together. From his mannershe thought that it was good news. Money had in some way come into hishands, --or at any rate a prospect of money. 

'That's as may be, ' he said, and then he paused. 

'Don't keep me in suspense, Felix. '

'The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie off. '

'Oh, Felix. '

'You said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore I'mgoing to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of moneyfor this kind of thing. '

'But when?'

'Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. I'vehad it in my mind for the last fortnight. '

'And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed. '

'It was your own idea, you know. We're going to;--where do you think?'

'How can I think?--Boulogne. '

'You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn't havedone at all for us. We're going to--New York. '

'To New York! But when will you be married?'

'There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't gowithout telling you. '

'Oh; I wish you hadn't told me. '

'Come now;--that's kind. You don't mean to say it wasn't you that put meup to it. I've got to get my things ready. '

'Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I willhave your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?'

'Wednesday afternoon. '

'For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how willit be if he does not forgive her?' He attempted to laugh. 'When Ispoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he wouldnever give her a shilling. '

'They always say that. '

'You are going to risk it?'

'I am going to take your advice. ' This was dreadful to the poormother. 'There is money settled on her. '

'Settled on whom?'

'On Marie;--money which he can't get back again. '

'How much?'

'She doesn't know, --but a great deal; enough for them all to live uponif things went amiss with them. '

'But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to giveto her husband. '

'Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's thepull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a greatdeal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do forme about money, mother?'

'I have none, Felix. '

'I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to doit. '

'That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorrythat that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't £20at the bank altogether. '

'They would let you overdraw for £50 or £60. '

'I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever somuch money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay forthem as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but Ihave not money to give you. '

'That's a blue look-out, ' said he, turning himself in his chair 'justwhen £60 or £70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it fromyour friend Broune. '

'I will do no such thing, Felix. £50 or £60 would make very littledifference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you havesome money?'

'Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would helpme. ' Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a chequefor £30 although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had notso much at her banker's. 

After this he went back to his club, although he himself understoodthe danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed, quietly athome at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in thecard-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, whereDolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. 'Here's Carbury, ' said Dolly, wakingsuddenly into life. 'Now we can have a game at three-handed loo. '

'Thank ye; not for me, ' said Sir Felix. 'I hate three-handed loo. '

'Dummy, ' suggested Dolly. 

'I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellowssticking down together. ' Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, consciousof the baronet's dislike to play with him. 'By-the-by, Grendall lookhere. ' And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into hisenemy's ear a petition that some of the I. O. U. 's might be converted intocash. 

''Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week, ' said Miles. 

'It's always waiting till next week with you, ' said Sir Felix, gettingup and standing with his back to the fireplace. There were other menin the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. 'Iwonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in thepound?' And he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. He had beendrinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken aglass of brandy on re-entering the club. 

'Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here, ' said Dolly. 'If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room. '

'Of course, ' said Miles. 'I won't say a word about the matter downhere. It isn't the proper thing. '

'Come up into the card-room, then, ' said Sir Felix, getting up fromhis chair. 'It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, whatroom you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come andhear what you say. ' But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was goingto play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury hadanything to say, he could say it. 

'How I do hate a row!' said Dolly. 'One has to have rows with one'sown people, but there ought not to be rows at a club. '

'He likes a row, --Carbury does, ' said Miles. 

'I should like my money, if I could get it, ' said Sir Felix, walkingout of the room. 

On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother'scheque. This was done after a little hesitation: The money was givento him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remindLady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. 'Dear, dear;' saidSir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, 'I'm sure she was unaware of it. 'Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the nameof Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becomingvery deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, andin the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained, from tentill nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind thathe had intended to tell her of his departure for New York. Of coursehe would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever complain onthat head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his lastnight in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken herappointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happento her she could not blame him. 

Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall, --for a music hallwithout ladies' society must be somewhat dull, --he went back to hisclub. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and wellinclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Upin the card-room he found all the accustomed men, --with the exception ofMiles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and oneor two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the ideaof playing without having to encounter the dead weight of MilesGrendall. Ready money was on the table, --and there was none of thepeculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at theBeargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed ahalf-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, butthe payments punctual. The I. O. U. 's had been nearly all converted intomoney, --with the assistance of Herr Vossner, --excepting those of MilesGrendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall'sformer indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he mustin future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him thedetermination of the committee. 'Bygones are bygones, old fellow; butyou really must stump up, you know, after this. ' Miles had declaredthat he would 'stump up. ' But on this occasion Miles was absent. 

At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundredpounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost afurther sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that heshould at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool. 

But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope ofrecovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fiskerhad played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catchthe early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New Yorkwithout delay. 

CHAPTER L - THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL

Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also thefaithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of pleasure, --or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door locked, shepacked and unpacked and repacked her treasures, --having more than oncelaid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. Sheasked Didon her opinion whether that American clergyman of whom theyhad heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event thedress would be fit for the occasion. Didon thought that the man, ifsufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not muchsignify. She scolded her young mistress very often during the nightfor what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard forher. They determined to go without food in the morning, so that nosuspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. They couldget refreshment at the railway-station. 

At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having histen pounds already in his pocket, --and Marie and Didon with smallerluggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them andnothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave themtheir tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They hadquite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by Marietill the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very badtea and almost uneatable food, --but Marie's restrained excitement was sogreat that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their seatswithout any impediment, --and then they were off. 

During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Mariegabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all thethings she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale, --especially when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no tokenof love, --'pas un baiser!' Didon suggested that such was the way withEnglish lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had beenwilling to join in the present plan, --as she said, from devotedaffection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was ugly, andthat Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. 'Bah!' exclaimedDidon, who was really disgusted that such considerations shouldprevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdalewould be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix wouldnever be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would never haveanything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but her mistressliked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had thought that NewYork, with £50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a newcareer. She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbearfrom expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress. Marie bore itwith imperturbable good humour. She was running away, --and was runningto a distant continent, --and her lover would be with her! She gave Didonto understand that she cared nothing for marquises. 

As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still bevery careful. It would not do for them to declare at once theirdestination on the platform, --so that every one about the station shouldknow that they were going on board the packet for New York. They hadtime enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and otherthings, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were ina cab. Marie's big box was directed simply 'Madame Racine, Passengerto Liverpool;'--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, whichwas Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety would not beover till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was sure that alltheir dangers were over, --if only Sir Felix was safe on board. PoorMarie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving tofind temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss ofmoney, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath thebedclothes. 

When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat fora few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any hurry ornoise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to taketheir luggage. Didon handed out the various packages, keeping howeverthe jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and thenMarie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before agentleman addressed her, touching his hat, 'You, I think, are MissMelmotte. ' Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. Didon immediatelybecame voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte;the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was MadameRacine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing aboutMelmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to theircab?

But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on totheir cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman, --who did not seemto be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distanceDidon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connecthimself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much atcommand, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at once gaveup the game, --as regarded her mistress. 

'I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte, 'said the gentleman, 'and that this other--person is your servant, EliseDidon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte. ' Marie declared that shespoke French. 'And English too, ' said the gentleman. 'I think you hadbetter make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you. '

'Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!' exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking upher courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own positionand of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come toLiverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with theirluggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothingagainst the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was itto anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commithimself to reply in the same language. 'You had better trust yourselfto me; you had indeed, ' said the gentleman. 

'But why?' demanded Marie. 

Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. 'A cheque has beenchanged which you took from your father's house. No doubt your fatherwill pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we maybring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque, --if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected tono inconvenience which can be avoided. '

There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be welldoubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to theannoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen whospent all the public money without authority ought not to have beenpunished with special severity in that they had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced. Who isbenefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their oldinterest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie, whenshe heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr Scudamore. 

When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no furtheropposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she satdown on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her ownbehalf, --and her clamour was successful. 'Who was going to stop her?What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased. Did anybodymean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, thatperson had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would gowhere she pleased. ' So saying she began to tug the rope of her box asthough she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. The gentleman looked at his telegram, --looked at another document whichhe now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. EliseDidon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. Thegentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better returnwith her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would goto New York. She would go wherever she pleased;--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what littleEnglish she could command to half-a-dozen cab-men who were standinground and enjoying the scene. They were to take her trunk at once. Shehad money and she could pay. She started off to the nearest cab, andno one stopped her. 'But the box in her hand is mine, ' said Marie, notforgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered thejewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word offarewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she wasdriven away out of the station, --and out of our story. She had afirst-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may havebeen her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire. 

Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had provedhimself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting onboard the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have beencarried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape. And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may stillhope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched amarriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. Shewould have to encounter an enraged father; and when, --when should shesee her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings whenhe should find himself on his way to New York without his love! But inone matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true to him!They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before, and shewould say it again. There was, however, doubt in her mind from time totime, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. Ifshe could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to bekilled, --would not that be the best termination to her presentdisappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her father?But how then would it be with poor Felix? 'After all I don't know thathe cares for me, ' she said to herself, thinking over it all. 

The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as thoughshe were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her alittle advice. 'Put a good face on it, ' he said, 'and don't be castdown. '

'Oh, I won't, ' she answered. 'I don't mean. '

'Your mother will be delighted to have you back again. '

'I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrowif I had the chance. ' The gentleman looked at her, not having expectedso much determination. 'I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry toplease any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that Istole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never saysanything about it. '

'Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte. '

'It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's becausepapa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright meanto send and have me taken up before all the people. '

'You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that. '

'Of course I wouldn't, ' said Marie. 

The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on thejourney, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmottecarriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box wasto follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Squaremight not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, ofcourse, very soon knew all about it. 'And are you to come?' Marieasked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he hadbeen requested to see Miss Melmotte home. 'All the people will wonderwho you are, ' said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought thatMiss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without muchsuffering. 

When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room, --andthere she found her father, alone. 'This is your game, is it?' saidhe, looking down at her. 

'Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it. '

'You fool you! You were going to New York, --were you?' To this shevouchsafed no reply. 'As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who wasgoing with you?'

'If you have found out all about it, you know, papa. '

'Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little idiot. '

'No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so. '

'Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?' Then she opened hereyes and looked at him. 'An hour ago he was in bed at his mother'shouse in Welbeck Street. '

'I don't believe it, papa. '

'You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to NewYork, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayedbehind, I think I'd have let you go. '

'I'm sure he didn't stay behind. '

'If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in Londonat this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?'

'She's gone on board the ship. '

'And where is the money you took from your mother?' Marie was silent. 'Who got the cheque changed?'

'Didon did. '

'And has she got the money?'

'No, papa. '

'Have you got it?'

'No, papa. '

'Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?'

'Yes, papa. '

'Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it. '

'Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it. Ionly gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you backagain. '

'I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go toLiverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt tomarry him again if I don't prosecute him?' Marie considered. 'Unlessyou do that I shall go to a magistrate at once. '

'I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. Igave it to him. '

'Will you promise me?'

'No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should onlybreak it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good ofall the money if people don't have what they like?'

'All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here, ' and hetook her by the arm. 'I've been very good to you. You've had yourshare of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else. ' Heheld her very hard and shook her as he spoke. 

'Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don'tcare a straw about bracelets and brooches. '

'What do you care for?'

'Only for somebody to love me, ' said Marie, looking down. 

'You'll soon have nobody to love you if you go on this fashion. You'vehad everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me inreturn, by G----, you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren't sucha fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than you do. '

'You can't know better than me what'll make me happy. '

'Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale you'llhave a position in the world which nothing can take from you. '

'Then I won't, ' said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till shecried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let thegirl for one minute out of her presence. 

The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the ladywith whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargardentill four in the morning and had then left the club, on thebreaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at theclub, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they beensaid in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that Grendallwould not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo, --as towhich Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended byasserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club. They had adesperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more thanone person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock the party wasbroken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothingmore than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All hisluggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it. 

There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felixwandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was nearlydrunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of affliction, --and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction by producingoblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is conscious ofitself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and thebrain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. Sir Felixtrying 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 ofdangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of hisintoxication. What had he better do with himself? He fumbled in hispocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for New York. Should hestill make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could notremember where it was. At last, as he steadied himself against aletter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were atthe club. By this time he had wandered into Marylebone Lane, but didnot in the least know where he was. But he made an attempt to get backto his club, and stumbled half down Bond Street. Then a policemanenquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in WelbeckStreet, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street. Having oncementioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will leftto go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting forLiverpool. 

Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he wassupposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At lastit was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not probablyknow 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 sightcannot meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a condition. 'Oh, Felix!' she exclaimed. 

'It'sh all up, ' he said, stumbling in. 

'What has happened, Felix?'

'Discovered, and be d----- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush. ' Drunk ashe was, he was able to lie. At that moment the 'old shap' was fastasleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; andMarie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews. 'Bettersh go to bed. ' And so he stumbled upstairs by daylight, thewretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and hisboots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her ownroom, a miserable woman. 

CHAPTER LI - WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on theMonday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs Hurtle. As hesat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished thathe had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at any ratehave endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then haveabandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of coursehe would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, ofwhat use to him was his love, --of what use to him or to her? The kind oflife of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of RogerCarbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like Roger Carbury!Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write toHetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world?

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had repudiatedthe proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was necessarythat he should immediately take some further step in regard to MrsHurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that he wouldsee that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to Lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put anend to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go again toIslington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, shewould come to him. In this way there would never be an end to it. 

He would certainly go again, as he had promised, --if she should stillrequire it; but he would first try what a letter would do, --a plainunvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent bypost should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as henow told it. 

 Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873. 

 MY DEAR MRS HURTLE, --

 I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what I found them to be then. 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. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame, --and the evil consequences, let them be what they may [to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon] 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. As soon as my mind was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not, --I dare not, --blame you for the step you have since taken. But I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed. 

 The first day I saw you here in London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results. 

 I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury I have done you, --or even to undergo retribution for it, --I would do so. But what compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last time, --because I have promised. 

 Your most sincere friend, PAUL MONTAGUE. 

Mrs Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. All that Paul hadwritten was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrapof paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words, fairlytranscribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most generous andthe fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be generous. Shehad all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself. But thesacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been ofanother kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she would havedelighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had she found hima cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some disease, she wouldhave stayed by him and have nursed him and given him comfort. Even hadhe been disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country andhave pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice would have been too muchfor her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that heappreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved inreturn. But to sacrifice herself by going away and never more beingheard of, was too much for her! What woman can endure such sacrificeas that? To give up not only her love, but her wrath also;--that was toomuch for her! The idea of being tame was terrible to her. Her life hadnot been very prosperous, but she was what she was because she haddared to protect herself by her own spirit. Now, at last, should shesuccumb and be trodden on like a worm? Should she be weaker even thanan English girl? Should she allow him to have amused himself with herlove, to have had 'a good time, ' and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully scorched, so mutilated and punished! Hadnot her whole life been opposed to the theory of such passiveendurance? She took out the scrap of paper and read it; and, in spiteof all, she felt that there was a feminine softness in it thatgratified her. 

But no;--she could not send it. She could not even copy the words. Andso she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other side, --being in truth torn in two directions. Then she sat herself down to herdesk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote as follows:--

 PAUL MONTAGUE, --

 I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable, --and the most unmanly. Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. 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, --when they have affected my whole life, --that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On thinking over it, you find that an American wife would not make you so comfortable as some English girl;--and therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother, no man near;--me or you would not dare to do this. You can not but be a coward. 

 You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer retribution. I desire you to come to me, --according to your promise, --and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body. And then I will see what you will dare to do;--whether you will drag me into a court of law for the assault. 

 Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a weapon. I call upon you so come. But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make London too hot to hold you;--and if I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you have. 

 I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. 

 WINIFRED HURTLE. 

Having written this she again read the short note, and again gave wayto violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the followingmorning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the third letter:--

'Yes. Come. W. H. '

This letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He startedimmediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting. He had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her, hisgoing 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 evidencethat he was gradually being conquered. He had declared his purposeplainly enough at Lowestoft, --and plainly enough in his last letter. She had told him, down at the hotel, that had she by chance have beenarmed at the moment, she would have shot him. She could arm herselfnow if she pleased;--but his real fear had not lain in that direction. The pang consisted in having to assure her that he was resolved to doher wrong. The worst of that was now over. 

The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him witha happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of herimprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At thisvery moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, infact, abed in Welbeck Street. 'Yes, sir; she's at home, ' said Ruby, with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress. 'Don't pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?'Ruby had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, buthad not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogetherintent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothingabout Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs Hurtle's room. 

'So you have come, ' she said, without rising from her chair. 

'Of course I came, when you desired it. '

'I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect youmuch. Will you sit down there?' she said, pointing to a seat at somedistance from herself. 'So you think it would be best that you and Ishould never see each other again?' She was very calm; but it seemedto him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it mightbe converted into violence. He thought that there was that in her eyewhich seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat. 

'I did think so certainly. What more can I say?'

'Oh, nothing; clearly nothing. ' Her voice was very low. 'Why should agentleman trouble himself to say any more than that he has changed hismind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or awoman's heart?' Then she paused. 'And having come, in consequence ofmy unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace. '

'I came because I promised. '

'But you did not promise to speak;--did you?'

'What would you have me say?'

'Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have yousay? 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 mightget your release that way? Might it not be possible that I shouldreply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go afterit;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?' Asshe asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herselfin her seat, stretching herself towards him. 

'You might indeed, ' he replied, not well knowing what to say. 

'But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul, --still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me bymy devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you, --none tothat woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid. 'She still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothingto be said in answer to this. 'Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next?I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. MrsPipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. Ihave all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for achoice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I coulddie and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it. ' There wasno answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because therewas no answer possible. 'You might at any rate advise me. Paul, youare in some degree responsible, --are you not, --for my loneliness?'

'I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions. '

'You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my futurelife. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at anyrate to Mrs Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke ofleaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and Ishall be desolate in this. ' Then she paused, and there was absolutesilence for a minute. 'You thought my letter very short; did you not?'

'It said, I suppose, all you had to say. '

'No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter Iwrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had tochoose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easierwritten than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I hadmany doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you maysee them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I waswriting it, I was determined that that should go. ' Then she handed himthe sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip. 

'I am glad you did not send that, ' he said. 

'I meant it. '

'But you have changed your mind?'

'Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speakout and tell me. '

'I am thinking of you, not of myself. '

'Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage towhich I have been subjected does not justify?'

'You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that underany provocation a woman should use a horsewhip. '

'It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen, --who amusethemselves, --that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, Idon't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fightfor women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when awoman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turningupon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it isunfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men maybe attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only takeadvantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If shebe treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--itis so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm ofwomanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment, --andthen I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all. ' And soshe handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and heread that also. 

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threwhimself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. 'I have not sent it, youknow, ' she said. 'I only show it you that you may see how my mind hasbeen at work'

'It hurts me more than the other, ' he replied. 

'Nay, I would not hurt you, --not at this moment. Sometimes I feel thatI could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, soungovernable my rage! Why, --why should I be such a victim? Why shouldlife be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you?There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?'

'I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind. '

'But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me atthe sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in SanFrancisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A manshould kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon. ' But though shespoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back hishair, and looked into his face. 'I wonder whether that other womanloves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had bettergo. ' She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. 'Tell me onething. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?'

'No; indeed no. '

'I hope not, --I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be troubledno more with Winifred Hurtle. ' She took the sheet of paper whichcontained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps. 

'And am I to keep the other?' he asked. 

'No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? Thatalso shall be destroyed. ' But she took it and restored it to herpocket-book. 

'Good-bye, my friend, ' he said. 

'Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be noother word spoken. ' And so he went. 

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell andbegged Ruby to ask Mrs Pipkin to come to her. 'Mrs Pipkin, ' she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; 'everything is over betweenme and Mr Montague. ' She was standing upright in the middle of theroom, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face. 

'Lord 'a mercy, ' said Mrs Pipkin, holding up both her hands. 

'As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it rightnow to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him. '

'And why not?--and he such a nice young man, --and quiet too. '

'As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak aboutthat. But it is so. I was engaged to him. '

'I'm well sure of that, Mrs Hurtle. '

'And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all. '

'Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all. ' MrsPipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such aninteresting story. 

'We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back nottogether. And there's an end of it. '

'I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault. '

'There's an end of it, Mrs Pipkin. If you please, we won't sayanything more about it. '

'And are you going to leave, ma'am?' said Mrs Pipkin, prepared to haveher apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she getsuch another lodger as Mrs Hurtle, --a lady who not only did not inquireabout victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children shouldeat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned anitem in a bill since she had been in the house!

'We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs Pipkin. ' Then Mrs Pipkin gaveutterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almostseemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another loverin lieu of the one who was now dismissed. 

CHAPTER LII - THE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE

Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carburyin bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mothercrept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fastasleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition wasone which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From headto foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfortanywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothethe agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there hewould be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solacewithin his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to thepage he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda andbrandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition hedid not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him. 

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements forrunning away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutelyallowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of theirarrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon herlong journey across the ocean before she could find out that he hadfailed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility would be incurredby the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all hismoney, --and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising afund for him, --and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he wasafraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but nodetails, of some row at the club, --but still with a conviction on hismind that he had made the row. Ah, --when would he summon courage toenter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? Allthe world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off withhim, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could heinvent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were atthe club;--or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whetherhe had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man shouldcut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as thisidea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around himand tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for himpersuasive charms. 

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when heappeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There mustbe some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day, --thinking of it. As regarded her son himself;his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might bethe fate of the girl she could not stop to inquire. She had not heardall the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felixhad proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to starton Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view ofaiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had boughtclothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparingfor his long journey, --having told some lie to her own daughter as tothe cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone, but hadcome, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched hispockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had foundhis ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left tohim. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at hisclub till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When shehad first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she shouldnow tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for somestory. 'Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he hasnot gone at all, ' Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bringherself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could notsay that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hetta nodoubt had her own suspicions. 'Yes; he has come back, ' said LadyCarbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. 'It was some plan about theMexican railway I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappyand not well. I will see to him. ' After that Hetta had said nothingduring the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, LadyCarbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he shouldspeak to her. 

'Felix, ' she said, --'speak to me, Felix. --I know that you are awake. ' Hegroaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself furtherunder the bedclothes. 'You must get up for your dinner. It is near sixo'clock. '

'All right, ' he said at last. 

'What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be toldsooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust yourmother. '

'I am so sick, mother. '

'You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has comeof it all? Where are your things?'

'At the club. --You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me. 'Sam was the page. 

'I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?'

'It hasn't come off. '

'But how has it not come off?'

'I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?'

'You said this morning when you came in, that Mr Melmotte haddiscovered it. '

'Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don'tsee what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd ratherstay here. '

'You must have something to eat, Felix. '

'Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm sofaint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can'ttalk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'lltell you all about it then. '

'Where is the money, Felix?'

'I paid it for the ticket, ' said he, with both his hands up to hishead. 

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was tobe allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was togive her some further explanation when he had been refreshed andinvigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got himsoda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he didsucceed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep. 

'Is he ill, mamma?' Hetta asked. 

'Yes, my dear. '

'Had you not better send for a doctor?'

'No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow. '

'Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything. '

'I can't, ' said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. 'Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There isnothing to tell, --except that I am ruined. '

'Has he done anything, mamma?'

'No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tellsme nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God, --how much better itwould be to be childless!'

'Oh, mamma, do you mean me?' said Hetta, rushing across the room, andthrowing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. 'Mamma, saythat you do not mean me. '

'It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless. '

'Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not tryto be a comfort to you?'

'Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who canprotect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and afriend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk andgamble, --because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and willnot help me in my trouble. '

'Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?'

'Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call lovearound you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a goodman, --soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort tomake yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad. '

'I have never said so. '

'But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing whatyou could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you tosacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others. '

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother againwent upstairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be rightthat she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it beright that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to herfamily? This man, whom she might marry if she would, --who did in truthworship the ground on which she trod, --was, she well knew, all that hermother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken ofhis soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he wasa man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as washers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked, --had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if shehad it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Hertime, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as shethought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. Butshe did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man shedid not love. 

'I don't know what there is to explain, ' said Felix to his mother. Shehad asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had beeninterrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him fromMarie that she had been stopped, or whether, --as might have beenpossible, --Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bringhimself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. 'Itdidn't come off, ' he said, 'and of course that knocked me off my legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellowdoes get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club, --thatthe whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I wasso mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the ticket. There itis. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30 in getting it. Isuppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't anothershilling in the world. ' Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, orof that which he had himself received from Melmotte. And as his motherhad heard nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there wasa story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later. 

That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr Broune called in Welbeck Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup oftea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting hisoffer, Mr Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. Therewas certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendshipthan had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freelyabout his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with someattempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade oflove-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. As for kissing her, --he thought no more of it than of kissing themaid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him, --theunreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy ofcontributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed. And he told her somethingtoo of his triumphs;--how he had had this fellow bowled over inpunishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daringto be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice andclemency. Ah, --if men and women only knew his good nature and hispatriotism;--how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortuneof a man there, how he had saved the country millions by thesteadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! Lady Carburydelighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and littleconfidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost made up hermind to give up Mr Alf. Of nothing was Mr Broune more certain thanthat Mr Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminsterelection and those attacks on Melmotte. 'The world of London generallyknows what it is about, ' said Mr Broune, 'and the London worldbelieves Mr Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he hasnever done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into hisantecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf willget the worst of it. ' Under such teaching as this, Lady Carbury wasalmost obliged to give up Mr Alf. 

Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also MrBroune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be in herown sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at oncepoured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she toldhim everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had alreadyheard the story. 'The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felixwas not there. '

'He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house allday. Did she go?'

'So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of thepolice at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without lettingher go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her loverwas on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her. '

'How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start, 'said Lady Carbury. 

'Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey toNew York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anythingabout money?'

'What money?'

'They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she hadtaken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose notime in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would doit, for that matter. If it be so, --to avoid unpleasantness, --it shouldbe sent back at once. It will be for his credit. ' This Mr Broune saidwith a clear intimation of the importance of his advice. 

It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of anymoney. What did Mr Broune mean by a large sum? 'That would bedreadful, ' she said. 

'Had you not better ask him about it?'

Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope toget a word of truth from her son. 'What do you mean by a large sum?'

'Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps. '

'I have not a shilling in the world, Mr Broune. ' Then it all cameout, --the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about byher son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairsfrom the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present moment. 

'He is eating you up, Lady Carbury. ' Lady Carbury thought that she wasnearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. 'You must put a stop tothis. '

'But how?'

'You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it mustbe done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money hegot from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must bedone;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do notcontradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be offnow, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it earlyto-morrow, that would be best. God bless you. ' And so he hurried off. 

Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put intoMr Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she hadbeen able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that MrMelmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of thisfrom Miss Melmotte, --so that there was still a large balance due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last confessed that hehad lost this money at play. The story was fairly true; but LadyCarbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified inbelieving it because it was told to her by her son. 

CHAPTER LIII - A DAY IN THE CITY

Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let thematter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not knownthat all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meetSir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence ofcertain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in theday the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale wouldhear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in thatdirection would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl tothrow away her chance, --nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliantcareer, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitelymore bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had pledgedhimself to abstain from any step of this kind, --had given a writtenpledge, --had renounced under his own signature his intention of marryingMarie! Melmotte had of course learned all the details of the chequefor £250, --how the money had been paid at the bank to Didon, and howDidon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself acknowledged that SirFelix had received the money. If possible he would prosecute thebaronet for stealing his money. 

Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have beensatisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed themoney to go without further trouble. At this especial point in hiscareer ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns were ofsuch magnitude that £250 could make but little difference. But therehad grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, aself-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, whichclouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that power ofcalculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He rememberedperfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed itwas one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, whichwas always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He knew exactly howhe stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom he had given a pennylast Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father and son, to whom he hadnot as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into his hands for thepurchase of shares, --and that consignment did not justify Six Felix intaking another sum of money from his daughter. In such a matter hethought that an English magistrate, and an English jury, would all beon his side, --especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about tobe chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor ofChina!

The next day was Friday, --the day of the Railway Board. Early in themorning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale. 

 MY DEAR NIDDERDALE, --

 Pray come to the Board to-day;--or at any rate come to me in the city. I specially want to speak to you. 

 Yours, A. M. 

This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make aclear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was stilla chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance would bebest supported by perfect openness on his part. The young lord wouldof course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had for someweeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard toSir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his suit. Itmight be possible to persuade the young lord that as the young ladyhad now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on thewhole be rather improved than injured. 

Mr Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of theearliest and most unfortunate was Mr Longestaffe. At that time therehad been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of doubleingress and egress, --a front stairs and a back stairs approach andexit, as is always necessary with very great men, --in reference towhich arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is exactlycontrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the frontstairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow anduncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are usedonly for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of thestairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in theirright courses. Mr Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane before one, --havingaltogether failed in getting a moment's private conversation with thebig man on that other Friday, when he had come later. He fell at onceinto Miles's hands, and was ushered through the front stairs passageand into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external courtesy. Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did Mr Longestaffe want to see MrMelmotte? Oh;--Mr Longestaffe wanted to see Mr Melmotte as soon aspossible! Of course Mr Longestaffe should see Mr Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing MrLongestaffe. Mr Melmotte had mentioned Mr Longestaffe's name twiceduring the last three days. Would Mr Longestaffe sit down for a fewminutes? Had Mr Longestaffe seen the 'Morning Breakfast Table'? MrMelmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment adeputation from the Canadian Government was with him;--and Sir GregoryGribe was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thoughtthat the Canadian Government would not be long, --and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very bestto get an interview for Mr Longestaffe, --more especially as Mr Melmottewas so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishingthat such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business sowell and should have made himself so handy! We will leave MrLongestaffe with the 'Morning Breakfast Table' in his hands, in thefront waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remainedfor something over two hours. 

In the meantime both Mr Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the office, and both were received without delay. Mr Broune was the first. Milesknew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the same room withMr Longestaffe. 'I'll just send him a note, ' said Mr Broune, and hescrawled a few words at the office counter. 'I'm commissioned to payyou some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte. ' Those were the words, andthey at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The CanadianDeputation must have taken its leave, and Sir Gregory could hardlyhave as yet arrived. Lord Nidderdale, who had presented himself almostat the same moment with the Editor, was shown into a little privateroom which was, indeed, Miles Grendall's own retreat. 'What's up withthe Governor?' asked the young lord. 

'Anything particular do you mean?' said Miles. 'There are always somany things up here. '

'He has sent for me. '

'Yes, --you'll go in directly. There's that fellow who does the"Breakfast Table" in with him. I don't know what he's come about. Youknow what he has sent for you for?'

Lord Nidderdale answered this question by another. 'I suppose all thisabout Miss Melmotte is true?'

'She did go off yesterday morning, ' said Miles, in a whisper. 

'But Carbury wasn't with her. '

'Well, no;--I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He's such ad---- brute, he'd be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand. '

'You don't like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I've no reasonto love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the clubyesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as Cloe. He'd lost a pot ofmoney, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour. '

'Brute!' exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation. 

'I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I'm sure hecouldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lyingabout the club hall late last night;--no end of portmanteaux and bags;just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy taking agirl to New York! It was plucky. '

'It was all her doing, ' said Miles, who was of course intimate with MrMelmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearingthe true story. 

'What a fiasco!' said the young lord. 'I wonder what the old boy meansto say to me about it. ' Then there was heard the clear tingle of alittle silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time hadcome. 

Mr Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr Melmotte, andMelmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor heimmediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the supportgiven by the 'Breakfast Table' to his candidature. But Mr Broune cuthim short. 'I never talk about the "Breakfast Table, "' said he. 'Weendeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said thesoonest mended. ' Melmotte bowed. 'I have come now about quite anothermatter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trustfrom your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in theintended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's friend, I have calledto return the money to you. ' Mr Broune did not like calling himselfthe friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who hadbeen good enough to him not to marry him. 

'Oh, indeed, ' said Mr Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which hewould have repressed if he could. 

'No doubt you understand all about it. '

'Yes;--I understand. D---- scoundrel!'

'We won't discuss that, Mr Melmotte. I've drawn a cheque myselfpayable to your order, --to make the matter all straight. The sum was£250, I think. ' And Mr Broune put a cheque for that amount down uponthe table. 

'I dare say it's all right, ' said Mr Melmotte. 'But, remember, I don'tthink that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel. '

'At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into hishands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady'sbehalf. Good morning. ' Mr Melmotte did put out his hand in token ofamity. Then Mr Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. AsNidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into hispocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea whichhe might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned. 'Well, my Lord, and how are you?' said he with his pleasantest smile. Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. 'You don't lookdown in the mouth, my Lord. '

Then Lord Nidderdale, --who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show agood face before his late intended father-in-law, --sang the refrain ofan old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember. 

 'Cheer up, Sam; Don't let your spirits go down. There's many a girl that I know well, Is waiting for you in the town. '

'Ha, ha, ha, ' laughed Melmotte, 'very good. I've no doubt there is, --many a one. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your waywith Marie. '

'Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has giventhe most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, andof her indifference to me. '

'A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She's beenreading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle downquietly till she had run off with somebody. '

'She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr Melmotte. '

'No;--of course we had her back again from Liverpool. '

'But they say that she got further than the gentleman. '

'He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what heis now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I'm verysorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always. She's myonly child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. Whatshe will have at once will make any man wealthy, --that is, if shemarries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shallbe able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Ofcourse you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. Ithink that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Hadshe married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, Iwant you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am veryhonest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of coursehas been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be surethat this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury. '

'I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything. '

'She won't forgive him. By George, she shan't. She shall hear thewhole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever!'

'I don't know about that, Mr Melmotte. '

'Why not? You're not so weak as to surrender all your settled projectsfor such a piece of folly as that! He didn't even see her all thetime. '

'That wasn't her fault. '

'The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale. '

'The money's all right, I've no doubt. And there isn't a man in allLondon would be better pleased to settle down with a good income thanI would. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has justrun away with another man. Everybody knows it. '

'In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it. '

'To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will ofher own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given methe slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, shedid once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very muchchanged since then. The thing was off. '

'She had nothing to do with that. '

'No;--but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right tocomplain. '

'You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come onSunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settledarrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sundaymorning about noon?' Lord Nidderdale thought of his position for a fewmoments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning. After that Melmotte proposed that they two should go and 'get a bit oflunch' at a certain Conservative club in the City. There would be timebefore the meeting of the Railway Board. Nidderdale had no objectionto the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the Board was 'rot'. 'That's all very well for you, young man, ' said the chairman, 'but Imust go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendidfortune. ' Then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew himback as he was passing out by the front stairs. 'Come this way, Nidderdale;--come this way. I must get out without being seen. Thereare people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend tobusiness from morning to night without ever having a bit in hismouth. ' And so they escaped by the back stairs. 

At the club, the City Conservative world, --which always luncheswell, --welcomed Mr Melmotte very warmly. The election was coming on, and there was much to be said. He played the part of the big City manto perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talkingloudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club thatLord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course knew thatLord Nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter, --accepted, that is, by the rich man himself, --and the club knew alsothat the rich man's daughter had tried but had failed to run away withSir Felix Carbury. There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune andhaving done with it. The presence of Lord Nidderdale was almost anassurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, asit were, abolished. A little before three Mr Melmotte returned toAbchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; whileLord Nidderdale went westward, considering within his own mind whetherit was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitorfor Miss Melmotte's hand. He had an idea that a few years ago a mancould not have done such a thing--that he would be held to show a poorspirit should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter whata man did, --if only he were successful. 'After all, it's only anaffair of money, ' he said to himself. 

Mr Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness toimpatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour toindignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles Grendallwas always ready with an answer. That Canadian Deputation wasdetermined to settle the whole business this morning, and would nottake itself away. And Sir Gregory Gribe had been obstinate, beyond theordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at thebank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication with MrMelmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were always mostoppressive. At first Mr Longestaffe was somewhat stunned by theDeputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth the potency ofthose institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr Longestaffe of Caversham, a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and accustomed to lunch punctuallyat two o'clock? 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 notremain there to be starved for any Mr Melmotte in Europe. It occurredto him also that that thorn in his side, Squercum, would certainly geta finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth, and attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendallalso liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the juniorclerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with MrMelmotte. 'Then say that I can't wait any longer, ' said MrLongestaffe, stamping out of the room with angry feet. 

At the very door he met Mr Melmotte. 'Ah, Mr Longestaffe, ' said thegreat financier, seizing him by the hand, 'you are the very man I amdesirous of seeing. '

'I have been waiting two hours up in your place, ' said the Squire ofCaversham. 

'Tut, tut, tut;--and they never told me!'

'I spoke to Mr Grendall half a dozen times. '

'Yes, --yes. And he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk. I doremember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that Ihardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the Board?It's just the time now. '

'No;'--said Mr Longestaffe. 'I can stay no longer in the City. ' It wascruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a Board by achairman who had just lunched at his club. 

'I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help myself, 'said Melmotte. 'And when they get me there I can never get awayagain. '

'My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering, 'said Mr Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the collar of hiscoat. 

'Payments for Pickering!' said Melmotte, assuming an air ofunimportant doubt, --of doubt as though the thing were of no realmoment. 'Haven't they been made?'

'Certainly not, ' said Mr Longestaffe, 'unless made this morning. '

'There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. Mysecond cashier, Mr Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they goclean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at thismoment. Let me see;--Pickering! Wasn't there some question of amortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage. '

'There was a mortgage, of course, --but that only made three paymentsnecessary instead of two. '

'But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--somethingoccasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't beinconvenienced, Mr Longestaffe. '

'It's my son, Mr Melmotte. He's got a lawyer of his own. '

'I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money, 'said Melmotte laughing. 'Oh, yes;--there were three payments to bemade; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I willspeak to Mr Smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that hereally need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing hismoney, for lawyers are expensive. What! you won't come to the Board?I am sorry for that. ' Mr Longestaffe, having after a fashion saidwhat he had to say, declined to go to the Board. A painful rumourhad reached him the day before, which had been communicated to himin a very quiet way by a very old friend, --by a member of a privatefirm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest andmost eminent man of his acquaintance, --that Pickering had been alreadymortgaged to its full value by its new owner. 'Mind, I knownothing, ' said the banker. 'The report has reached me, and if it betrue, it shows that Mr Melmotte must be much pressed for money. Itdoes not concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seemsto be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn'thave the title-deeds. ' Mr Longestaffe thanked his friend, andacknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part. Therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. Butnevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte's manner. 

Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did PaulMontague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted. Lord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the City for thatday, and Mr Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman wastherefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe. But theywere such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as wellas though those absentees had all attended. When the Board was over MrMelmotte and Mr Cohenlupe retired together. 

'I must get that money for Longestaffe, ' said Melmotte to his friend. 

'What, eighty thousand pounds! You can't do it this week, --nor yetbefore this day week. '

'It isn't eighty thousand pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and thatmakes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes tothe son, I can put the father off. '

'You must raise what you can on the whole property. '

'I've done that already, ' said Melmotte hoarsely. 

'And where's the money gone?'

'Brehgert has had £40, 000. I was obliged to keep it up with them. Youcan manage £25, 000 for me by Monday?' Mr Cohenlupe said that he wouldtry, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerabledifficulty in the operation. 

CHAPTER LIV - THE INDIA OFFICE

The Conservative party at this particular period was putting itsshoulder to the wheel, --not to push the coach up any hill, but toprevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not onlydangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative party now andthen does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the greatnational object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire tokeep its own head well above water and be generally doing something, so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are, no doubt, members of it who really think that when some object hasbeen achieved, --when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezedinto Parliament for the borough of Porcorum, which for the last threeparliaments has been represented by a Liberal, --the coach has beenreally stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes atthese triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as apeople have not been really in earnest in their efforts to takesomething from the greatness of the great, and to add something to thelowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been broken, the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of Radicalprogress is running back. Who knows what may not be regained if theConservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and takecare that the handle of the windlass be not mended! Sticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has just been carriedby a majority of fifteen! A long pull, a strong pull, and a pullaltogether, --and the old day will come back again. Venerable patriarchsthink of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams ofConservative bishops, Conservative lord-lieutenants, and of aConservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation. 

Such a time was now present. Porcorum and Sticinthemud had done theirduty valiantly, --with much management. But Westminster! If this specialseat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardlyany longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr Melmotte could begot in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people weresound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effectedduring the last forty years, --from the first reform in Parliament downto the Ballot, --had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a fewambitious men. Not, however, that the Ballot was just now regarded bythe party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph ofRadical wickedness. The Ballot was on the whole popular with theparty. A short time since, no doubt it was regarded by the party asbeing one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. But ithad answered well at Porcorum, and with due manipulation had beenfound to be favourable at Sticinthemud. The Ballot might perhaps helpthe long pull and the strong pull, --and, in spite of the ruin anddisgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservativemeasure. It was considered that the Ballot might assist Melmotte atWestminster very materially. 

Any one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing theConservative speeches in the borough, --any one at least who lived soremote as not to have learned what these things really mean, --wouldhave thought that England's welfare depended on Melmotte's return. Inthe enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character wereanswered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief crimelaid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some greatcontinental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had somanaged it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortuneof his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had broughtto England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from theshareholders in the company. Now the 'Evening Pulpit, ' in itsendeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed whatit called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it wasascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placedat Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that nomerchant of higher honour than Mr Melmotte had ever adorned theExchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of thetime, both of them antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to be in accord ona material point. One declared that Mr Melmotte was not in truthpossessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his wealthfrom those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray so bad acause as contradictions such as these? Could anything be so false, soweak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned, --in fact, so 'Liberal' as a course of action such as this? The belief naturallyto be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction onthe minds--of, at any rate, the Conservative newspapers--was that MrMelmotte had accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had neverrobbed any shareholder of a shilling. 

The friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were enabledto sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quiteexternal to their party. The 'Breakfast Table' supported Melmotte, butthe 'Breakfast Table' was not a Conservative organ. This support wasgiven, not to the great man's political opinions, as to which awell-known writer in that paper suggested that the great man hadprobably not as yet given very much attention to the party questionswhich divided the country, --but to his commercial position. It wasgenerally acknowledged that few men living, --perhaps no man alive, --had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the ageas Mr Augustus Melmotte. In whatever part of the world he might haveacquired his commercial experience, --for it had been said repeatedlythat Melmotte was not an Englishman, --he now made London his home andGreat Britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of thecountry that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. Suchwere the arguments used by the 'Breakfast Table' in supporting MrMelmotte. This was, of course, an assistance;--and not the less sobecause it was asserted in other papers that the country would beabsolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The hotter theopposition the keener will be the support. Honest good men, men whoreally loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsulliednames from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grewhot in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned toParliament as the head of the great Conservative mercantile interestsof Great Britain!

There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at thepresent moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was thereturn of Mr Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a veryignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which hadvexed England for the last half century, --nothing whatever of thepolitical history which had made England what it was at the beginningof that half century. Of such names as Hampden, Somers, and Pitt hehad hardly ever heard. He had probably never read a book in his life. He knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of nationality, --had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on the subject. He hadnot even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic mightaffect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of thoseterms. But yet he was fully confident that England did demand andought to demand that Mr Melmotte should be returned for Westminster. This man was Mr Melmotte himself. 

In this conjunction of his affairs Mr Melmotte certainly lost hishead. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous gamewhich he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, hebecame deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himselfas the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those whoopposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of theirown to serve. He went about in his open carriage, with Lord Alfred athis left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply thatWestminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted to certainpolitical friends that at the next general election he should try theCity. Six months since he had been a humble man to a Lord, --but nowhe scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in a manner whichshowed how proud he was of connecting himself with their socialpre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which suchpre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more arrogant hebecame the more vulgar he was, till even Lord Alfred would almost betempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there weresome with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogancewill produce submission; and there are men who take other men at theprice those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could notrefrain from thinking Melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; andgave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe. We all know men of this calibre, --and how they seem to grow in number. But the net result of his personal demeanour was injurious; and it wasdebated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hintshould not be given him. 'Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him?'said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, aleading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with half the great Conservativefamilies in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf ofthe great financial king, and working like a slave for his success. 

'Alfred's more than half afraid of him, ' said Lionel Lupton, a youngaristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the ideathat the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in Parliament, butwho would have given up his Scotch shooting rather than have undergoneMelmotte's company for a day. 

'Something really must be done, Mr Beauclerk, ' said Mr Jones, who wasthe leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough, who had become a Conservative politician, who had thoughts of theHouse for himself, but who never forgot his own position. 'He ismaking a great many personal enemies. '

'He's the finest old turkey cock out, ' said Lionel Lupton. 

Then it was decided that Mr Beauclerk should speak a word to LordAlfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had alwaysbeen intimate. 'Alfred, ' said the chosen mentor at the club oneafternoon, 'I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotteabout his manner. ' Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into hiscompanion's face. 'They tell me he is giving offence. Of course hedoesn't mean it. Couldn't he draw it a little milder?'

Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. 'If you ask me, I don'tthink he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you mightmake him mild. I don't think there's any other way. '

'You couldn't speak to him, then?'

'Not unless I did it with a horsewhip. '

This, coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on theman, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted thatmorning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going aboutthe borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him atmeetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms, --and had beennauseated with Melmotte. When spoken to about his friend he could notrestrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, andfound the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almostinsupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first, whenhe was called Alfred; but now that he was told 'just to open thedoor, ' and 'just to give that message, ' he almost meditated revenge. Lord Nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something ofthis in Grosvenor Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had investedpart of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr Beauclerk, when hehad got his answer, whistled and withdrew. But he was true to hisparty. Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservativeshad taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was agod. 

The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained onenight at the India Office. The Secretary of State for the second greatAsiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. This was onSaturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte's dinner was to take place onthe following Monday. Very great interest was made by the London worldgenerally to obtain admission to the India Office, --the making of suchinterest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets ofadmission, addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the undersecretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments, chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives. If a petitionercould not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the receptionrooms, might not he, --or she, --be allowed to stand in some passagewhence the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen, --so that, if possible, the petitioner's name might be printed in the list of guests whichwould be published on the next morning? Now Mr Melmotte with his familywas, of course, supplied with tickets. He, who was to spend a fortunein giving the Emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be presentat other places to which the Emperor would be brought to be shown. Melmotte had already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a ball in royal halls. But hitherto he had not been presentedto the Emperor. Presentations have to be restricted, --if only on thescore of time; and it had been thought that as Mr Melmotte would ofcourse have some communication with the hardworked Emperor at his ownhouse, that would suffice. But he had felt himself to be ill-used andwas offended. He spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters ofthe Royal Family generally, because he had not been brought to thefront rank either at the breakfast or at the ball, --and now, at theIndia Office, was determined to have his due. But he was not on thelist of those whom the Secretary of State intended on this occasion topresent to the Brother of the Sun. 

He had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken todining freely, --which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at allhours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he wastipsy. He was a man whom wine did not often affect after that fashion. But it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his arrogance tillhe was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some moment afterdinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of whichhe had spoken. Melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the IndiaOffice, and soon left them far in the background with a request, --wemay say an order, --to Lord Alfred to take care of them. It may beobserved here that Marie Melmotte was almost as great a curiosity asthe Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attemptedto run away to New York, but had gone without her lover. Melmotteentertained some foolish idea that as the India Office was inWestminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on thisoccasion because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold ofan unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluableyoung peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was a shy man, of enormouswealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, whonever amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and readeverything that anybody could write, and more than any other personcould read, about India. Had Mr Melmotte wanted to know the exactdietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the Punjaub, orthe amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would have informed himwithout a pause. But in this matter of managing the Emperor, the undersecretary had nothing to do, and would have been the last man to beengaged in such a service. He was, however, second in command at theIndia Office, and of his official rank Melmotte was unfortunately madeaware. 'My Lord, ' said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, 'I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty. ' Lord DeGriffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man, --beingone of the few men in that room who did not know him. 

'This is Mr Melmotte, ' said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladiesand still stuck to his master. 'Lord De Griffin, let me introduce youto Mr Melmotte. '

'Oh--oh--oh, ' said Lord De Griffin, just putting out his hand. 'I amdelighted;--ah, yes, ' and pretending to see somebody, he made a weakand quite ineffectual attempt to escape. 

Melmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacityrepeated his demand. 'I am desirous of being presented to his ImperialMajesty. Will you do me the honour of making my request known to MrWilson?' Mr Wilson was the Secretary of State, who was as busy as aSecretary of State is sure to be on such an occasion. 

'I hardly know, ' said Lord De Griffin. 'I'm afraid it's all arranged. I don't know anything about it myself. '

'You can introduce me to Mr Wilson. '

'He's up there, Mr Melmotte; and I couldn't get at him. Really youmust excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him I'll tell him. ' And thepoor under secretary again endeavoured to escape. 

Mr Melmotte put up his hand and stopped him. 'I'm not going to standthis kind of thing, ' he said. The old Marquis of Auld Reekie was closeat hand, the father of Lord Nidderdale, and therefore the proposedfather-in-law of Melmotte's daughter, and he poked his thumb heavilyinto Lord Alfred's ribs. 'It is generally understood, I believe, 'continued Melmotte, 'that the Emperor is to do me the honour of diningat my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm madeacquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't goingto entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented tohim. Perhaps you'd better let Mr Wilson know, as a good many peopleintend to come. '

'Here's a row, ' said the old Marquis. 'I wish he'd be as good as hisword. '

'He has taken a little wine, ' whispered Lord Alfred. 'Melmotte, ' hesaid, still whispering; 'upon my word it isn't the thing. They're onlyIndian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here, --not a fellowamong 'em all who hasn't been in India or China, or isn't a Secretaryof State, or something of that kind. '

'Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball, ' saidMelmotte, pulling down his waistcoat. 'By George, Alfred! I'm inearnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented tohis Imperial Majesty to-night, by G----, there shall be no dinner inGrosvenor Square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, Isuppose, to be able to manage that. '

Here was a row, as the Marquis had said! Lord De Griffin wasfrightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done. 'There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in hisobstinacy, ' Lord Alfred said to Mr Lupton, who was there. It no doubtmight have been wise to have allowed the merchant prince to returnhome with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned. He wouldhave repented probably before the next morning; and had he continuedobdurate it would not have been difficult to explain to CelestialMajesty that something preferable had been found for that particularevening even to a banquet at the house of British commerce. TheGovernment would probably have gained the seat for Westminster, asMelmotte would at once have become very unpopular with the great bodyof his supporters. But Lord De Griffin was not the man to see this. Hedid make his way up to Mr Wilson, and explained to the Amphytrion ofthe night the demand which was made on his hospitality. A thoroughlywell-established and experienced political Minister of State alwaysfeels that if he can make a friend or appease an enemy without payinga heavy price he will be doing a good stroke of business. 'Bring himup, ' said Mr Wilson. 'He's going to do something out in the East, isn't he?' 'Nothing in India, ' said Lord De Griffin. 'The submarinetelegraph is quite impossible. ' Mr Wilson, instructing some satelliteto find out in what way he might properly connect Mr Melmotte withChina, sent Lord De Griffin away with his commission. 

'My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself;' MrMelmotte was saying when the under secretary returned. 'I know my ownposition and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be d---- ifany of the lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday. ' Lord Alfredwas so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the PrimeMinister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of acquaintinghim with the terrible calamity which was threatened. But the arrivalof the under secretary saved him the trouble. 

'If you will come with me, ' whispered Lord De Griffin, 'it shall bemanaged. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall bedone. '

'I do wish it, ' said Melmotte aloud. He was one of those men whomsuccess never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained alwaysdemanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet. 

'If you will be so kind as to follow me, ' said Lord De Griffin. And sothe thing was done. Melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperialfootstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at themoment of interpreters, --of the double interpreters whom the Majestyof China required; but the awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestialone quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word even ofhis own banquet. 

But he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor MrLongestaffe's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable. Lord Alfredtried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her daughter intothe carriage, but Melmotte insisted on his presence. 'You might aswell come, Alfred;--there are two or three things I must settlebefore I go to bed. '

'I'm about knocked up, ' said the unfortunate man. 

'Knocked up, nonsense! Think what I've been through. I've been all dayat the hardest work a man can do. ' Had he as usual got in first, leaving his man-of-all-work to follow, the man-of-all-work would haveescaped. Melmotte, fearing such defection, put his hand on LordAlfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. As they were takenhome a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible, but as the wordswere not distinguished they required no painful attention; but whenthe soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in MrLongestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a fullblast. 'I mean to let the fellows know what's what, ' said Melmotte, walking about the room. Lord Alfred had thrown himself into anarm-chair, and was consoling himself as best he might with tobacco. 'Give and take is a very good motto. If I scratch their back, I meanthem to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend tenthousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a privateenterprise. I don't know of any other man of business who could do it, or would do it. It's not much any of them can do for me. Thank God, Idon't want 'em. But if consideration is to be shown to anybody, Iintend to be considered. The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I supposea man may be allowed to speak to his own guests. '

'You might turn the election against you if you said anything thePrince didn't like. '

'D---- the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as aman of business, not as a courtier, --as a man who understands commercialenterprise, not as one of the Prince's toadies. Some of you fellows inEngland don't realize the matter yet; but I can tell you that I thinkmyself quite as great a man as any Prince. ' Lord Alfred looked at him, with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home, and shuddered. 'I'llteach them a lesson before long. Didn't I teach 'em a lesson to-night, --eh? They tell me that Lord De Griffin has sixty thousand a-year tospend. What's sixty thousand a year? Didn't I make him go on mybusiness? And didn't I make 'em do as I chose? You want to tell methis and that, but I can tell you that I know more of men and womenthan some of you fellows do, who think you know a great deal. '

This went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards, asLord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount Street, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of escaping fromhis present servitude. 'Beast! Brute! Pig!' he said to himself overand over again as he slowly went to Mount Street. 

CHAPTER LV - CLERICAL CHARITIES

Melmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's antecedentswere much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seenthere in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comesfrom sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those partsknew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London. Thepurchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all theSuffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his pastfrauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richestman in England. Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also beencommunicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was notrecognized as being 'real Suffolk' himself, was so far connected withSuffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of realityrespecting the Melmottes generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned. Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmotte fashion. Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably Conservative, did notbelieve in Melmotte as a Conservative Member of Parliament. Suffolk onthis occasion was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and tookoccasion to remember that it was barely the other day, as Suffolkcounts days, since the original Longestaffe was in trade. This sellingof Pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmotte, was a meanthing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmotte hadpicked the very bones of every shareholder in that Franco-AustrianAssurance Company. 

Mr Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talkingabout him, --or talking rather of the attempted elopement. 'I knownothing about it, ' said Roger, 'and I do not intend to ask. Of courseI did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and Idid believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the fatherhad consented or not I never inquired. '

'It seems he did not consent. '

'Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than sucha marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the "Gazette" before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one ifhe had it. '

'You think Melmotte will turn out a failure. '

'A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--amiserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end, --too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that hisposition is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we comingto when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?'

'At just a table here and there, ' suggested his friend. 

'No;--it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so canI mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do setthe example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs inreturn. And yet these leaders of the fashion know, --at any rate theybelieve, --that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greaterthan other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Menreconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to behonest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then therecomes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with theapproval of all the world, --and the natural aptitude to do what all theworld approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte is notcompatible with a wholesome state of things in general. '

Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same herowas discussed under a different heading. 'He has given £200, ' said theBishop, 'to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man couldspend his money much better than that. '

'Clap-trap!' said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter. 

'The money is not clap-trap, my friend. I presume that the money isreally paid. '

'I don't feel at all sure of that. '

'Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men, --veryready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the election. '

'And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?'

'Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society, --and I amalways for encouraging useful men. '

'Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?'

'There you beg ever so many questions, Mr Carbury. Mr Melmotte wishesto get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which youat any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect ispernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambitionto the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why weshould say that it is vile in this man. ' Roger frowned and shook hishead. 'Of course Mr Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom youhave been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a Conservativeconstituency. But the country is changing. '

'It's going to the dogs, I think;--about as fast as it can go. '

'We build churches much faster than we used to do. '

'Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?' asked theSquire. 

'It is very hard to see into the minds of men, ' said the Bishop; 'butwe can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men on thewhole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There isa wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, amore lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also ofsuperstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr Carbury, by followingforms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them. '

'I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would bedone by. '

'There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be savedeven if they have not practised at all times that grand self-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almostdemand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit, --of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in thatway yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation at being wronglyjudged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or thecauses of them; and do you never judge others after that fashion?'

'I do not put myself forward as an example. '

'I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt toforget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men ingeneral. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the richand the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and notworse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horacedid, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look onlyat the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of theworld at large. '

'But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs whenHorace wrote. '

'But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fitby wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, hasnot freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?'

'In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do youremember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured theVia Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar topost for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hearMelmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the manto be Conservative member for Westminster?'

'Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?'

'I think I know that they are deserved. '

'That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man iswhat you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of hispunishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad timeof it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps ismanaged more justly than you think, Mr Carbury. '

'My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart, ' said Roger, as he tookhis leave. 

'Very likely, --very likely. Only don't say so to the Prime Minister, or I shall never get any of the better things which may be going. '

The Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and wastherefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in generalthan Roger Carbury. To Roger everything seemed to be out of joint. Hehad that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury, reminding him ofthe promise of a loan, should a time come to her of great need. It hadcome very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in the least begrudge thehundred pounds which he had already sent to his cousin; but he didbegrudge any furtherance afforded to the iniquitous schemes of SirFelix. He felt all but sure that the foolish mother had given her sonmoney for his abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal hadbeen made to him. He alluded to no such fear in his letter. He simplyenclosed the cheque, and expressed a hope that the amount mightsuffice for the present emergency. But he was disheartened anddisgusted by all the circumstances of the Carbury family. There wasPaul Montague, bringing a woman such as Mrs Hurtle down to Lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing his visits to her, and, asRoger thought, utterly unable to free himself from his toils, --andyet, on this man's account, Hetta was cold and hard to him. He wasconscious of the honesty of his own love, sure that he could makeher happy, --confident, not in himself, but in the fashion and waysof his own life. What would be Hetta's lot if her heart was reallygiven to Paul Montague?

When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. Anaccident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment. Thewind had blown the roof off his cottage; and Roger Carbury, though hisaffection for the priest was waning, had offered him shelter while thedamage was being repaired. Shelter at Carbury Manor was very much morecomfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roofon, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham was reading his ownfavourite newspaper, 'The Surplice, ' when Roger entered the room. 'Have you seen this, Mr Carbury?' he said. 

'What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongspeculiarly to "The Surplice. "'

'That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the AnglicanChurch. Mr Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man, andwill perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the globe. '

'Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I'll make you a present of him, andthank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such goodriddance. '

Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of 'The Surplice. ' 'MrAugustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented ahundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church ofSt Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied by aletter from Mr Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little doubtthat the new member for Westminster will be a member, and noinconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during thenext session. '

'That's another dodge, is it?' said Carbury. 

'What do you mean by a dodge, Mr Carbury? Because money is given for apious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be adodge?'

'But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave£200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left theBishop exulting in this great act of charity. '

'I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to theChurch to which he belonged in his darkness. '

'And you would be really proud of Mr Melmotte as a convert?'

'I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul, ' said thepriest; 'but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and thegreat. '

'The great! Oh dear!'

'A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of MrMelmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, itis a great sign to us that the Truth is prevailing. ' Roger Carbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed. 

CHAPTER LVI - FATHER BARHAM VISITS LONDON

It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic votein Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great thingboth in the House and out of the House to 'catch' Roman Catholicvotes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or thatindividual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that hepersonally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may beextended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people ofthe Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being madetowards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is theeasier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. Thepromoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good aCatholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to beconciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as anenemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be veryefficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic inIreland and England has been brought to believe that the nation iscoming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same convictionhas been made to grow. To catch the Protestant, --that is the peculiarlyProtestant, --vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is afeat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr Melmotte and his friends. It was perhapsthought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the £100given for the altar to St Fabricius; but Mr Alf was wide awake, andtook care that Mr Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter ofinterest to the world at large. During all that period of newspaperexcitement there was perhaps no article that created so much generalinterest as that which appeared in the 'Evening Pulpit, ' with aspecial question asked at the head of it, 'For Priest or Parson?' Inthis article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungentfrom the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any drydidactic wisdom, Mr Alf's man, who did that business, declared that itwas really important that the nation at large and especially theelectors of Westminster should know what was the nature of MrMelmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly religious temperamentwas most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at thiscrisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of hisordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The 'Evening Pulpit' by nomeans insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference tothe approaching election. Far be it from the 'Evening Pulpit' toimagine that so great a man as Mr Melmotte looked for any return inthis world from his charitable generosity. But still, as Protestantsnaturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestantmember, and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be representedby a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr Melmotte would not object to declarehis creed. 

This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr Melmotte and hismanager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in anyway. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St Fabriciuswith one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and mustleave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants choseto believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he wastending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any enthusiasticreligionists wishing to enjoy such convictions would not allowthemselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity ofMr Alf's newspaper. 

It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society didhave much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some fewto go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion andtorpid as to politics. But the donation to St Fabricius certainly hadresults. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic partygenerally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believedthat Mr Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome. Thesemanoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow insteadof good. On the second afternoon after the question had been asked inthe 'Evening Pulpit, ' an answer to it appeared, 'For Priest and notfor Parson. ' Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organsand repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together, so asto show that Mr Melmotte really had at last made up his mind on thisimportant question. All the world knew now, said Mr Alf's writer, thatwith that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier'speculiar characteristic, --the Great Financier was the name which Mr Alfhad specially invented for Mr Melmotte, --he had doubted, till the truthwas absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nationbest as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt withwisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, andby the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced. The world ofWestminster at last knew that Mr Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Nownothing was clearer than this, --that though catching the Catholic votewould greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope tobe returned. This last article vexed Mr Melmotte, and he proposed tohis friends to send a letter to the 'Breakfast Table' asserting thathe adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it wassuspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps havebeen too strong. 'Do nothing of the kind, ' said Mr BeauchampBeauclerk. 'If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say thatyou are a Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our ownpeople. Don't go writing letters. '

But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St Fabricius was such agodsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to clingto the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I think that manyof them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirringof people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent Romanists have alwaysthis point in their favour, that they are ready to believe. And theyhave a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactlyinverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ toproduce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal tohimself in the good cause, --his time, his health, his money when he hadany, and his life. Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury Hall, hewould never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoymentby reticence as to his religion. Roger Carbury was hard of heart. Hecould see that. But the dropping of water might hollow the stone. Ifthe dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances beforethe stone had been impressed that would not be his fault. He at anyrate would do his duty. In that fixed resolution Father Barham wasadmirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of thearguments he would use, --or as to the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of hisfaith 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. Hebelieved in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth, --believedthat he was powerful in all quarters of the globe, --and believed, because he was so told by 'The Surplice, ' that the man was at heart aCatholic. That a man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in theworld professing the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barhameither improbable or distressing. Kings who had done so were to himobjects of veneration. By such subterfuges and falsehood of life hadthey been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There wasa mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to theyoung priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiartime, --in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He hadfor some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in orderthat he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from timeto time betook themselves to the cells of St Fabricius. And so, justat this season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made ajourney to London. 

He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with MrMelmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word ortwo as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be ahappiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who wasperhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to hiscountry. On Saturday night, --that Saturday night on which Mr Melmottehad so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office, --hetook up his quarters in the cloisters of St Fabricius; he spent agoodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services ofthe metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest ofMr Melmotte. Having obtained that address from some circular, he wentfirst to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and on the next, which wouldbe the day of the election, Mr Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in BrutonStreet. There he was told that the great man might probably be foundin Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barham wasat last successful. Mr Melmotte was there superintending thearrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor. 

The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault ingiving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in greatconfusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were beingsuspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the woodencapitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smellof the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; andan enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for theaccommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and poor FatherBarham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but nota word of the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss toconceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. Butthrough the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in thepresence of Mr Melmotte in the banqueting hall. 

Mr Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He wasstanding in front of the chair which had been arranged for theEmperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angryindeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was firstplanned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which hehad conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of theEmperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial Onehimself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. Inface of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majestymight be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who satnext to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to theprincesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr Melmotte'sown seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a verybad time of it. 'It's that fellow from "The Herald" office did it, notme, ' he said, almost in a passion. 'I don't know how people ought tosit. But that's the reason. '

'I'm d----- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house, 'were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barhamwalked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceivedby either of the Grendalls, Mr Melmotte was trying, but trying invain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had beenput up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat preparedfor him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his ownhall. 'Who the d---- are you?' he asked, when the priest appearedclose before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleekapparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that agecan produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but inthe halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger'swelcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest inglossy black might have been received with better grace. 

Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinitepluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of anenterprise, --was the rule of his life. 'I am the Rev. Mr Barham, ' saidthe visitor. 'I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I amspeaking to Mr Melmotte. '

'That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether youare aware that you have found your way into my private dining-roomwithout any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Cananybody who pleases walk into my hall?'

'I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse, ' saidthe priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain hismission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself. 

'Is it business?' asked Lord Alfred. 

'Certainly it is business, ' said Father Barham with a smile. 

'Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane, --in theCity, ' said his lordship. 

'My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr Melmotte himself that hisheart is inclined to the true Faith. '

'Some lunatic, ' said Melmotte. 'See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred. '

'No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who areenthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others. '

'Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not goaway. '

'You will hardly need a policeman, Mr Melmotte, ' continued the priest. 'If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--'

'Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not goaway you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knowshim. '

'Mr Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend. '

'Carbury! D--- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? Aset of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid ofhim?'

'You'd better go, ' said Lord Alfred. 'Don't make a rumpus, there's agood fellow;--but just go. '

'There shall be no rumpus, ' said the priest, waxing wrathful. 'I askedfor you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?'

'You're in the way, ' said Lord Alfred. 

'It's a piece of gross impertinence, ' said Melmotte. 'Go away. '

'Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as onewhose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as onestill in error and in darkness?'

'What the mischief does he mean?' asked Melmotte. 

'He wants to know whether you're a papist, ' said Lord Alfred. 

'What the deuce is it to him?' almost screamed Melmotte;--whereuponFather Barham bowed and took his leave. 

'That's a remarkable thing, ' said Melmotte, --'very remarkable. ' Eventhis poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. 'I suppose he wasin earnest. '

'Mad as a hatter, ' said Lord Alfred. 

'But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That'swhat I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man inall England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant. I wonder whether the "Morning Pulpit" people sent him here now to findout really what is my religion. '

'Mad as a hatter, ' said Lord Alfred again;--'just that and no more. '

'My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. Thetruth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend thatthey shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'emunderstands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know. I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?'

'What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about. '

'I'll have this bar down, at any rate. ' And he did succeed in havingremoved the bar which had been specially put up to prevent hisintrusion on his own guests in his own house. 'I look upon thatfellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times, ' he went onto say. 'They'll want before long to know where I have my clothesmade, and who measures me for my boots!' Perhaps the most remarkablecircumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that hecame almost to believe in himself. 

Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogetherdisheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a RomanCatholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed andcursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must haveknown to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to thispriest, who had been born an English gentleman, as being no gentleman. But, not the less might he be a good Catholic, --or good enough at anyrate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes Melmotte, withall his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man thanRoger Carbury. 'He insulted me, ' said Father Barham to a brotherreligionist that evening within the cloisters of St Fabricius. 

'Did he intend to insult you?'

'Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands ofpolished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to bedone. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind wasintent upon that. '

'He entertains the Emperor of China this very day, ' said the brotherpriest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what wasbeing done. 

'The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he ison our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement forsaying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?'

'Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them. '

'There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose, ' said Father Barham. 

'Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in theworld. '

'He looked like it, --and spoke like it, ' said Father Barham. 'Think whatsuch a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the world!And if he had been against us would he not have said so? Though he wasuncivil, I am glad that I saw him. ' Father Barham, with a simplicitythat was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himselfbelieve before he returned to Beccles that Mr Melmotte was certainly aRoman Catholic. 

CHAPTER LVII - LORD NIDDERDALE TRIES HIS HAND AGAIN

Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to MarieMelmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's houseon the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that promise hadbeen given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not seen in BrutonStreet. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that onthis occasion there was need for thought. His father's property wasnot very large. His father and his grandfather had both beenextravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding tothe family embarrassments. It had been an understood thing, since hehad commenced life, that he was to marry an heiress. In such familiesas his, when such results have been achieved, it is generallyunderstood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. It hasbecome an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost asserviceable for maintaining the proper order of things. Rank squandersmoney; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding itssplendour. The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old marquis--sothat 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. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fancifultheory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by anyliaison tending towards matrimony with any undowered beauty;--but hadclaimed his right to 'have his fling' before he devoted himself to thereintegration of the family property. His father had felt that itwould be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural adesire. He had regarded all the circumstances of 'the fling' withindulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to theduration of the fling, and the father had at last found himselfcompelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on muchlonger it must be done with internecine war between himself and hisheir. Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw thething quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had nointention of 'cutting up rough, ' declared that he was ready for theheiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and sethimself honestly about the task imposed on him. This had all beenarranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the readerknows the result. 

But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquishad been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almostunlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundredthousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. Buthere there had been a prospect of endless money, --of an inheritancewhich might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous forits wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The old manhad fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been theresult. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly two difficulties hadculminated above the others. The young lady preferred anothergentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to theway in which the money had been made, but even as to its veryexistence. 

The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as hecould learn from inquiry, the money would be there or, at least, somuch money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient tosecure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck, --though by no meansenough to make a brilliant marriage, --had in truth been already settledon Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her fatherhad armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income, --buthad made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event ofunforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashedcleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated thegrandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about toembark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge wouldhardly offer security to his vessel. Marie had been quite correct inher story to her favoured lover. And the Marquis's lawyer hadascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restoredthis money to her father, her husband would be so far safe, --with thisas a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. The Marquis haddetermined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr Melmotte hadbeen asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so assoon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consentof all the parties. The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express adoubt; but the Marquis had determined to persevere. The reader will, Itrust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trustagitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by informationwhich had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details. 

But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmottedeclared really to mean nothing, --the romance of a girl who wanted tohave one little fling of her own before she settled down for life, --was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gonewith her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife evenattempt to run off with any one but oneself. 'She'll be sick of him bythis time, I should say, ' his father said to him. 'What does itmatter, if the money's there?' The Marquis seemed to think that theescapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for havingmade his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead ofdevoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that hehad been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spiritthan he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that hewould try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into hismouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it. 

On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time. Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work inthe square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sentfor by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon, --and, after they hadsat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her, --of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave faceupon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position wasuncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover and has beenbrought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficultto appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away withouther lover, --has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and hasthen been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state ofmind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, andshe ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale. 

Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. 'Did you ever hearanything like that, Nidderdale?' he said, speaking of the priest'svisit. 

'Mad as a hatter, ' said Lord Alfred. 

'I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he hadbeen sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have anArchbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see tothat when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred?' Alfred shook his head. 'There's a Dean, I know, for I calledon him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all thoseparsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow hadcome from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil to him. '

'Mad as a hatter;--nothing else, ' said Lord Alfred. 

'You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as aplay to you. '

'I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir. '

'D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it, ' said Melmotte, frowning. 'We must goback again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are notlooked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready atexactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive ateight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, willhave to receive your guests in the drawing-room. ' The ladies wentupstairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe took herdeparture, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend LadyMonogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte theduty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found agreat difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she didnot know how to get up and go out of the room. As regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too muchfor her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur, --and probably no beliefin her husband's achievements. It was her present duty to assist ingetting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could onlydo by going away. But she did not know how to get out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the Emperor, and herwish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the wholeevening. She liked Nidderdale better than any one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nidderdaleassured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because noone was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head, andwished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was bydegrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings andemperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China wouldbe good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her courage, rosefrom her chair, and made straight for the door. 'Mamma, where are yougoing?' said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting herhandkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutelydestroyed by a toothache. 'I must see if I can't do something forher, ' said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was tooquick for her, and stood with his back to it. 'That's a shame, ' saidMarie. 

'Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you, ' said hislordship. 'Why should you grudge me the opportunity?'

Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also hadthought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Whyhad Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attemptto write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found ahundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside thegarden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave agate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had toldher that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he hadnever intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about themoney, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repaymenthe never mentioned, --a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed novirtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could haveforgiven that fault, --could have forgiven even the gambling and thedrunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on hisside, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What shecould not forgive was continued indifference, --or the cowardice whichforbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted hislove, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing shouldbe considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she hadreflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She wasquite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but shewould not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had donenothing beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning. 

But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to anend by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to bemarried and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appearagain, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be awarethat suitors would come, --would come as long as that convulsion wasstaved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool wouldfrighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put anend to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commandedher, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when heshould come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurancethat Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. Onthe Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with hisback to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with theevident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at anyrate that she would speak up. 'I don't know what you should have tosay to me, Lord Nidderdale. '

'Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?'

'Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, mylord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when thelady has told him that she liked somebody else better. '

'Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me. '

'Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've givenyou reason to believe it, at any rate. '

'You can't be very fond of him now, I should think. '

'That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond ofhim? Accidents will happen, you know. '

'I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, MissMelmotte. '

'You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Ofcourse I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought backagain. '

'Why did not Sir Felix go?'

'I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours. '

'But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well letme say what I've got to say, --out at once. '

'You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference. '

'You knew me before you knew him, you know. '

'What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so manypeople before I knew you. '

'And you were engaged to me. '

'You broke it off. '

'Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, yourfather and my father broke it off for us. '

'If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that hereally loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But youdidn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father toldyou. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never caredfor me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. Youthought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come againbecause your father has told you again. And you'd better go away. '

'There's a great deal of truth in what you say. '

'It's all true, my lord. Every word of it. '

'I wish you wouldn't call me my lord. '

'I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I nevercalled you anything else when they pretended that we were to bemarried, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name wastill I looked it out in the book after I had consented. '

'There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I tolove you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now. '

'Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good. '

'I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer toyou than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down toLiverpool with you. '

'You don't know why he didn't go. '

'Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything aboutthat. '

'Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?' She asked the question with analtered tone and an altered face. 'If you really know, you might aswell tell me. '

'No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tellyou. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back toyou?'

'I don't know, ' she said, sobbing. 'I do love him;--I do indeed. Iknow that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true. Iain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't carewhat he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. Yououghtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say anykind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--inall the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, butit's true. '

'Say good-bye to me, Marie. '

'Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't comeany more. '

'Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between meand him yet. ' So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away hethought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extremedifficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on hissuit. 'She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her tobe, ' he said to himself 'Upon my word, she's awfully jolly. '

Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost indismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury wasnot at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beautythere was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other goodquality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck?Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed LordNidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felixfrom going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when he saidthat it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it bewhat it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. LordNidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had acommonplace, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, noespecial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughingeyes, --not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. Butif he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, shethought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces forhim. 

CHAPTER LVIII - MR SQUERCUM IS EMPLOYED

While these things were being done in Bruton Street and GrosvenorSquare horrid rumours were prevailing in the City and spreading fromthe City westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting thisMonday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock inconsequence of the banquet to be given to the Emperor. It is difficultto explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not thoroughlyunderstood by those who propagated it. But it is certainly the casethat the word forgery was whispered by more than one pair of lips. 

Many of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was verywrong not to show himself that day in the City. What good could he dopottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room?There were people to manage that kind of thing. In such an affair itwas his business to do simply as he was told, and to pay the bill. Itwas not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend, and hadto see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. His workwas in the City; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis asthis, he should have been in the City. Men will whisper forgery behinda man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face. 

Of this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was theparent. With unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his father, Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr Squercum, immediately after thatFriday on which Mr Longestaffe first took his seat at the RailwayBoard. Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be ownedthat veneration was not one of them. 'I don't know why Mr Melmotte isto be different from anybody else, ' he had said to his father. 'When Ibuy 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. It's all right, no doubt, but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till themoney was paid down. '

'Of course it's all right, ' said the father. 'You think you understandeverything, when you really understand nothing at all. '

'Of course I'm slow, ' said Dolly. 'I don't comprehend these things. But then Squercum does. When a fellow is stupid himself, he ought tohave a sharp fellow to look after his business. '

'You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. Whycan't you trust Mr Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been thefamily lawyers for a century. ' Dolly made some remark as to the oldfamily advisers which was by no means pleasing to the father's ears, and went his way. The father knew his boy, and knew that his boy wouldgo to Squercum. All he could himself do was to press Mr Melmotte forthe money with what importunity he could assume. He wrote a timidletter to Mr Melmotte, which had no result; and then, on the nextFriday, again went into the City and there encountered perturbation ofspirit and sheer loss of time, --as the reader has already learned. 

Squercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles. Mr Slow hadbeen gathered to his fathers, but of the Bideawhiles there were threein the business, a father and two sons, to whom Squercum was a pestand a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. It wasnot only in reference to Mr Longestaffe's affairs that they knewSquercum. The Bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous andorderly transaction of their business. It had grown to be a rule inthe house that anything done quickly must be done badly. They neverwere in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to bein a hurry for work. Squercum was the very opposite to this. He hadestablished himself, without predecessors and without a partner, andwe may add without capital, at a little office in Fetter Lane, and hadthere made a character for getting things done after a marvellous andnew fashion. And it was said of him that he was fairly honest, thoughit must be owned that among the Bideawhiles of the profession this wasnot the character which he bore. He did sharp things no doubt, and hadno hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those oftheir fathers. In more than one case he had computed for a young heirthe exact value of his share in a property as compared to that of hisfather, and had come into hostile contact with many familyBideawhiles. He had been closely watched. There were some who, nodoubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once so clever, andso pestilential. But he had not as yet been crushed, and had becomequite in vogue with elder sons. Some three years since his name hadbeen mentioned to Dolly by a friend who had for years been at war withhis father, and Squercum had been quite a comfort to Dolly. 

He was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always worea stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a coloureddingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different from hiswaistcoat. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He waslight-haired, with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a squatnose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. He looked as unlikethe normal Bideawhile of the profession as a man could be; and it mustbe owned, though an attorney, would hardly have been taken for agentleman from his personal appearance. He was very quick, and activein his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself, and trusting tohis three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener'slabour. He seldom or never came to his office on a Saturday, and manyamong his enemies said that he was a Jew. What evil will not a rivalsay to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the hated one? But thisreport Squercum rather liked, and assisted. They who knew the innerlife of the little man declared that he kept a horse and hunted downin Essex on Saturday, doing a bit of gardening in the summer months;--and they said also that he made up for this by working hard allSunday. Such was Mr Squercum, --a sign, in his way, that the old thingsare being changed. 

Squercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on achair which moved on a pivot. His desk was against the wall, and whenclients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out hisdirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclinedplane, with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude hewould listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as littleas possible. It was by his instructions that Dolly had insisted ongetting his share of the purchase money for Pickering into his ownhands, so that the incumbrance on his own property might be paid off. He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment. 'Melmotte's at Pickering?' asked the attorney. Then Dolly informed himhow the tradesmen of the great financier had already half knocked downthe house. Squercum still listened, and promised to look to it. He didask what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of thetitle-deeds. Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale, but none for the surrender. His father, some time since, had putbefore him, for his signature, a letter, prepared in Mr Bideawhile'soffice, which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, andcertainly had not signed. Squercum again said that he'd look to it, and bowed Dolly out of his room. 'They've got him to sign somethingwhen he was tight, ' said Squercum to himself, knowing something of thehabits of his client. 'I wonder whether his father did it, or oldBideawhile, or Melmotte himself?' Mr Squercum was inclined to thinkthat Bideawhile would not have done it, that Melmotte could have hadno opportunity, and that the father must have been the practitioner. 'It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either, ' said Mr Squercum, in his soliloquy. He went to work, however, making himself detestablyodious among the very respectable clerks in Mr Bideawhile's office, --men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to Squercumhimself in professional standing. 

And now there came this rumour which was so far particular in itsdetails that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused Mr Melmotte, to his mode of acquiring the Pickering property. The nature of theforgery was of course described in various ways, --as was also thesignature said to have been forged. But there were many who believed, or almost believed, that something wrong had been done, --that somegreat fraud had been committed; and in connection with this it wasascertained, --by some as a matter of certainty, --that the Pickeringestate had been already mortgaged by Melmotte to its full value atan assurance office. In such a transaction there would be nothingdishonest; but as this place had been bought for the great man's ownfamily use, and not as a speculation, even this report of the mortgagetended to injure his credit. And then, as the day went on, othertidings were told as to other properties. Houses in the East-end ofLondon were said to have been bought and sold, without payment of thepurchase money as to the buying, and with receipt of the purchasemoney as to the selling. 

It was certainly true that Squercum himself had seen the letter in MrBideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the son'ssanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that letter, prepared in Mr Bideawhile's office, purported to have Dolly'ssignature. Squercum said but little, remembering that his client wasnot always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on thepreceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled as Dollyalways scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man. 

The letter was said to have been sent to Mr Bideawhile's office withother letters and papers, direct from old Mr Longestaffe. Such was thestatement made at first to Mr Squercum by the Bideawhile party, who atthat moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of theaccuracy of their statement. Then Squercum saw his client again, andreturned to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the positiveassurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly, when questioned bySquercum, quite admitted his propensity to be 'tight'. He had noreticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. But he had signedno letter when he was tight. 'Never did such a thing in my life, andnothing could make me, ' said Dolly. 'I'm never tight except at theclub, and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn andquartered if I ever signed it. That's flat. ' Dolly was intent on goingto his father at once, on going to Melmotte at once, on going toBideawhile's at once, and making there 'no end of a row, '--butSquercum stopped him. 'We'll just ferret this thing out quietly, 'said Squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be high honourin discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as Mr Melmotte. MrLongestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till theSaturday after his last interview with Melmotte in the City. He hadthen called at Bideawhile's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and hadbeen shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent theletter to Mr Bideawhile. He had begged his son to sign the letter andhis son had refused. He did not at that moment distinctly rememberwhat he had done with the letter unsigned. He believed he had left itwith the other papers; but it was possible that his son might havetaken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had been both angryand unhappy. He didn't think that he could have sent the letter backunsigned, --but he was not sure. He had more than once been in his ownstudy in Bruton Street since Mr Melmotte had occupied the house, --bythat gentleman's leave, --having left various papers there under his ownlock and key. Indeed it had been matter of agreement that he shouldhave access to his own study when he let the house. He thought itprobable that he would have kept back the unsigned letter, and havekept it under lock and key, when he sent away the other papers. Thenreference was made to Mr Longestaffe's own letter to the lawyer, andit was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son hadbeen asked to sign; but that he had said, in his own usually pompousstyle, that Mr Longestaffe, junior, was still prone to createunsubstantial difficulties. Mr Bideawhile was obliged to confess thatthere had been a want of caution among his own people. This allusionto the creation of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied, as it wassupposed to have been, by Dolly's letter doing away with alldifficulties, should have attracted notice. Dolly's letter must havecome in a separate envelope; but such envelope could not be found, andthe circumstance was not remembered by the clerk. The clerk who hadprepared the letter for Dolly's signature represented himself ashaving been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath hisnotice with Dolly's well-known signature. 

Such were the facts as far as they were known at Messrs. Slow andBideawhile's office, --from whom no slightest rumour emanated; and asthey had been in part collected by Squercum, who was probably lessprudent. The Bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that Dolly hadsigned the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable ofknowing on any day what he had done on the day before. 

Squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. And it mustbe owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion wasqualified to convince. 'Yes, ' he said to Squercum; 'it's easy sayingthat I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and whenI'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter. 'And Mr Squercum believed him. 

It would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the City on thisMonday morning. Though the elder Longestaffe had first heard of thematter only on the previous Saturday, Mr Squercum had been at work forabove a week. Mr Squercum's little matter alone might hardly haveattracted the attention which certainly was given on this day to MrMelmotte's private affairs;--but other facts coming to light assistedSquercum's views. A great many shares of the South Central Pacific andMexican Railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which hadpassed through the hands of Mr Cohenlupe;--and Mr Cohenlupe in the Cityhad been all to Mr Melmotte as Lord Alfred had been at the West End. Then there was the mortgage of this Pickering property, for which themoney certainly had not been paid; and there was the traffic with halfa street of houses near the Commercial Road, by which a large sum ofmoney had come into Mr Melmotte's hands. It might, no doubt, all beright. There were many who thought that it would all be right. Therewere not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for theserumours. But it was felt to be a pity that Mr Melmotte was not in theCity. 

This was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had even made up hismind that he would not go to the dinner. What one of his brotheraldermen said to him about leaving others in the lurch might be quitetrue; but, as his lordship remarked, Melmotte was a commercial man, and as these were commercial transactions it behoved the Lord Mayor ofLondon to be more careful than other men. He had always had hisdoubts, and he would not go. Others of the chosen few of the City whohad been honoured with commands to meet the Emperor resolved uponabsenting themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was verymuch discussed, and there were no less than six declared Citydefaulters. At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a noteto Miles Grendall excusing himself, which was thrust into thesecretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived. 

But a reverse worse than this took place;--a defalcation moreinjurious to the Melmotte interests generally even than that which wascaused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the City Magnates. The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings in anexaggerated form. It was whispered about that Melmotte had beendetected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property, andthat he had already been visited by policemen. By some it was believedthat the Great Financier would lie in the hands of the Philistineswhile the Emperor of China was being fed at his house. In the thirdedition of the 'Evening Pulpit' came out a mysterious paragraph whichnobody could understand but they who had known all about it before. 'Arumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have beencommitted by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling tomention. If it be so it is indeed remarkable that they should havecome to light at the present moment. We cannot trust ourselves to saymore than this. ' No one wishes to dine with a swindler. No one likeseven to have dined with a swindler, --especially to have dined with himat a time when his swindling was known or suspected. The Emperor ofChina no doubt was going to dine with this man. The motions ofEmperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to beimpossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be feltto be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger hadbeen solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the country. Nor wasthe thing as yet so far certain as to justify such a charge, were itpossible. But many men were unhappy in their minds. How would thestory be told hereafter if Melmotte should be allowed to play out hisgame of host to the Emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon asthe Eastern Monarch should have left his house? How would the brotherof the Sun like the remembrance of the banquet which he had beeninstructed to honour with his presence? How would it tell in all theforeign newspapers, in New York, in Paris, and Vienna, that this manwho had been cast forth from the United States, from France, and fromAustria had been selected as the great and honourable type of BritishCommerce? There were those in the House who thought that the absoluteconsummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided, and who were ofopinion that the dinner should be 'postponed. ' The leader of theOpposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister. 'Itis the merest rumour, ' said the Prime Minister. 'I have inquired, andthere is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can besubstantiated. '

'They say that the story is believed in the City. '

'I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. ThePrince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we beif 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 influencingthe election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on. '

'And you will go yourself?'

'Most assuredly, ' said the Prime Minister. 'And I hope that you willkeep me in countenance. ' His political antagonist declared with asmile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honourablefriend;--but he could not answer for his followers. There was, headmitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the Conservative partyof distrust in Melmotte. He considered it probable that among hisfriends who had been invited there would be some who would be unwillingto meet even the Emperor of China on the existing terms. 'They shouldremember, ' said the Prime Minister, 'that they are also to meet theirown Prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion will be adishonour to him. '

'Just at present I can only answer for myself' said the leader of theOpposition. --At that moment even the Prime Minister was much disturbedin his mind; but in such emergencies a Prime Minister can only choosethe least of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine with aswindler would be very bad; but to desert him, and to stop the comingof the Emperor and all the Princes on a false rumour, would be worse. 

CHAPTER LIX - THE DINNER

It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in nodegree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by thecruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose aside, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side heshould choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should takethe wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quitesuddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go toMelmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who haddetermined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Somethere were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte hadbeen got up simply as an electioneering trick, --so that Mr Alf mightcarry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election thismight be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvrefrom meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely bemarked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed tocare a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperorand the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only questionwhich concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrestedat the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, couldshow their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. But yet, --what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of timethe host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing wasto ascertain whether others were going. If a hundred or more out ofthe two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the positionof those who were present! And how would the thing go if at the lastmoment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decidedthat the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignoranceof the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that thesedoubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go abouttown and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; andquestions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. 'Is yourGrace going?' said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage, --havingleft the House and gone into the park between six and seven to pick upsome hints among those who were known to have been invited. TheDuchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. 'Iusually keep engagements when I make them, Mr Lupton, ' said theDuchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hourbefore that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had notthen even heard of the rumour. But ultimately both Lionel Lupton andBeauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received specialtickets as supporters of Mr Melmotte at the election, --out of thescanty number allotted to that gentleman himself, --and they thoughtthemselves bound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who at lastcame as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. Theexisting ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince. But members of the Opposition, by their presence, would support theman and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician theywere ashamed of him. 

When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter hehad heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs ofmoney, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should befree from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That suchburdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shouldershave never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of theblacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely hiswhole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special perilto which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment whichmight affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed hiswife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged hisimmediate satellites around him, --among whom were included the twoGrendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr Cohenlupe, --with a feeling ofgratified glory. Nidderdale down at the House had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken tohim. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he hadnot dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime couldsuch a bird as he fly in safety? He had not only heard, --but alsoknew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since theyhad been in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. 'You've heard about it; haven't you?' whispered Miles. Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declaredthat he had heard nothing. 'They're saying all manner of things in theCity;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming. 'Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life thatmisfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. Buthe was unhappy. 

The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people allcame. The unfortunate Emperor, --we must consider a man to be unfortunatewho is compelled to go through such work as this, --with impassible andawful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into thebanqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwardsbefore him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some CourtMaster of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on thisoccasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host, and thePrincesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had as yet beenwhispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed toenter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime Minister, onearchbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India with whosefeatures the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, werealone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendenceof Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. Everythingwas going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not comingwere proud of their wisdom. 

But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies werevisible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effectmade by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten ortwelve, --how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of theoutward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured topreserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares toherself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity offilling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been askedto bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the emptyspaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since ithad been understood that admission for the evening could not be hadfor love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seatat some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room were buthalf-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another six of MrMelmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and thebishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings tillafter other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for whomso much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers wereabsent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill MrAlf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had receivedtimely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. The three independentmembers of the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, andwould not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspectedof forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of thedinner commenced. 

Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself atthe big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and hisown chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his point. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedlyround the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. 'Howis it that there are so many places empty?' he said to his faithfulAchates. 

'Don't know, ' said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing tolook round upon the hall. 

Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked thequestion in another shape: 'Hasn't there been some mistake about thenumbers? There's room for ever so many more. '

'Don't know, ' said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, andrepenting himself that he had ever seen Mr Melmotte. 

'What the deuce do you mean?' whispered Melmotte. 'You've been at itfrom the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place. '

'Can't say anything about it, ' said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixedupon his plate. 

'I'll be d---- if I don't find out, ' said Melmotte. 'There's either somehorrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quiteclearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?'

'Hasn't come, I suppose. '

'And where's the Lord Mayor?' Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was nowsitting with his face turned round upon the hall. 'I know all theirplaces, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?'

'No; I haven't seen him at all. '

'But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?'

'Don't know anything about it. ' He shook his head but would not, foreven a moment, look round upon the room. 

'And where's Mr Killegrew, --and Sir David Boss?' Mr Killegrew and SirDavid were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for importantoffices in the Conservative party. 'There are ever so many people nothere. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know. '

'I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come. ' Lord Alfred'sanswers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surlyheart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to thefeeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At thepresent moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed tohim that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. 'If you go on making a row, ' hesaid, 'I shall go away. ' Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. 'Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soonenough. ' This was hardly the way to give Mr Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down thehall behind the guests. 

In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of variousdenominations ate their dinner, without probably observing thoseBanquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there wasno one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English, --theimperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo intoordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted, --it was not withinhis Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with hisneighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousinsand husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very muchto say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. Thebrothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awfulEmperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an EasternEmperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time ofit. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, andsilent, not eating very much, --for this was not his manner of eating;nor drinking very much, --for this was not his manner of drinking; butwondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes whichwere coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outwardcircumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter ofknives and forks. 'And this, ' he must have said to himself, 'is whatthey call royalty in the West!' If a prince of our own was forced, forthe good of the country, to go among some far-distant outlandishpeople, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back allround, the change to him could hardly be so great. 

'Where's Sir Gregory?' said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bendingover the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partnerof Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City. 

'Ain't he here?' said Todd, --knowing very well who had come from theCity and who had declined. 

'No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?'

Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before heanswered. 'I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr Melmotte; and I've had avery good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very gooddinner. '

There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not ridhimself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from LordAlfred's manner, that there was something which each of them couldtell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open theirmouths. And yet it might be so important to him that he should know!'It's very odd, ' he said, 'that gentlemen should promise to come andthen stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom Ishould have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would beroom. I think it is very odd. '

'It is odd, ' said Mr Todd, turning his attention to the plate beforehim. 

Melmotte had lately seen much of Beaucharnp Beauclerk, in reference tothe coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentlemanwith a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats inthis part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemenhad been set apart together. There Mr Melmotte seated himself for aminute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of thesedesertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to himthat he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered anddismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He wasnow striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothingshould cow him. And then again he was so cowed that he was ready tocreep to any one for assistance. Personally, Mr Beauclerk had dislikedthe man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known, Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. But hehad taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and consideredhimself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was nowthe guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrainedto courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introducedher to Mr Melmotte. 'You have a wonderful assemblage here, MrMelmotte, ' said the lady, looking up at the royal table. 

'Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimatethat he has been much gratified. '--Had the Emperor in truth said so, noone who looked at him could have believed his imperial word. --'Can youtell me, Mr Beauchamp, why those other gentlemen are not here? Itlooks very odd; does it not?'

'Ah; you mean Killegrew. '

'Yes; Mr Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made aparticular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner atall unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it aGovernment thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our ownparty; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent and, byGeorge, I have their answers, saying they'd come. '

'I suppose some of them are engaged, ' said Mr Beauchamp. 

'Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and thentake another? And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses?No, Mr Beauchamp, that won't go down. '

'I'm here, at any rate, ' said Beauchamp, making the very answer thathad occurred to Mr Todd. 

'Oh, yes, you're here. You're all right. But what is it, Mr Beauchamp?There's something up, and you must have heard. ' And so it was clear toMr Beauchamp that the man knew nothing about it himself. If there wasanything wrong, Melmotte was not aware that the wrong had beendiscovered. 'Is it anything about the election to-morrow?'

'One never can tell what is actuating people, ' said Mr Beauchamp. 

'If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell me. '

'I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. You andI have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait theresult. '

'Well; I suppose it's all right, ' said Melmotte, rising and going backto his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had hispolitical friends only been absent, he might have attributed theirabsence to some political cause which would not have touched himdeeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribewas a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, theEmperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given bysome one, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room abouthalf an hour. According to the programme arranged for the evening, theroyal 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 bythat time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify theinvited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with theEmperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The plan was carried outperfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, andfor half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had beenprepared for him. How one would wish to see the inside of the mind ofthe Emperor as it worked on that occasion!

Melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into thebanqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till hefound Miles Grendall. 

'Miles, ' he said, 'tell me what the row is. '

'How row?' asked Miles. 

'There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't thepeople come?' Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny hisknowledge. 'Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it atonce. ' Miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. 'Is itabout the election?'

'No, it's not that, ' said Miles. 

'Then what is it?'

'They got hold of something to-day in the City--about Pickering. '

'They did, did they? And what were they saying about Pickering? Come;you might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what liesthey tell. '

'They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think theysay. '

'Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginningwell. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after acceptingmy invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles; thatwill do. ' And the Great Financier went upstairs into his owndrawing-room. 

CHAPTER LX - MISS LONGESTAFFE'S LOVER

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'sgrand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram, --the place onthe cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmotte had thehonour of inviting to meet the Emperor and the Princes, having beenleft blank; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been askedto spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each ladywas disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible, --in whichdesire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties toa bargain. It had of course been settled that Lady Monogram was tohave the two tickets, --for herself and her husband, --such tickets atthat moment standing very high in the market. In payment for thesevaluable considerations, Lady Monogram was to undertake to chaperonMiss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as avisitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house duringthe time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had otherfriends in London besides the Melmottes on whom to depend for herLondon gaieties. At this moment Miss Longestaffe felt herselfjustified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving afair equivalent. The Melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high. They had just culminated. They fell a little soon afterwards, and atten p. M. On the night of the entertainment were hardly worth anything. At the moment which we have now in hand, there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram had already secured the tickets. They were in her desk. But, as will sometimes be the case in a bargain, the seller wascomplaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, somemake-weight should be added to the stipulated price. 

'As for that, my dear, ' said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the rise inMelmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of herold manners, 'I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady JuliaGoldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr Brehgert's juniorpartner. '

'Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr Goldsheiner has, insome sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says that he isone of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr Goldsheineranywhere. '

'I have. '

'Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr Melmotte, of course, entertains all the Citypeople. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr Brehgert todine here. ' Lady Monogram managed everything herself with reference toher own parties; invited all her own guests, and never troubled SirDamask, --who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends; but shewas very clever in the use which she made of her husband. There weresome aspirants who really were taught to think that Sir Damask wasvery particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house. 

'May I speak to Sir Damask about it?' asked Miss Longestaffe, who wasvery urgent on the occasion. 

'Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There arelittle things which a man and his wife must manage together withoutinterference. '

'Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr Brehgert, itdoes sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, thatthat kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good asWest End people. '

'A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don'tmake the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort ofway what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than myneighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who comehere will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is SirDamask. But we ain't big enough to introduce newcomers. I don'tsuppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I gopretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know MrBrehgert if I were to see him. '

'You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you saidonce, you're glad enough to go there. '

'Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person tothrow that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher roundthe corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don'tat all think of asking them to my house. But if they were suddenly toturn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be gladto have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used toit as I am. Mr Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round thecorner. ' Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or Ithink she would hardly have said this. 

'He is not a bit like a butcher, ' said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up inreal wrath. 

'I did not say that he was. '

'Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it ifI said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?'

'You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, ridesas though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the bestshots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as anyother gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was marriedhe used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little toofree behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there he is. '

'How proud you are of his vices. '

'He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere withme, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare sayMr Brehgert is good-natured. '

'He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very largefortune. '

'And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be acomfort. '

'If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and youfind it lonely enough. '

'Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you aretrying to be ill-natured, Georgiana. '

'Why did you say that he was a--butcher?'

'I said nothing of the kind. I didn't even say that he was like abutcher. What I did say was this, --that I don't feel inclined to risk myown reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. Of course, I go in for what you call fashion. Some people can dare to ask anybodythey meet in the streets. I can't. I've my own line, and I mean tofollow it. It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would be harderstill if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr Brehgert to come here onTuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but asfor having him to dinner, I--won't--do--it. ' So the matter was at lastsettled. Miss Longestaffe did ask Mr Brehgert for the Tuesday evening, and the two ladies were again friends. 

Perhaps Lady Monogram, when she illustrated her position by anallusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that MrBrehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade aresupposed to bear. Let us at least hope that she was so. He was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with hairdyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour. Thecharm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, whichwere, however, set too near together in his face for the generaldelight of Christians. He was stout;--fat all over rather thancorpulent, --and had that look of command in his face which has becomecommon to master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep andoxen. 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, theleading member of the great financial firm of which he was the secondpartner. Mr Todd's day was nearly done. He walked about constantlybetween Lombard Street, the Exchange, and the Bank, and talked much tomerchants; he had an opinion too of his own on particular cases; butthe business had almost got beyond him, and Mr Brehgert was nowsupposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He was a widower, livingin a luxurious villa at Fulham with a family, not indeed grown up, asLady Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown upbefore long, varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just beenplaced at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of twelve, whowas at school at Brighton. He was a man who always asked for what hewanted; and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, hadasked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to fill that situation. He had mether at the Melmottes', had entertained her, with Madame Melmotte andMarie, at Beaudesert, as he called his villa, had then proposed in thesquare, and two days after had received an assenting answer in BrutonStreet. 

Poor Miss Longestaffe! Although she had acknowledged the fact to LadyMonogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herselfinto society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage totell her family. The man was absolutely a Jew;--not a Jew that had been, as to whom there might possibly be a doubt whether he or his father orhis grandfather had been the last Jew of the family; but a Jew thatwas. So was Goldsheiner a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had married, --orat any rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with thatlady. She counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of 'decentpeople' who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord Frederic Framlinghamehad married a girl of the Berrenhoffers; and Mr Hart had married aMiss Chute. She did not know much of Miss Chute, but was certain thatshe was a Christian. Lord Frederic's wife and Lady Julia Goldsheinerwere seen everywhere. Though she hardly knew how to explain the mattereven to herself, she was sure that there was at present a generalheaving-up of society on this matter, and a change in progress whichwould soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody was Jew orChristian. For herself she regarded the matter not at all, except asfar as it might be regarded by the world in which she wished to live. She was herself above all personal prejudices of that kind. Jew, Turk, or infidel was nothing to her. She had seen enough of the world to beaware that her happiness did not lie in that direction, and could notdepend in the least on the religion of her husband. Of course shewould go to church herself. She always went to church. It was theproper thing to do. As to her husband, though she did not suppose thatshe could ever get him to church, --nor perhaps would it be desirable, --she thought that she might induce him to go nowhere, so that she mightbe able to pass him off as a Christian. She knew that such was theChristianity of young Goldsheiner, of which the Starts were nowboasting. 

Had she been alone in the world she thought that she could have lookedforward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid of herfather and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned, andhad so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a Jew, --and hadbeen so loud in denouncing the iniquity of Christians who allowed suchpeople into their houses! Unfortunately, too, Georgiana in her earlierdays had re-echoed all her mother's sentiments. And then her father, --if he had ever earned for himself the right to be called a Conservativepolitician by holding a real opinion of his own, --it had been on thatmatter of admitting the Jews into parliament. When that had been donehe was certain that the glory of England was sunk for ever. And sincethat time, whenever creditors were more than ordinarily importunate, when Slow and Bideawhile could do nothing for him, he would refer tothat fatal measure as though it was the cause of every embarrassmentwhich had harassed him. How could she tell parents such as these thatshe was engaged to marry a man who at the present moment went tosynagogue on a Saturday and carried out every other filthy abominationcommon to the despised people?

That Mr Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous forhair-dye, was in itself distressing:--but this minor distress wasswallowed up in the greater. Miss Longestaffe was a girl possessingconsiderable discrimination, and was able to weigh her own possessionsin just scales. She had begun life with very high aspirations, believing in her own beauty, in her mother's fashion, and her father'sfortune. She had now been ten years at the work, and was aware thatshe had always flown a little too high for her mark at the time. Atnineteen and twenty and twenty-one she had thought that all the worldwas before her. With her commanding figure, regular long features, andbright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties ofthe day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and aCoronet. 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, mighthave sufficed. Twenty-five and six had been the years for baronets andsquires; and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been markedby her as sufficient since that time. But now she was aware thathitherto she had always fixed her price a little too high. On threethings she was still determined, --that she would not be poor, that shewould not be banished from London, and that she would not be an oldmaid. 'Mamma, ' she had often said, 'there's one thing certain. I shallnever do to be poor. ' Lady Pomona had expressed full concurrence withher child. 'And, mamma, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me. Fancyhaving to live at Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable!' LadyPomona had agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hallwas a very nice home for her elder daughter. 'And, mamma, I shoulddrive you and papa mad if I were to stay at home always. And whatwould become of me when Dolly was master of everything?' Lady Pomona, looking forward as well as she was able to the time at which sheshould herself have departed, when her dower and dower-house wouldhave reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that Georgiana should provideherself with a home of her own before that time. 

And how was this to be done? Lovers with all the glories and all thegraces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls ofnineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits by girls oftwenty-nine. Brehgert was rich, would live in London, and would be ahusband. People did such odd things now and 'lived them down, ' thatshe could see no reason why she should not do this and live this down. Courage was the one thing necessary, --that and perseverance. She mustteach herself to talk about Brehgert as Lady Monogram did of SirDamask. She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her todeclare her fate to her old friend, --remembering as she did so how indays long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had scattered theirscorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish name, --whose grandfather had possibly been a Jew. 'Dear me, ' said LadyMonogram. 'Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr Todd is--one of us, Isuppose. '

'Yes, ' said Georgiana boldly, 'and Mr Brehgert is a Jew. His name isEzekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew. You can say what you like aboutit. '

'I don't say anything about it, my dear. '

'And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you andI were younger. '

'Very much changed, it appears, ' said Lady Monogram. Sir Damask'sreligion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of hismarriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church. 

But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than shehad shown even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that spirithad not as yet come to her. On the morning before she left theMelmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The Melmottesof course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. MadameMelmotte rather aspired to credit for having had so happy an affairarranged under her auspices. It was some set-off against Marie'sunfortunate escapade. Mr Brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to comeand go as he pleased, and on that morning he had pleased to come. Theywere sitting alone in some back room, and Brehgert was pressing for anearly day. 'I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr Brehgert, ' shesaid. 

'You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel atonce, ' he remarked. Georgiana frowned, and made no soft little attemptat the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont to do. 'MrsBrehgert'--he alluded of course to the mother of his children--'usedto call me Ezzy. '

'Perhaps I shall do so some day, ' said Miss Longestaffe, looking ather lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able tohave the house and the money and the name of the wife without thetroubles appertaining. She did not think it possible that she shouldever call him Ezzy. 

'And ven shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible. '

'In August!' she almost screamed. It was already July. 

'Vy not, my dear? Ve would have our little holiday in Germany atVienna. I have business there, and know many friends. ' Then he pressedher hard to fix some day in the next month. It would be expedient thatthey should be married from the Melmottes' house, and the Melmotteswould leave town some time in August. There was truth in this. Unlessmarried from the Melmottes' house, she must go down to Caversham forthe occasion, --which would be intolerable. No, --she must separateherself altogether from father and mother, and become one with theMelmottes and the Brehgerts, --till she could live it down and make aposition for herself. If the spending of money could do it, it shouldbe done. 

'I must at any rate ask mamma about it, ' said Georgiana. Mr Brehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was satisfied with theanswer, and went away promising that he would meet his love at thegreat Melmotte reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how she shoulddeclare the matter to her family. Would it not be better for her tosay to them at once that there must be a division among them, --anabsolute breaking off of all old ties, so that it should be tacitlyacknowledged that she, Georgiana, had gone out from among theLongestaffes altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes, Brehgerts, and Goldsheiners?

CHAPTER LXI - LADY MONOGRAM PREPARES FOR THE PARTY

When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and MissLongestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr Melmotte was in allhis glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear forhers, --especially as the reception of Mr Brehgert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take MarieMelmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before theelopement. Mr Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers anda countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave alock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he wasto marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I. O. U. Ofconsiderable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious toaccommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually theprices fell;--not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but throughthat customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. Butat eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets wereworth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the wholetown from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had toldtheir wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even thehairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by thefootmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on thecoach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated rounddining-rooms and over toilet-tables. 

I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wifeas he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be theresult to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made nocalculation. 'Have you heard what's up, Ju?' he said, rushinghalf-dressed into his wife's room. 

'What is up?'

'Haven't you been out?'

'I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take thatgirl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I meanto be seen with her as little as I can. '

'Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are. '

'Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?'

'They say Melmotte's been found out. '

'Found out!' exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in somearrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of hernot going to the reception. 'What do you mean by found out?'

'I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's somethingabout that place he bought of old Longestaffe. '

'Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a daylonger if there is anything against them. '

'Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poorold fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money. '

'Then he's ruined, --and there's an end of them. '

'Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged areceipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured awhole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?'

'Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe, ' said Lady Monogram, who hadthought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient. 

'They say he has found it all out. There was always something aboutDolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybodysays that Melmotte will be in quod before long. '

'Not to-night, Damask!'

'Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would waitabout in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes hadgone away. '

'Is Mr Lupton going?'

'He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mindwhether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quitecertain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a CabinetCouncil was to be called to know what to do. '

'A Cabinet Council!'

'Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go todine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaolbefore dinnertime. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows. '

Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon havinga French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was thereforequite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she did say was repeated downstairs in some language thathad become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram satmotionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his owndomain, finished his operations. 'Damask, ' she said, when hereappeared, 'one thing is certain;--we can't go. '

'After you've made such a fuss about it!'

'It is a pity, --having that girl here in the house. You know, don'tyou, she's going to marry one of these people?'

'I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one ofMelmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. Avulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him. '

'He's a Jew, and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly. '

'What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?'

But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. Shehad paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a womanalways in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to losethe thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte'svillainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by thedaily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she hadfirst heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any differencebetween commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to becomeknown as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretchedpeople, --and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the Emperor and thePrinces, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all beenthere, --that the world, in short, had ignored Melmotte's villainy, --then would her grief be still greater. She sat down to dinner with herhusband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she hadtransferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two. And a horribleidea crossed Lady Monogram's mind. What should she do with her friendGeorgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up?Of course, Madame Melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if herhusband were sent to gaol. 'I suppose you'll go, ' said Sir Damask asthe ladies left the room. 

'Of course we shall, --in about an hour, ' said Lady Monogram as she leftthe room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence. 

'Because, you know--' and then he called her back. 'If you want me I'llstay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club. '

'How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night. '

'All right;--only it's a bore being here alone. '

Then Miss Longestaffe asked what 'was up. ' 'Is there any doubt aboutour going to-night?'

'I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. Thereseems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there. '

'Impossible!'

'It's all very well to say impossible, my dear, ' said Lady Monogram;'but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr Melmotte is avery great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so thathe may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had betterfinish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hearthat the Emperor is there. ' Then she descended to her husband, whomshe found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. 'Damask, ' shesaid, 'you must find out. '

'Find out what?'

'Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there. '

'Send John to ask, ' suggested the husband. 

'He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourselfyou'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab, --just go into the halland you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I wereyou. ' Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but hedid not like the job. 'What can be the objection?' asked his wife. 

'Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are comebefore you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju. '

'Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if itwere like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happenedbefore, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I must;and I will. ' Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was a confoundedbore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole boxand dice of that sort of thing! He 'wished to goodness' that he haddined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. But at last he submitted and allowed his wife to leave the room withthe intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for andannounced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his bigcigar. 

It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in GrosvenorSquare he could at once see that the party was going on. The house wasilluminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door, andhalf the square was already blocked up with carriages. 

It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there hesaw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. TheEmperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far asSir Damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. But again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly elevenbefore he could reach home. 'It's all right, ' said he to his wife. 'They're there, safe enough. '

'You are sure that the Emperor is there. '

'As sure as a man can be without having seen him. '

Miss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resentwhat appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. 'Idon't understand it at all, ' she said. 'Of course the Emperor isthere. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. Whatis the meaning of it, Julia?'

'My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my ownway. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if thecarriage is there we had better start. ' The carriage was there, andthey did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even toLady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached thedoor. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were comingdownstairs. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had beenthere, --but had taken their departure. 

Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to hisclub. 

CHAPTER LXII - THE PARTY

Lady Monogram retired from Mr Melmotte's house in disgust as soon asshe was able to escape; but we must return to it for a short time. When the guests were once in the drawing-room the immediate sense offailure passed away. The crowd never became so thick as had beenanticipated. They who were knowing in such matters had declared thatthe people would not be able to get themselves out of the room tillthree or four o'clock in the morning, and that the carriages would notget themselves out of the Square till breakfast time. With a view tothis kind of thing Mr Melmotte had been told that he must provide aprivate means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with aconsiderable sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements thishad been done. No such gathering as was expected took place; but stillthe rooms became fairly full, and Mr Melmotte was able to consolehimself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had as yetoccurred. 

There can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembleddid believe that their host had committed some great fraud which mightprobably bring him under the arm of the law. When such rumours arespread abroad, they are always believed. There is an excitement and apleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such a moment isdull and phlegmatic. If the accused one be near enough to ourselves tomake the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course wedisbelieve. But, if the distance be beyond this, we are almost readyto think that anything may be true of anybody. In this case nobodyreally loved Melmotte and everybody did believe. It was so probablethat such a man should have done something horrible! It was only hopedthat the fraud might be great and horrible enough. 

Melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passedupstairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. He behavedcertainly very much better than he would have done had he had noweight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning anyconversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he wasaddressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the namesof those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presenceindicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence alreadybefore them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, he wishedthat he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal. And he freelyforgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been so angry atthe India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess was lacking ofthose who were expected. He could turn his mind to all this, althoughhe knew how great was his danger. Many things occurred to him as hestood, striving to smile as a host should smile. It might be the casethat half-a-dozen detectives were already stationed in his own hallperhaps one or two, well dressed, in the very presence of royalty, --ready to arrest him as soon as the guests were gone, watching him nowlest he should escape. But he bore the burden, --and smiled. He hadalways lived with the consciousness that such a burden was on him andmight crush him at any time. He had known that he had to run theserisks. He had told himself a thousand times that when the dangerscame, dangers alone should never cow him. He had always endeavoured togo as near the wind as he could, to avoid the heavy hand of thecriminal law of whatever country he inhabited. He had studied thecriminal laws, so that he might be sure in his reckonings; but he hadalways felt that he might be carried by circumstances into deeperwaters than he intended to enter. As the soldier who leads a forlornhope, or as the diver who goes down for pearls, or as the searcher forwealth 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 itopened itself out to him, he might come to terrible destruction. Hehad 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 theearth; but the greatness had grown upon him, --and so had the danger. Hecould not now be as exact as he had been. He was prepared himself tobear all mere ignominy with a tranquil mind, --to disregard any shoutsof reprobation which might be uttered, and to console himself when thebad quarter of an hour should come with the remembrance that he hadgarnered up a store sufficient for future wants and placed it beyondthe reach of his enemies. But as his intellect opened up to him newschemes, and as his ambition got the better of his prudence, hegradually fell from the security which he had preconceived, and becameaware that he might have to bear worse than ignominy. 

Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his ownconduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as hestood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety the partof host to an Emperor. No;--he could not run away. He soon made himselfsure of that. He had risen too high to be a successful fugitive, evenshould he succeed in getting off before hands were laid upon him. Hemust bide his ground, if only that he might not at once confess hisown guilt by flight; and he would do so with courage. Looking back atthe hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had allowedhimself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room, --but also toseem to be frightened. The thing had come upon him unawares and he hadbeen untrue to himself. He acknowledged that. He should not have askedthose questions of Mr Todd and Mr Beauclerk, and should have been moregood-humoured than usual with Lord Alfred in discussing those emptyseats. But for spilt milk there is no remedy. The blow had come uponhim too suddenly, and he had faltered. But he would not falter again. Nothing should cow him, --no touch from a policeman, no warrant from amagistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in the City, nosolitude in the West End. He would go down among the electors to-morrowand would stand his ground, as though all with him were right. Menshould know at any rate that he had a heart within his bosom. And heconfessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter ofarrogance. He could see it now, --as so many of us do see the faultswhich we have committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we never confess except to our own bosoms. The task which hehad imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been very hard to bear. He should have been good-humoured tothese great ones whose society he had gained. He should have boundthese people to him by a feeling of kindness as well as by his money. He could see it all now. And he could see too that there was no helpfor spilt milk. I think he took some pride in his own confidence as tohis own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might be suspected. Something might be found out. But thetask of unravelling it all would not be easy. It is the small verminand the little birds that are trapped at once. But wolves and vulturescan fight hard before they are caught. With the means which wouldstill be at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he couldmake a strong fight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is acertain safety in their very diversity and proportions. Might it notbe that the fact that these great ones of the earth had been hisguests should speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had thereal brother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent intothe dock and then sent out of it like a common felon. 

Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairswith a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a momentwhen any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dined atthe table, --or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that no dutyhad devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours, and wouldprobably be the last person in that house to hear them. It neveroccurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full orempty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China andmust have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with anEmperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she had gone whenshe was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performedher task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She, I think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and butlittle understanding of the position in which she had been placed. Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine dresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or have enjoyedthe company of the Emperor. From the beginning of the Melmotte era ithad been an understood thing that no one spoke to Madame Melmotte. 

Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at firsthad been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired tohave seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledged tobe betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he had saidnothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, but thoughtnow that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however, in thedrawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwardsretreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a person ofinterest as the young woman who had lately run away under such strangecircumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom sheherself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage forthe occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had been brought hither byher mother. 

The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent beforethe elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference had beenmade to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. Lady Carburyherself was anxious that that affair should not be considered ashaving given cause for any personal quarrel between herself and MrMelmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr Broune. Mr Broune wasthe staff on which she leant at present in all her difficulties. MrBroune was going to the dinner. All this of course took place whileMelmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr Broune saw no reasonwhy Lady Carbury should not take advantage of her tickets. Theseinvitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor surrounded by thePrinces. The young lady's elopement is 'no affair of yours, ' Mr Brounehad said. 'I should go, if it were only for the sake of showing thatyou did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter. ' LadyCarbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her. 'Nonsense, ' said the mother, when Hetta objected; 'Mr Broune sees itquite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour ofthe Emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothingto offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor. ' A fewminutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from MrBroune, written in pencil and sent from Melmotte's house by aCommissioner. 'Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and asfar as I can see it is all right. The E. Is beautiful, and P. 's are asthick as blackberries. ' Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way ofhearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course shewent. And Hetta went with her. 

Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who wastalking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity ofthe Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to herand asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial tothe poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of thegreat Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failedto run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. 'I hope you won't beangry with me for speaking to you. ' Hetta smiled more graciously. Shecould not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that shewas there as the guest of the girl's mother. 'I suppose you know aboutyour brother, ' said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to theground. 

'I have heard about it, ' said Hetta. 'He never told me himself. '

'Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don'tthink I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybodyin the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man, --reallyloves him, --that ought to go before everything?'

This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She feltquite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with aman. 'I don't quite know. It is so hard to say, ' she replied. 

'I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? Idon't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he wouldonly be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?'This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horridmorning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk, --which was nowfour days since, --he had not left the house in Welbeck Street tillthis evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury hadstarted, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would notget up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressedfashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke anddrink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was thathe was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to showhimself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled atthe club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey toLiverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated. Hehad not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him fromday to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept outintending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles. 'Dotell me. Where is he?' pleaded Marie. 

'He has not been very well lately. '

'Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what itis to love him as I do--can't you?'

'He has been ill. I think he is better now. '

'Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something?It is cruel, is it not? Tell me, --you must know, --does he really carefor me?'

Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by the girlrecommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with the affectionmanifested for her own brother, though she could hardly understand thewant of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speaking of her love toone who was almost a stranger. 'Felix hardly ever talks about himselfto me, ' she said. 

'If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it, ' Marie saidvery gravely. 'If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd gothrough, --oh, --all the world for him. Nothing that papa could sayshould stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked toany one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person totalk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There'sno disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get married withoutbeing in love. That's what I think. '

'It is bad, ' said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury. 

'But if Felix doesn't care for me!' continued Marie, sinking her voiceto a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to hercompanion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother did notin the least 'care for' Marie Melmotte, and that it would be very muchfor the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But she hadnot that sort of strength which would have enabled her to tell it. 'Tell me just what you think, ' said Marie. Hetta was still silent. 'Ah, --I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?'

'What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is mybrother, --and of course I love you for loving him. ' This was almostmore than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say somegracious word. 

'Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you. Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do youknow him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not loveme any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't theway with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from me?'Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised that shewould. 'Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do knowit now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all thesame. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be verybad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But heought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think heought to send me word?'

'Yes, indeed. '

'You tell him, then, ' said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away. 

Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to MissCarbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behovedhim to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he hadnot believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly immoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love toother men's wives, was to him a matter of everyday life. Nothing ofthat kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet quite old enoughto believe in swindling. It had been impossible to convince him thatMiles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr Melmotte hadforged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer shouldrun away in battle. Common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort ofthing. 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 thehard things that were being said about her father. And yet he knewthat he must be careful. If 'he came a cropper' in this matter, itwould be such an awful cropper! 'How do you like the party?' he saidto Marie. 

'I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?'

'Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I eversaw. Prince Frederic, '--one of the German princes who was staying atthe time among his English cousins, --'Prince Frederic says that he'sstuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shopin the Haymarket. '

'I've seen him talk. '

'He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. Ithink he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I'vedined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put anything toeat into his jolly old mouth. '

'Of course he did. '

'Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the otherday?'

'No, my lord, --I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?'

'Well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know. '

'You don't think about it. '

'Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last threemonths. '

'You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not. '

'That's what I mean, ' said Lord Nidderdale. 

'It isn't what I mean, then. '

'I'll be shot if I can understand you. '

'Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness they'reall going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't he? And who is thatin the violet dress with all the pearls?'

'That's the Princess Dwarza. '

'Dear me;--isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? I don't think it's atall nice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor. '

And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte put hiswife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he wouldfollow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some lastdirections to the people who were putting out the lights, andextinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had lookedround for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance ofsearching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those whoknew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought ofall that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the realvenom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than thisadditional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily graciousas he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, consideringall things, the party had gone off very well. 'I only wish it couldhave been done a little cheaper, ' he said laughing. Then he went backinto the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterlydeserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busyin the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which theEmperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should come to such a fateas this;--that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at hisown house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and GermanRoyalty, --and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rateremember him. The grand dinner which he had given before he was putinto prison would live in history. And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough ofWestminster, --perhaps, even, the elected member. He, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape Oblivion. 'Nonomnis moriar, ' in some language of his own, was chanted by him withinhis own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent suiteof rooms from the armchair which had been consecrated by the use of anEmperor. 

No policemen had come to trouble him yet. No hint that he would be'wanted' had been made to him. There was no tangible sign that thingswere not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly as theywere before, but for the absence of those guests from thedinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Hadhe not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he hadknown that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark bysimilar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms whichhad followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which hadovercome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which hehad allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking suchas that. When people talked of him they should say that he was atleast a man. 

As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through oneof the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. 'Isthat you, Miles?' he said. 'Come in. I'm just going home, and came uphere to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?'

'I suppose he went away. '

'I suppose he did, ' said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself fromthrowing a certain tone of scorn into his voice, --as though proclaimingthe fate of his own house and the consequent running away of the rat. 'It went off very well, I think. '

'Very well, ' said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been afew words of consultation between him and his father, --only a veryfew words. 'You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regularsalary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him to-morrowtill I find out how things are going. By G----, I've had about enoughof him. ' But hardly enough of his money or it may be presumed that LordAlfred would have 'hooked it' sooner. 

'Why don't you come in, and not stand there?' said Melmotte. 'There'sno Emperor here now for you to be afraid of. '

'I'm afraid of nobody, ' said Miles, walking into the middle of theroom. 

'Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him?We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose. '

'That's about it, ' said Miles, hardly following the working of hismaster's mind. 

'I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, hegets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at thecommittee-room about ten to-morrow?'

'That's the best, I should say. '

'You'll be there by that time?' Miles Grendall assented slowly, andwith imperfect assent. 'And tell your father he might as well be thereas early as convenient. '

'All right, ' said Miles as he took his departure. 

'Curs!' said Melmotte almost aloud. 'They neither of them will bethere. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, theywill do it. ' Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendallarticle had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. 'Curs!'he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through thebanqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. Whata scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk withinhim! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit himhardest. 'What cowards they are!' The men went on with their work, notnoticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had been doneby contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The care of thehouse and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, andhis foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. A confidentialclerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard the property. 'Good night, Croll, ' he said tothe man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying tocatch from it some indication of the mind within. Did Croll know ofthese rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had knownhim in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him throughthem. He paused a moment as though he would ask a question, butresolved at last that silence would be safest. 'You'll see everythingsafe, eh, Croll?' Croll said that he would see everything safe, andMelmotte passed out into the Square. 

He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into BrutonStreet, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with allhis present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, hethought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he could evennow put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions insome distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. Buthe was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever theywere, to the end. He could reach no place so distant but that he wouldbe known and traced. 

CHAPTER LXIII - MR MELMOTTE ON THE DAY OF THE ELECTION

No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so largeas that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since theballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, orthought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted uppromises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the oddshad been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from thereputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation asto the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On theMonday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting frommorning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought littleof this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customaryin such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon thetidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte'scommittee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there weresome who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No suchsuggestion, however, was made to him, --perhaps, because no one dared tomake it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of thehour was turned to the dinner. 

But Mr Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a closeconsultation among a few of them as to what should be done by theirCommittee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the'Pulpit' of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who wereimmediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name andmentioned no details. Mr Alf explained that this had been put in bythe sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper wasbound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that nonote of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not beenconnected with the election. 

One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the mostof it. 'It's no more than we've all believed all along, ' said the oldgentleman, 'and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat ifwe can keep him out?' He was of opinion that everything should be doneto make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible, --so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; andthe clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might beeffected. But the Committee generally was averse to fight in thismanner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud, --or, as was much moreprobable, should not be convicted of fraud, --then it would be said thatthe accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, andthere might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those whohad been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say whatthey pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that noovert use should be made of the rumours by Mr Alf's Committee. Inregard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were busyenough. The dinner to the Emperor was turned into ridicule, and theelectors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return agentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered tospend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled inLondon. There was very much said on placards and published innewspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printedwhich would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumoursnever been sent out from the City. At twelve o'clock at night, when MrAlf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walkinghome to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favourof Mr Alf. 

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policemanhad called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him thatan accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from hisbedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr Melmotte had usedsince he had been in Mr Longestaffe's house for the work which he didat home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often lateat night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavydesk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his ownpurposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house hadbeen made, Mr Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were close friends. Termsfor the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause forsuspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen hadbeen managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr Longestaffecould come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house atten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter thatroom. The servants were to regard Mr Longestaffe quite as master ofthe house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr Longestaffe couldspare it, Mr Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. Thematter was arranged very pleasantly. 

Mr Melmotte on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting athis own table, took certain papers out of the drawers, --a bundle ofletters and another of small documents. From these, with very littleexamination, he took three or four, --two or three perhaps from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits, --holdingthem over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large chinaplate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bitinto his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walkedacross to the other table, Mr Longestaffe's table, and pulled thehandle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and then, without touchingthe contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined thelock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Havingdone 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 tohand. The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurriedfashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He alwaysbreakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he didon this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the'Pulpit, ' and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightestchange in his colour. There was no one to see him now, --but he wasacting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in acrowd, or when suddenly called upon for words, --not even when thepolicemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him, --would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the lossof a drop of blood from his heart. He would go through it, alwaysarmed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would doit. 

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at WhitehallPlace. He thought that he would face the world better by walking thanif he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the carriageshould be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him ifhe was not there. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, RegentStreet and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandlytriumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the greatguest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whomhe knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. Of one he knew that hewould have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. Even after the manhad passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. Hewould take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphantMerchant Prince, --as long as the police would allow him. He probablywas not aware how very different was the part he was now playing fromthat which he had assumed at the India Office. 

At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and wasinformed that everything was going on regularly. The electors wereballoting; but with the ballot, --so said the leader of theunderstrappers, --there never was any excitement. The men lookedhalf-frightened, --as though they did not quite know whether they oughtto seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. Theycertainly had not expected to see him there. 'Has Lord Alfred beenhere?' Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to theempty grate. No, --Lord Alfred had not been there. 'Nor Mr Grendall?'The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for 'hisSecretary, ' and not for Mr Grendall, but for the rumours. It is sohard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding Charybdis. MrGrendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody had been there. 'In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?' said Mr Melmotte. Thesenior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled outagain on foot. 

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. Theplace seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contestedelection, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everybodyand everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he wasrecognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward andshook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing withpeople, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. He didnot allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the'Pulpit' to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freelyenough of the general accusations that had been brought against himpreviously. He wished the electors to understand that nothing whichhad been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here orelsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the electorsof Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would protect himfrom such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. Heflattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to regard theordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter ofcourse, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his back to bearperhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward toa triumphant return. But things had been said, and published, whichthe excitement of an election could not justify, and as to thesethings he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion tothe Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it wasthe proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner. 

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech hehad ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, ashe was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the'Breakfast-Table' who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphsas to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in thatpaper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was assertedafterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness, thathe had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone havingconsidered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation;but in truth the affair had not been pre-concerted. It was while inWhitehall 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 gatheredround him. 

It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. Hewas half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. Hissuccess at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he fearedthat he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he wasnot afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would goboldly into the City, --to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He haddetermined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. Buthis appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would facethem. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane. 

The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were aholiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together hadaltogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, andthey showed no signs of absolute insubordination. 'Mr Grendall has notbeen here?' he asked. No; Mr Grendall had not been there; but MrCohenlupe was in Mr Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desiredto see Mr Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of histransactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr Cohenlupe knewthat the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it hadbeen mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had sobeen raised. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in gettingthe title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraidthat he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that hecould not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have tostand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. Butthe clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the officewithout seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so. 

'Ve didn't expect you here to-day, ' said the member for Staines. 

'Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminsterwhile the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at theletters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?'

'Uncommon;--nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?'

'Because he's an ass and a cur, ' said Mr Melmotte with an assumed airof indignation. 'Alf and his people had got hold of him. There wasever so much fuss about it at first, --whether he would accept theinvitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not tocome. I shall be even with him some of these days. '

'Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?'

'Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?'

'There's ever so much been said, ' whispered Cohenlupe. 

'Said;--yes, ' ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. 'You're not such afool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enoughto believe, if you do. '

'There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does notknow, ' said Cohenlupe. 

'Look you here, Cohenlupe, '--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to awhisper, --'keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, andsay nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us. '

'Oh dear, there has indeed!'

'But any paper with my name to it will come right. '

'That's nothing;--nothing at all, ' said Cohenlupe. 

'And there is nothing;--nothing at all! I've bought some property andhave paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid forit. There's no fraud in that. '

'No, no, --nothing in that. '

'You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to thebank now. ' Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still lowin spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the greatman to the City. 

Mr Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and onefor his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which keptwhat we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat themanager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before thefireplace just as though nothing had happened, --or as nearly as thoughnothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He couldnot quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural hewas obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did notbehave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayedtheir emotion. Melmotte saw that it was so;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to 'put it down. '

'We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr Melmotte. '

'And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens thatwhen one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to bedone at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; butas I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at CoventGarden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they saythere is true, I haven't much to be afraid of. '

'And the dinner went off pretty well?' asked the manager. 

'Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anythingthat has been done for him yet. ' This was a brilliant flash ofimagination. 'For a friend to dine with me every day, you know, Ishould prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. Butthen, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't havemuch to say for ourselves;--eh?' The manager acceded to thisproposition. 'We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from overthe way didn't come. '

'The Lord Mayor, you mean. '

'The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was somehowcompromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him. 'Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. Hewould have to draw large cheques for his private wants. 'You don'tgive a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know. ' He hadbeen in the habit of overdrawing on his private account, --makingarrangements with the manager. But now, in the manager's presence, hedrew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, andthen, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the £250 which he hadreceived from Mr Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix hadtaken from Marie. 

'There don't seem much the matter with him, ' said the manager, whenMelmotte had left the room. 

'He brazens it out, don't he?' said the senior clerk. But the feelingof the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that therumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr Melmottewould not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment. 

CHAPTER LXIV - THE ELECTION

Mr Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and therethe battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as thereader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of thatloud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town onthe previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiryas to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for thethings that had been said, Mr Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be--wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon asthe dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that hehad been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on thefollowing morning. Others had been told that at the last moment hisname would be withdrawn, --and a question arose as to whether he hadthe legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the daybefore the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of theelectors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or shouldhave withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng ofmen went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagatedthis report certainly damaged Mr Alf's cause. A second reaction setin, and there grew a feeling that Mr Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said of him, --many at least so declared, --not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr Alf's return. Tidingsof the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various pollingplaces, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. MrAlf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in thenewspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead ofhaving injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr Alf mightsay, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter. 

About two o'clock in the day, Mr Alf did make a speech, --and a very goodspeech it was, if correctly reported in the 'Evening Pulpit. ' Mr Alfwas a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediatelyat command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in thisspeech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention toconvince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent theirviews, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitnessfor the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himselfwith endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;--and that heand his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that MrMelmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty ofnothing shabby in their manner of doing so. 'Mr Melmotte, ' he said, 'comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths ofhis friends, --for he has not favoured us with many words of his own, --that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party isnot my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservativesupporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquetwhich Mr Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of thosewhom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend thatbanquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of theCity refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I saythat the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found theircandidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to freethemselves from the individual shame of having supported thecandidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead ofclustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr Melmotte'scommittee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him inthe parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but theyhave made a mistake in this matter, and they know it. ' Then he endedby alluding to the rumours of yesterday. 'I scorn, ' said he, 'to sayanything against the personal character of a political opponent, whichI am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made noallusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, andwhich I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or theymay be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard themas false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to youlong before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr Melmotte wasnot entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and Irepeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, doyou think, should a man be known in this city before that title beaccorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since, --unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with himin some continental city? Ask the character of this great Britishmerchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whosebusiness here has connected them with the assurance companies offoreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man torepresent Westminster in the British parliament!' There was much moreyet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr Alf made with theobject of inducing the electors to vote for himself. 

At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter wasgoing. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour ofMelmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal ofmoney, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used, --partly, nodoubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when thecrime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men willalmost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflictedon their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuadethemselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, becausethe crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pulldown the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basestcalumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one ofthe basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the mostpart, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselvesdishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so manygood things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to bedue to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of sucha feeling generally, in respect of Mr Melmotte. But there was acommencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a publicrobber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man inLondon who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than MrMelmotte. 

About three o'clock, the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast-Table'called on Lady Carbury. 'What is it all about?' she asked, as soon asher friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explainanything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yetfailed in learning any certain news of what was going on. 

'I don't know what to make of it, ' said Mr Broune. 'There is a storyabroad that Mr Melmotte has forged some document with reference to apurchase he made, --and hanging on to that story are other stories asto moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply anelectioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that allhis own side seem to believe it. '

'Do you believe it?'

'Ah, --I could answer almost any question sooner than that. '

'Then he can't be rich at all. '

'Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand thathe might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed ofimmense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills. '

'Will he be returned?' she asked. 

'From what we hear, we think not; I shall know more about it in anhour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish anopinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody isdoing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party areashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal tohim at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matterso much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bedon the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon asthey had put in their voting papers. '

'I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'It would not have made much difference. She would have been broughtback all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her. '

'I saw him talking to her last night. '

'There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubtsthat he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they sayeverything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. TheMexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £15premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out ofthat. ' But Mr Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chieflydisplayed in regard to the presumption of Mr Alf. 'I shouldn't thinkhim such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorshipwhen he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a manmust be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit aLondon daily paper at the same time. '

'Has it never been done?'

'Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the"Pulpit. " How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretendto discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alfbelieves that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'llcome to the ground. Where's Felix now?'

'Do not ask me, ' said the poor mother. 

'Is he doing anything?'

'He lies in bed all day, and is out all night. '

'But that wants money. ' She only shook her head. 'You do not give himany?'

'I have none to give. '

'I should simply take the key of the house from him, --or bolt the doorif he will not give it up. '

'And be in bed, and listen while he knocks, --knowing that he mustwander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot dothat, Mr Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When herreason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carryout the sentence. ' Mr Broune never now thought of kissing LadyCarbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, andshe, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed. 

Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of hiswife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost alwaysjoined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was anunderstood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unlesshe explained his absence by some engagement, --so that his presencethere had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not infrequently'Alfred' and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wineswere good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place, --buton this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet saida word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But nota person had called to-day, the day after the great party, --and evenshe, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun tothink that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to thepresence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. Shethought that on this day, of all days, when the world was ballotingfor her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him todiscuss the work of the day. 'Is not Mr Grendall coming?' she asked, as she took her seat at the table. 

'No, he is not, ' said Melmotte. 

'Nor Lord Alfred?'

'Nor Lord Alfred. ' Melmotte had returned home much comforted by theday's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. Nothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he hadgone back to his office, and had written letters, --just as if nothinghad happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked upcourage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news fromthe west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerkexpressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his sideand the other of course against him, thought that his affairsaltogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not theforemost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on thatsubject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He readAlf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr Alf had notdared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburg andVienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. Hiswhole candidature had been carried in the face of that. 'I think weshall do pretty well, ' he said to the clerk. His very presence inAbchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he couldswagger at any rate before his wife and servants. 'Nor Lord Alfred, 'he said with scorn. Then he added more. 'The father and son are twod---- curs. ' This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joinedthis desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day. 

'Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?' she said afterwards, creeping upto him in the back parlour, and speaking in French. 

'What do you call wrong?'

'I don't know;--but I seem to be afraid of something. '

'I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by thistime. '

'Then there is something. '

'Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. Youdon't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly asthe life of an old maid with £400 a year paid quarterly in advance. '

'Shall we have to move again?' she asked. 

'How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may getplenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marryLord Nidderdale?' Madame Melmotte shook her head. 'What a poorcreature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such areprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw herover. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. Youtell her that I say so. '

'Then he may flog me, ' said Marie, when so much of the conversationwas repeated to her that evening. 'Papa does not know me if he thinksthat I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging. ' No such attempt wasat any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not againsee his wife or daughter. 

Early the next day a report was current that Mr Alf had been returned. The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made up;--butthat was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers, includingthe 'Breakfast-Table, ' repeated this report, --but each gave it as thegeneral opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known till sevenor eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers did notscruple to say that the presumed election of Mr Alf was owing to asudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr Melmotte. The 'Breakfast-Table, ' which had supported Mr Melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the otherpapers. 'We know not how such an opinion forms itself, ' the writersaid, --'but it seems to have been formed. As nothing as yet is reallyknown, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon thematter. '

Mr Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed tohave returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railwayshares were low, and Mr Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits andunhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probablyrecover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs Slow and Bideawhile, which, ofitself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was comfort to bedrawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. Theletter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It had come evidentlyfrom a hostile party. It had none of the feeling which had hithertoprevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known Conservativegentlemen, Mr Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr Augustus Melmotte. But therewas no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings;no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr Longestaffe andMr Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which MrMelmotte had purchased. 

'We have to remind you, ' said the letter, in continuation ofparagraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, 'that thetitle-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority tothat effect from the Messrs Longestaffe, father and son, on theunderstanding that the purchase-money was to be paid to us by you. Weare informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We donot state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once payto us the purchase-money, --£80, 000, --or else return to us thetitle-deeds of the estate. '

This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared positivelythat the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by themfrom both the Longestaffes, --father and son. Now the accusation broughtagainst Melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that hehad forged the signature to the young Mr Longestaffe's letter. MessrsSlow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about that. Many fine men were walkingabout London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay. 

As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening, --for both hiswife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dinedearly, --news was brought to him that he had been elected forWestminster. He had beaten Mr Alf by something not much less than athousand votes. 

It was very much to be member for Westminster. So much had at any ratebeen achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling andwithout a friend, --almost without education! Much as he loved money, and much as he loved the spending of money, and much as he had made andmuch as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so great to himas this. 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 theBritish Parliament, and member for one of the first cities in theempire. Ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude of theachievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present position, stillat this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. Ofcourse he had committed forgery, --of course he had committed robbery. That, indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging andstealing all his life. Of course he was in danger of almost immediatedetection and punishment. He hardly hoped that the evil day would bevery much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed his triumph. Whateverthey might do, quick as they might be, they could hardly prevent histaking his seat in the House of Commons. Then if they sent him topenal servitude for life, they would have to say that they had sotreated the member for Westminster!

He drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water. Insuch troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly getsufficient support from wine. He knew that he had better not drink;--that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to be free tohim for his own work and his own enjoyment. But if the world were nolonger free to him, if he were really coming to penal servitude andannihilation, --then why should he not drink while the time lasted? Anhour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man, if the man'simagination were strong enough so make him so regard his hour. Hetherefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took it he wasable to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, afterall, he might even yet escape from his bondages. No;--he would drinkno more. This he said to himself as he filled another beaker. He wouldwork instead. He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and would yetconquer his enemies. It would not be so easy to convict a member forWestminster, --especially if money were spent freely. Was he not the manwho, at his own cost, had entertained the Emperor of China? Would notthat be remembered in his favour? Would not men be unwilling to punishthe man who had received at his own table all the Princes of the land, and the Prime Minister, and all the Ministers? To convict him would bea national disgrace. He fully realized all this as he lifted the glassto his mouth, and puffed out the smoke in large volumes through hislips. But money must be spent! Yes;--money must be had! Cohenlupecertainly had money. Though he squeezed it out of the coward's veinshe would have it. At any rate, he would not despair. There was a fightto be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. Then he took adeep drink, and slowly, with careful and almost solemn steps, he madehis way up to his bed. 

CHAPTER LXV - MISS LONGESTAFFE WRITES HOME

Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after thatentertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so verylittle avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himselfaffected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth asanxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put herladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, andrushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had beenmade to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will toMelmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with noPrince! 'They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkennycats. ' That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the twoladies, --thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat thanof the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife. 

'What a horrid affair!' said Lady Monogram. 'Did anybody ever seeanything so vulgar?' This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatevervulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it. 

'I don't know why you were so late, ' said Georgiana. 

'Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when wegot into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early. '

'You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault. '

'My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got topay for it. '

'What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?'

'You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us thehonour of coming to us to-morrow night?' She could not have declared inplainer language how very high she thought the price to be which shehad consented to give for those ineffective tickets. 

'If you mean Mr Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, andI did so. '

'Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into differentsets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mixthings. ' Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control hertongue. 

Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That sheshould have been brought to hear insolence such as this from JuliaTriplex, --she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham andLady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the firstLondon circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather thanweep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to herfriend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. 'I wonder what hasmade you so ill-natured, ' she said at last. 'You didn't use to be likethat. '

'It's no good abusing me, ' said Lady Monogram. 'Here we are, and Isuppose we had better get out, --unless you want the carriage to takeyou anywhere else. ' Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into thehouse, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffefollowed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother. 

The letter to her mother must be written. Mr Brehgert had twiceproposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr Longestaffe, whohad been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at thepresent moment. Of course it was proper that Mr Brehgert should seeher father, --but, as she had told him, she preferred that he shouldpostpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by manydoubts. Those few words about 'various sets' and the 'mixing ofthings' had stabbed her to the very heart, --as had been intended. MrBrehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented ofwhat she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go downinto another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether ofBrehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to bethe mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, andhad revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham hadbeen dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men ofthe proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feelsatisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Hermother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they werein the right set, --miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes, --until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to thehouse in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; butthere was a question in her mind whether the letter should be writtento her mother telling her the horrid truth, --or to Mr Brehgert beggingthat the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided onthe latter had it not been that so many people had already heard ofthe match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far andwide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdalehad heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to bepublic before the end of the season. Each morning lately she hadfeared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain themeaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that herfather would come to her and with horror on his face demand to knowwhether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to soabominable a report. 

And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmottethis evening, having met her late hostess as she entered thedrawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that shewas not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was goingto transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning theproposed duration of her visit, and Mr Longestaffe, in his ambiguousway, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, althoughMr Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr Brehgert's wishesshe had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and MrMelmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to takeher in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would beeasier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. Butthen if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat;--and how shouldshe face her family after such a declaration? She had always givenherself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled uponher. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do thebest she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerationsas to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbearsto affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her ownfather? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to hermother, --as follows, --dating her letter for the following morning:--

 Hill Street, 9th July, 187-. 

 MY DEAR MAMMA, I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr Brehgert is a Jew. [This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter. ] He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are among the most leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like, --and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all. 

 I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr Melmotte is. It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens. 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. 

 I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow, -- that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party here to-night, and Mr Brehgert is coming. 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. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr Melmotte. 

 Send the carriage to meet me by the 2. 30 train from London, --and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. I shall tell Mr Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday. 

 Your affectionate daughter, G. 

When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter awayand have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longerbe in her way. 

About one o'clock on that day Mr Longestaffe called at LadyMonogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted upstairs, and had only justmet in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of MrBrehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home onthe following day. 'I am sick of the Melmottes, ' she said. 

'And so am I, ' said Mr Longestaffe, with a serious countenance. 

'We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us alittle longer, ' said Lady Monogram; 'but we have but the one sparebedroom, and another friend is coming. ' Georgiana, who knew both thesestatements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such athing. 'We have a few friends corning to-night, Mr Longestaffe, and Ihope you'll come in and see Georgiana. ' Mr Longestaffe hummed andhawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they areasked to go out to parties after dinner. 'Mr Brehgert will be here, 'continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile. 

'Mr who?' The name was not at first familiar to Mr Longestaffe. 

'Mr Brehgert. ' Lady Monogram looked at her friend. 'I hope I'm notrevealing any secret. '

'I don't understand anything about it, ' said Mr Longestaffe. 'Georgiana, who is Mr Brehgert?' He had understood very much. He hadbeen quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and alsofrom his daughter's face, that Mr Brehgert was mentioned as anaccepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and anyfather would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to SirDamask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house asGeorgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr Longestaffe'sknowledge. 

'My dear Georgiana, ' she said, 'I supposed your father knew all aboutit. '

'I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing. Who is Mr Brehgert, Lady Monogram?'

'Mr Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of him. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father. 'And Lady Monogram left the room. 

Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forcedto speak, --though she could not speak as boldly as she had written. 'Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr Brehgert was to come toyou to-morrow. '

'Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?'

'Yes, papa. '

'What Mr Brehgert is he?'

'He is a merchant. '

'You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr Melmotte;--a man oldenough to be your father!' The poor girl's condition now was certainlylamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very manshe did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with herfather. But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the mannerin which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how tobegin to be bold. She only looked at him as though imploring him tospare her. 'Is the man a Jew?' demanded Mr Longestaffe, with as muchthunder as he knew how to throw into his voice. 

'Yes, papa, ' she said. 

'He is that fat man?'

'Yes, papa. '

'And nearly as old as I am?'

'No, papa, --not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty. '

'And a Jew?' He again asked the horrid question, and again threw inthe thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no furtherreply. 'If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. Icertainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for Icertainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; butyou shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister. '

'It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes. '

'That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an oldfat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you shouldthink of it! You;--my daughter, --that used to take such pride inyourself! Have you written to your mother?'

'I have. '

'It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going hometo-morrow?'

'I wrote to say so. '

'And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man andexplain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--aJew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myselfto-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children inthis way?' The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dollythat morning. 'You had better leave this house to-day, and come to myhotel in Jermyn Street. '

'Oh, papa, I can't do that. '

'Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will nothave you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me tocome, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will notpermit you to meet Mr Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. AJew! An old fat Jew!' Mr Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair. 

She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram betweenthem would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and inthe course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. Shesaid one word to Lady Monogram before she went. 'Tell him that I wascalled away suddenly. '

'I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it. ' The poorgirl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suither now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yieldto everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with herfather in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spokento, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. Shebelieved that her father had seen Mr Brehgert in the morning of thatday;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question. 

That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, MrBrehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. LadyMonogram received him with a sweet smile. 'Miss Longestaffe, ' shesaid, 'has left me and gone to her father. '

'Oh, indeed. '

'Yes, ' said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending toother persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak anotherword to Mr Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stoodfor about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against thewall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But hewas an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was hiswife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probablychange her acquaintance. 

CHAPTER LXVI - 'SO SHALL BE MY ENMITY'

'You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle. ' So Mrs Hurtle hadsaid, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come toEngland with the view of marrying. And then when he had said good-byeto her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, shedeclined that. 'Nay, ' she had said; 'this parting will bear nofarewell. '

Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return homewith very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that letterwith the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended towrite to him, --that letter which she had shown him, owning it to bethe ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed, --he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, howeverbadly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. Hecould have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and couldhave assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right toescape from the clutches of a wildcat such as that. But at the lastmoment she had shown that she was no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. In her softness she had been exquisitelybeautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied withhimself. He had destroyed her life for her, --or, at least, had createda miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. She hadsaid that she was all alone, and had given up everything to followhim, --and he had believed her. Was he to do nothing for her now? Shehad allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wronghe had done her. But was that to be sufficient for him, --so that hemight now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no furtherinquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the winethat has been drunk, --as the hour that has been enjoyed as the daythat is past?

But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolvedthat, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and inthat he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared byherself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her hewould be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfishcoldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing tobe done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs Pipkin's lodgings. 

During the next three or four days, while the preparations for thedinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to theAmerican railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at MrRamsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, inwhich he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it;adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing hisletter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway companyseem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter toMr Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressinghis own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him, --a paymentwhich must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by thesuccess of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote theseletters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yetsprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and firstheard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old sethad for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not beenheard of for the last four or five days, --and then the whole story ofMiss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in thenewspapers, was told to him. 'We think that Carbury has drownedhimself' said Lord Grasslough, 'and I haven't heard of anybody beingheartbroken about it. ' Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at theclub. 'He's taken up the running with the girl, ' said Lord Grasslough. 'What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the moneydown in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at theparty yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thinghe never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he wasalways an ass. ' Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for threedays. '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 hissight. He has taken to dine there every day. ' This was said during theelection, --on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and onthat evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte'scondition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, wasfaithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openlyenough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never aword. 

On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixedpurpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hettaalone. 'Mamma has gone to her publisher's, ' she said. 'She is writingso much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, MrMontague?' Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared verylittle. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. 'Isuppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be inParliament or not?' Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairmanof his. 'Are you out of it altogether, Mr Montague?' Yes;--as far asit lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did notlike Mr Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth herepudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing deepregret that circumstances had driven him for a time into thatalliance. 'Then you think that Mr Melmotte is--?'

'Just a scoundrel;--that's all. '

'You heard about Felix?'

'Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried torun off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that LordNidderdale is to marry her now. '

'I think not, Mr Montague. '

'I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out ofit. '

'Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. Ido think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me. '

'You went to the party, then?'

'Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And whenI was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marryLord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall itwill be if anything happens. '

But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention ofdiscussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose theopportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, andnow he thought that he might be on with the other. 'Hetta, ' he said, 'I am thinking more of myself than of her, --or even of Felix. '

'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 todo. 

'Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself, and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too. '

'I do not know why you should do that. '

'Hetta, you must know that I love you. '

'Do you?' she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thoughtthat he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs thatought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her loveafter the few words that had been spoken on that night when LadyCarbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could notremember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he hadspoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that shehad not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed herown love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of thatconfession; but he must have known that he had her heart!

So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, asladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She hadendeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking toher, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. She wouldhave continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there aretimes when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands willhardly act mechanically. 

'Yes, --I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for onemoment so as to let me know. ' Her eyes had turned downwards after herwork. 'If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once. '

'Roger is very dear to me. '

'Do you love him as I would have you love me?'

She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, andthen she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. 'No, 'she said, --'not like that. '

'Can you love me like that?' He put out both his arms as though totake her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left itwith him when he seized it. 'Is it mine?' he said. 

'If you want it. '

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 withjoy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. 'Want it!' he said. 'Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that withreal desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been myonly dream of happiness. And now it is my own. '

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him thetruth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she didnot care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she couldever have loved anybody but him even, --if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger, --dear Roger, dearest Roger, --no; it was not the samething. 'He is as good as gold, ' she said, --'ever so much better thanyou are, Paul, ' stroking his hair with her hand and looking into hiseyes. 

'Better than anybody I have ever known, ' said Montague with all hisenergy. 

'I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we oughtto love the best people best; but I don't, Paul. '

'I do, ' said he. 

'No, --you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. Ido not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimesthought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I didnot know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to haveeverything that he wants. '

'Where should I have been?'

'Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He isnot so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is anunchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that henever could be happy unless I would do as he would have me, --and he mademe almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he saysmust come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly, --but I almostthink that I ought to have obeyed him. ' Paul Montague of course hadvery much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which didexist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. Itshould be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no externalcircumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him herheart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refusehim the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, hecould have no shadow of a claim upon her, --seeing that he had failed towin her heart. It was very well said, --at least so Hetta thought, --andshe made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done inreference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether forgood or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Rogershould have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now behelped. But would it not be right that it should be told? 'Do you knowI almost feel that he is like a father to me, ' said Hetta, leaning onher lover's shoulder. 

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he wouldhimself write to Roger. 'Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he willever speak to me again. '

'I cannot believe that. '

'There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and ashe then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to loveyou. How could I have known?'

'That would be unreasonable. '

'He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He alwaysgoes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--'

'Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this. '

'But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me thatI have been untrue to him and ungrateful. '

'If you think, Paul--'

'Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a greatsorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that comeupon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn andwrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgiveyou, but he will never forgive me. ' Then they parted, she havingpromised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury camehome, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening. 

And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of thespirit. Here is his letter:--

 MY DEAR ROGER, --

 I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. 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. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you. [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 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. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it. 

 Your affectionate friend, PAUL MONTAGUE. 

Roger Carbury did not take a single day, --or a single hour to answerthe letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on theterrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his deskand wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with indignation. 

 There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you. 

 You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. 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. 

 ROGER CARBURY. 

It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in thoseparts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian. 

Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return. 'Mamma, Mr Paul Montague has been here. '

'He always comes here when I am away, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'That has been an accident. He could not have known that you weregoing to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's. '

'I'm not so sure of that, Hetta. '

'Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think youknew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it matter?He has been here, and I have told him--'

'You have not accepted him?'

'Yes, mamma. '

'Without even asking me?'

'Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was Inot to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him--'

'Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he hadgot was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in allMelmotte's wickedness. '

'Oh, mamma, do not say that!'

'But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would tryto comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad ashe is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation likethat poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! Ifeel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think nothingof that. '

'I think very much of my cousin Roger. '

'And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been ahome for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have beenworse to me even than Felix. ' Then Lady Carbury, in her passion, burstout of the room, and took herself to her own chamber. 

CHAPTER LXVII - SIR FELIX PROTECTS HIS SISTER

Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably felt butlittle of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He hadspent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he hadincurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he hadforfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, andhad attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearlyruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he hadalways contrived 'to carry on the game. ' He had eaten and drunk, hadgambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashionconsidered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept uptill now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to allthings. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted upall his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had alittle roll of Mr Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps toa couple of hundred pounds, --and Mr Melmotte owed him £600. But wherewas he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually helearned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool, --how Marie hadgone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's money hadbeen repaid to Mr Melmotte by Mr Broune, and how his failure to makethe journey to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to hisclub. He could not go to Melmotte's house. He was ashamed even to showhimself in the streets by day. 

He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that thebrilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyondhope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn, --nor was shewilling to yield as she had yielded. 

One thing only was clear to him. He must realize his possessions. Withthis view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To theformer he said he was going out of town, --probably for some time, andhe must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on toremark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Alburywas unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of £200;--but that ifsuch was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to theDuke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter MrGrendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr Melmottehe confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made noallusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger, or to hisseat at the board. He simply reminded Mr Melmotte that there was a sumof £600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent tohim for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was not altogetherunsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. Aclerk from Mr Melmotte's office called at the house in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South Central Pacific andMexican Railway to the amount of the sum claimed, --insisting on a fullreceipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. The clerk wenton to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been leftin Mr Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. SirFelix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took thescrip. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known, --and when the shares in the railwaywere very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of theshares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote theprice, --but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Ofcourse he took them;--and hurrying off into the City found that theymight perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker towhom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--thescrip had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover, --or, more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the GreatFinancier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first timethat he had been out of the house before dark since his littleaccident. 

But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to getthrough a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He neverread. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done aday's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink. He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amusehimself with women, --the lower the culture of the women, the betterthe amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him. Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles. 

Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt'shouse. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she wouldbe free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs Pipkin told herthat she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise than asshe, Mrs Pipkin, chose. 'Am I to be a slave?' Ruby asked, and almostupset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. Then Mrs Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Rubyhad been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. Butshe was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaidto her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While she was in thiscondition Sir Felix came to Mrs Pipkin's house, and asked for her atthe door, it happened that Mrs Pipkin herself had opened the door, --and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a youngman in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was in the house. ButRuby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herselfinto his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn thatshe didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or forMrs Hurtle, or for John Crumb, --or for any person or anything. Shecared only for her lover. Then Mrs Hurtle had asked the young man hisintentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that hesupposed he might as well some day. 'There, ' said Ruby, 'there!'--shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with thecompletest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs Pipkin hadbeen very weak. Instead of calling in the assistance of herstrong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain togetherfor half an hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix inany way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probablytoo blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for suchrenewal. 'There must be an end of this, ' said Mrs Pipkin, coming inwhen the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising tocome again on the following evening. 'You must not come here, SirFelix, ' said Mrs Pipkin, 'unless you puts it in writing. ' To this, ofcourse, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulatedhimself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing hecould do when he had realized the money for the shares would be totake Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or fourmonths, --and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity. 

That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in thedrawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing thedistressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hettasince. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words, --thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and ofthe ages which might have to wear themselves out before she couldbecome his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy huebecause of the love which had been declared to her. She could not butbe happy if he really loved her. And she, --as she had told him that sheloved him, --would be true to him through everything! In her presentmood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took theopportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte hadextracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, andtold him that she had talked with Marie. 'I promised to give you amessage, ' she said. 

'It's all of no use now, ' said Felix. 

'But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she reallyloves you. '

'But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all thepolicemen in the country are dodging her. '

'She wants you to let her know what, --what you intend to do. If youmean to give her up, I think you should tell her. '

'How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive aletter. '

'Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?'

'Just as you like. I don't care. '

'Felix, you are very heartless. '

'I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter ofthat, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put meup to marry her. '

'I never put you up to it. '

'Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am tohear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very muchabout her. '

'Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!'

'Awfully shocking, I dare say. You think I am as black as the verymischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Othermen are just as bad as I am, --and a good deal worse too. You believethat there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague. ' Hetta blushed, butsaid nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her loverbefore her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but fewyoung men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. 'I suppose you'd besurprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an Americanwidow living at Islington. '

'Mr Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believeit. '

'You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long inthe United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel atLowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it. '

'I don't believe it, ' repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as muchas that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It wasimpossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in hismouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of heartsshe did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke, --or perhapssome trick to divide her from the man she loved. 'Felix, how dare yousay things so wicked as that to me?'

'What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to becomefond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged tomarry Mrs Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you thewoman. There, ' said he, 'that's where she is;'--and he wrote MrsHurtle's name down on a scrap of paper. 

'It is not true, ' said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standingupright. 'I am engaged to Mr Montague, and I am sure he would nottreat me in that way. '

'Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me, ' said Felix, jumping up. 'If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as Istand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs Hurtle whom heconstantly visits at that place in Islington. '

'I do not believe it, ' said Hetta, repeating the only defence for herlover which was applicable at the moment. 

'By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if RogerCarbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enoughagainst me, if he told you. '

'Roger Carbury will not say so?'

'Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows allabout it, --and has seen the woman. '

'How can you know? Has Roger told you?'

'I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with MasterPaul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manageyou. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe whatRoger tells her. '

'I do not believe a word of it, ' said Hetta, leaving the room. Butwhen she was alone she was very wretched. There must be somefoundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to RogerCarbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother'smanner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogetherbaseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all thetales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the manhave come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking herhand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in dailycommunication with another woman whom he had promised to make hiswife?

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty toherself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her sonwere nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to somemusic hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learnedfrom Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to MrsHurtle. Mrs Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs Pipkin, andMrs Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby hadherself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he hadtaken Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to thetwo women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs Hurtle had seen RogerCarbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most ofits details, --not quite with all, --had come round to Lady Carbury'sears. 'What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapproveof Mr Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you. '

'How can he know, mamma?'

'He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the samehouse. '

'Has he seen her?'

'I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I writeto him you will believe what he says?'

'Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him. '

'But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this otherman is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is notsteady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he hasnot seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true, --tellsme that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then Isuppose you will be contented. '

'Contented, mamma!'

'Satisfied that what we tell you is true. '

'I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will neverbelieve anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, butit can't be that. '

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though itpained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she hadno wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she stillthought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that verynight before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him thewhole story. 'If, ' she said, 'you know that there is such a person asMrs Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr Montague has promised to makeher his wife, of course you will tell me. ' Then she declared her ownwishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury togive such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague wouldcertainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doingthis as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all thecircumstances of Montague's life? 'You know, ' she said, 'what mywishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr Montague'sinterference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the presentmoment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence;and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us, --andalso yourself. '

CHAPTER LXVIII - MISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed tobe almost too awful to be true, --even about any one else. The man hadcome to her, and had asked her to be his wife, --and yet at that verymoment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another womanwhom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with herhad been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their firstmeeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she hadthought, been visible to her, --had been intelligible, gentle, andaffectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and hadtherefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owedso much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that itwould come, --having absolute confidence in his honour and love. Andnow she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and atthe same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse butno possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heardbefore of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore atheart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knewthat her mother would write to Roger Carbury, --but she knew also thatnothing more would be said about the letter till the answer shouldcome. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dareto appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she couldonly rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, thatshe would not believe a word of the story that had been told her. 

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertakento give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, andshe must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told ina very few words--'Everything is over!' But it had to be told. 

'I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me, ' she said to hermother at breakfast. 

'Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated theMelmottes?'

'I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have amessage to take to her, --from Felix. '

'A message--from Felix. '

'It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Ofcourse it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. Theycould never be married now, could they, mamma?'

The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and didquite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even shouldhe succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotteshould forgive such offence as had now been committed. 'It is out ofthe question, ' she said. 'That, like everything else with us, has beena wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under noobligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should muchdoubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't goalone, you know, ' Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did notat all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just overOxford Street. 

So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of theMelmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, thatthere was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. Butshe went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and thebanners, which three or four days since had been built up with so muchtrouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst theruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member ofParliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a shorttime;--but it should be written in the history of his life that he hadsat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At thepresent moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was nownoon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he wastalking to the contractor for the work, --having just propitiated thatman by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for thenecessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him ofkeeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly askedone of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. 'Do you want mydaughter?' said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching hishat. 'She is not living here at present. '

'Oh, --I remember now, ' said Hetta. 

'May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?' At thepresent moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about hisdaughter. 

'I am Miss Carbury, ' said Hetta in a very low voice. 

'Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?' Therewas something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully onHetta's ears, --but she answered the question. 'Oh;--Sir Felix's sister!May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with mydaughter?' The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmenaround her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of thesuspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been somethingbetween her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt thatit would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. 'I wonder whether that is true, ' said Melmotte, looking at her out ofhis great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on hishead and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at themoment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. 'Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. SirFelix has behaved infamously; yes, --by G----, infamously. A day or twobefore my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that thewhole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know whatyou are really after?'

'I have come because I thought I could do some good, ' she said, trembling with anger and fear. 'I was speaking to your daughter atyour party. '

'Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how isone to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to besuspicious, Miss Carbury. ' Here was one who had spent his life in lyingto the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity ofa man who had lied to him! 'You are not plotting another journey toLiverpool;--are you?' To this Hetta could make no answer. The insultwas too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give himback scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to BrutonStreet himself and at his bidding she walked by his side. 'May I hearwhat you say to her?' he asked. 

'If you suspect me, Mr Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. Itis only that there may no longer be any doubt. '

'You can say it all before me. '

'No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say itfor me. If you please, I think I will go home now. '

But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such asubject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmottehimself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there wasmore possible good than evil to be expected from the proposedinterview. 'Oh, you shall see her, ' he said. 'I don't suppose she'ssuch a fool as to try that kind of thing again. ' Then the door inBruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, foundherself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotteupstairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, fora long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into theroom. 'Miss Carbury, ' she said, 'this is so good of you, --so good ofyou! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?' and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, tookher hand and encircled her waist. 

'Mr Melmotte has told you why I have come. '

'Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me. 'To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. 'We are atdaggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, asthough my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--wouldyou?' Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could notfail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey hermother in an affair of the same kind. 'What does he say, dear?'

Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those weretold, there was nothing more to be said. 'It must all be over, MissMelmotte. '

'Is that his message, Miss Carbury?' Hetta nodded her head. 'Is thatall?'

'What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send youword. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and Ihave brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income ofhis own;--nothing at all. '

'But I have, ' said Marie with eagerness. 

'But your father--'

'It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give itto my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?'

'I think it is impossible. '

'Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that onehears of that are really true to their loves never find anythingimpossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know. ' She paused, but Hetta could not answerthe question. 'You must know about your brother. Don't you knowwhether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me. 'Hetta was still silent. 'Have you nothing to say?'

'Miss Melmotte-' began poor Hetta very slowly. 

'Call me Marie. You said you would love me, did you not? I don't evenknow what your name is. '

'My name is Hetta. '

'Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I haveno brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tellanybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not mymamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so. ' All this shewhispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. 'And papa is socruel to me! He beats me sometimes. ' The new friend, round whom Mariestill had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. 'But I never willyield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn andgnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend?Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover?But, --if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?'

'I don't know what I am to say, ' ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs. Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, therewas so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was melted withsympathy. 

'I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you, ' saidMarie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs, and made no reply to this. 'I suppose you won't tell me aboutyourself. '

'I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort. '

'He will not try again, you think?'

'I am sure he will not. '

'I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing, --nothing. Why shouldnot we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has aright to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I willventure if he will. '

It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amountedto falsehood, --to that guilt of which Mr Melmotte had dared to supposethat she could be capable. 'I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannotlisten to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--'

'Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true. '

'It is true, ' said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl astern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throwaway from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold onHetta's waist. 'Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask mefor the truth. '

'Yes; I did. '

'Men are not, I think, like girls. '

'I suppose not, ' said Marie slowly. 'What liars they are, whatbrutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Whyshould he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me, --once?'

Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love asMarie expected, but she knew that it was so. 'It is better that youshould think of him no more. '

'Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, andagreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told tothink of him no more, --just as though you had got rid of a servant or ahorse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds thatwe are rich, he'll be broken-hearted. '

'You should try to forgive him, Marie. '

'Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tellhim that. Tell him, --tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meethim, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could, --oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell you to saythat he did not love me?'

'I wish I had not come, ' said Hetta. 

'I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Ofcourse I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that hedid not love me?'

'No;--he did not say that. '

'Then how do you know? What did he say?'

'That it was all over. '

'Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?'

'I am sure. '

'Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-heartedliar, and that I trample him under my foot. ' Marie as she said thisthrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truthbeneath it, --and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might hear her. 'I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is the worst ofall. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I canbear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could haveborne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;--that I can'tbear. ' Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comforther, and left her sobbing on the sofa. 

Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone, Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked intoMadame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. 'You can tellpapa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases. ' She spokein French and very rapidly. 

On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted. 'Your papa, ' said she, 'will be very glad to hear that you havethought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a verygood young man. '

'Yes, ' continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. 'I'llmarry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr Grendall who is worse thanall the others, or his old fool of a father, --or the sweeper at thecrossing, --or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else thathe chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdalerepent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa. ' And then, having thusentrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room. 

CHAPTER LXIX - MELMOTTE IN PARLIAMENT

Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day, --good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him, itshould be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Mariehad communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing to himwhat the girl thought of the marriage, --if the marriage could now bebrought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. IfMarie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairsthat Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been secured. Now theremight be, --must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and thevillainy of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once the father-in-law of theeldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Eventhough something might be all but proved against him, --which might cometo certain proof in less august circumstances, --matters would hardly bepressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married tothe heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! So many persons would then beconcerned! Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of coursehis wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminsterwas his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on thisvery day. But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded inreference to Lord Nidderdale. 

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to themanner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forwardas the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss hadbeen made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been themanifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be made much ofthrough the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned, --butthe trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, withinthe space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of theirman. And, now, who was to introduce him to the House? But with thisfeeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an ideaamong another class that Melmotte might become as it were aConservative tribune of the people, --that he might be the realizationof that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and old-fogyism, of whichwe have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has beenemployed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from thosewhose declared purpose is to stand still. The new farthing newspaper, 'The Mob, ' was already putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the granddoctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certainirregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes incarrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a younglieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. 'The Mob'thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and thatthe philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover amultitude of sins. I do not know that the theory was ever so plainlyput forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in'The Mob'; but in practice it has commanded the assent of manyintelligent minds. 

Mr Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been beforethat wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchaseof Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on theunfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letterfrom Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinaryway in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely saidthat he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase ofPickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that thingsshould be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To makethemselves clear in the matter, and their client, --and if possible totake some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this wouldsuit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmottewould raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason whythat note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe shouldever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it didbear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves. Itwould have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office, asthey knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The veryletter written by themselves, --as a suggestion, --and given to Dolly'sfather, had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent tothem, --as they believed, --with other papers by Dolly's father. Whatjustification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of Longestaffe senior. But if the money could bepaid, that would set everything right. Squercum evidently thought thatthe money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse withBideawhile's people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with havingdelivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and thata note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should beimpounded. On the receipt by Mr Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curtreply Mr Squercum was informed that Mr Melmotte had promised to paythe money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr Squercumreplied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter beforethe Lord Mayor. 

But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal ofthe accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain degreerecovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons disliked andfeared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loudand confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty wellknown that Mr Longestaffe had not received his money, --and that was acondition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a manliving after Melmotte's fashion. But there was no crime in that. Noforgery was implied by the publication of any statement to thateffect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have beenvery foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly from either? AndSlow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. It wasastonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in thesedays! But they who had expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of aprison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, nowimagined that they had been deceived. 

Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would havebecome the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express toMelmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new politicalally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have beenwalked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing wouldhave been done without trouble to him. But now this was not theposition of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, nosuch popular Conservative offered his services. 'I don't think weought to throw him over, ' Mr Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought, quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale wasvery intimate with Mr Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was notthe man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow andeverybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father hadterritorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anythingthere, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to theworld that nobody else would do it. 'It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton, 'said Mr Beauclerk. 'Not at all, ' said Lupton; 'but I also, likeNidderdale am a young man and of no use, --and a great deal too bashful. 'Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the House at fouro'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out hisresolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears, --that he wouldlose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew that he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to makehis way in and assume his right. But here again fortune befriendedhim. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that newdoctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an apostleand an expounder, --who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken tobe present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrueto him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude, --hehappened to be entering the House, as his late host was claiming fromthe doorkeeper the fruition of his privilege. 'You had better let meaccompany you, ' said the Conservative leader, with something ofchivalry in his heart. And so Mr Melmotte was introduced to the Houseby the head of his party! When this was seen many men supposed thatthe rumours had been proved to be altogether false. Was not this aguarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords thatafternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in astate of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was awareof the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmotte'sdaughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte should beproved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he did not believethe rumours. He was fully determined that the money should be paiddown before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secedenow, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared torecommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. 'OldCure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it, ' said the father. Curewas the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld Reekie. 

'There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir, ' said theson. 

'What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn'talways easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundredthousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl'smoney, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm donetill the parson has said the word. '

'You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?'suggested the son. 

'No, I couldn't, ' replied the father with a very determined aspect. 

'I'm awfully hard up. '

'So am I. ' Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and aftersitting there ten minutes went away home. 

Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties andwent to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendalldining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were fullof news. 'You've heard it, I suppose, ' said Miles in an awful whisper. 

'Heard what?'

'I believe he doesn't know!' said Lord Grasslough. 'By Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others. '

'What's up now?'

'Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossnerhas bolted!'

'Bolted!' exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he wasjust going to eat his soup. 

'Bolted, ' repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the roomand became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon thefeatures of all the dining members. 'Bolted, by George! He has soldall our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called"Flatfleece". '

'I know him, ' said Nidderdale shaking his head. 

'I should think so, ' said Miles ruefully. 

'A bottle of champagne!' said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter inalmost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this newtrouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the groundby an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him theterrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in thehouse. 'Good G----, ' exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendallshook his head. Grasslough shook his head. 

'It's true, ' said another young lord from the table on the other side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle ofJuly. 

'Brandy?' suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles ofbrandy, but they had been already consumed. 'Send out and get somebrandy, ' said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was soreduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of hispocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he nowdemanded. 

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. HerrVossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. Itwas supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing totradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not toHerr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances for largesums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the membershad all been sold to Mr Flatfleece. Mr Flatfleece had spent aconsiderable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggestedthat he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this moment DollyLongestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heardthe story, --but had gone at once to another club for his dinner whenhe found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. 'Here's ago, ' said Dolly. 'One thing atop of another! There'll be nothing leftfor anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? Therewas none here when I left. '

'Had to send round the corner for it, to the public. '

'We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Doesanybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?'

'He's down in the House, as big as life, ' said Nidderdale. 'He's allright I think. '

'I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about £1, 500! I write such abeastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, byGeorge, a fellow can't eat and drink £1, 500 in less than six months!'

'There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly, ' said Lord Grasslough. 

'He's paid some of your card money, perhaps, ' said Nidderdale. 

'I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U. 's while thatwas going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is afellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged topay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand thatkind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?' Nidderdale saidthat he did think so. 'I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. Isuppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse thanVossner. ' With that he turned on his heels and went into thesmoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte'sdaughter. 

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the Houseof Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservativebenches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed andforgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance hadpassed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At firsthe had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that themajority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he satmotionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had neverhitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was verymuch smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. TheSpeaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and itseemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other peoplein other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of asentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up veryquickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to saythe few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a verycommonplace affair, --not half so awful as those festive occasions onwhich he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or toreturn thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, andone gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary ofobserving, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to himreached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition toa commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language theruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to usegloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmottelistened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very littleabout England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of theconversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmottereally did know something and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to himthat a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city, --and who hadmaliciously stayed away from his dinner, --one Mr Brown, who sat justbefore him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding wearilyand slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understoodnothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity forhimself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for theinjury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time thathe was not afraid of his city enemies! It required some couragecertainly, --this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting uponhis legs a couple of hours after his first introduction toparliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now everteaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done bybrazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and hesaw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothingof the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them than an ordinaryschoolboy;--but on that very account felt less trepidation than mightanother parliamentary novice. Mr Brown was tedious and prolix; andMelmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost toldhimself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particularend to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread ofargument. But a statement had been made and repeated, containing, asMelmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to setthe matter right. At any rate he desired to show the House that MrBrown did not know what he was talking about, --because Mr Brown had notcome to his dinner. When Mr Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. Thesubject was not popular, and they who understood the business of theHouse were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on whichtwo or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, shouldbe allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but ona sudden the new member was on his legs. 

Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there thata member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of hisfirst entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recentelection had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered bymany of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just beforethe ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showinghimself even if he were elected; and again by another party that hisappearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearancewithin the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not only in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, wasextended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement in the thing whichmade gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost ofapprobation. 

As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found thateverybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good dealof his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, tohis thinking, had by no means been august while Mr Brown had beentoddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes ofgreat men fixed upon him, --of men who had not seemed to him to be atall great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneaththeir hats. Mr Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it, --and had perhaps made three or four such speeches everyyear for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of puttingtwo words together. 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 itwhen seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there wasthe Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace, --andworse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite tohim! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotteneven the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr Brown. 

But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogetherquelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in theface, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make adash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. 'MrBrown is all wrong, ' he said. He had not even taken off his hat as herose. Mr Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that heshould take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course hedid not understand. 'Yes, you are, ' said Melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr Brown. 

'The honourable member, ' said the Speaker, with the most good-naturedvoice which he could assume, 'is not perhaps as yet aware that heshould not call another member by his name. He should speak of thegentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, butthe chair. '

'You should take your hat off, ' said the good-natured gentlemanbehind. 

In such a position how should any man understand so many and suchcomplicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember thegist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and wasof course made hotter and more confused by doing so. 'What he said wasall wrong, ' continued Melmotte; 'and I should have thought a man outof the City, like Mr Brown, ought to have known better. ' Then therewere repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughterfrom both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring aroundhim, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by theridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with theplace; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry onthe combat. 'I ought to know something about it, ' said Melmottesitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat. 

'We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster doesunderstand the subject, ' said the leader of the House, 'and we shallbe very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardonignorance of its rules in so young a member. '

But Mr Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, andhad at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say thathe had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admitthat he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat tillthe regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with asstately a demeanour as he could assume. 

'Well, that was plucky!' said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm inthe lobby. 

'I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what hewas talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let medo it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort ofa place. '

'Has Longestaffe's money been paid?' said Cohenlupe opening his blackeyes while he looked up into his friend's face. 

'Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either, 'said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; 'do you leave Mr Longestaffeand his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared bywhat the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I areconcerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of everyword that is spoken. '

'Oh, dear; yes, ' said Cohenlupe apologetically. 'You don't supposethat I am afraid of anything. ' But at that moment Mr Cohenlupe wasmeditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, andwas trying to remember what happy country still was left in which anorder from the British police would have no power to interfere withthe comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself. 

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was nowwilling to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything asto the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude toMarie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband. 

CHAPTER LXX - SIR FELIX MEDDLES WITH MANY MATTERS

There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that whichcalls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at thesame time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and wemay say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men'ssisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits ofeither protection or vengeance, --although the duty of protecting andavenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is alwaysdisagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, evenif the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There isa feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted, --thrown over, perhaps, isthe proper term, --after the gentleman has had the fun of making love toher for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privilegesas her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl doesnot mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become thetragic heroine of a tale for three months. It is her purpose again to

 --trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore Flame in the forehead of the morning sky. 

Though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open. Uno avulso non deficit alter. Butif all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the lateunfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will begreatly increased. The brother recognizes his duty, and prepares forvengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left tofight her own little battles alone. 

'Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me, ' Sir Felix had said verygrandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a manwho was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate forthreats. No money was required and no immediate action, --and Sir Felixcould act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at verylittle present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known herbrother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the daybut one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury, --norcould as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, andshe remembered her brother's threat. Felix had forgotten that he hadmade a threat, --and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter sincehis interview with his sister. 

'Felix, ' she said, 'you won't mention that to Mr Montague!'

'Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A manwho does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by heavens, ifhe does it to you, he shall be crushed. '

'I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more. '

'If it is so! I tell you I know it. '

'Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has. '

'What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do withour affairs?'

'Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both saythat he is to marry that woman, --I will not see Mr Montague again. Praydo not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bearit and to be silent. What good can be done?'

'Leave that to me, ' said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with muchfraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself drivento Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough toremind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. Hetoo, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of thepast, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out offashion. 'Montague, ' he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanourthat his late sorrows had left to him, 'I believe I am right in sayingthat you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs Hurtle. '

'Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs Hurtle?'

'When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal ofbusiness, ' said Sir Felix. 

'Well;--yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg yourpardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs Hurtle. Isuppose I know how you have heard her name;--but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she isto be found you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust thatwill be enough for you. '

'You were engaged to Mrs Hurtle?'

'My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the detailsof my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answerto hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs Hurtleto justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am inany way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I donot think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go, --at anyrate, at present. ' Sir Felix still blustered, and made what capital hecould out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towardspositive revenge. 'Of course, Carbury, ' said the other, 'I wish toregard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you, it is only becauseyou are rough to me. '

Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed tohaunt, --for the first time since his misadventure, --and, plucking uphis courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He wouldhave a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yetbe there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. Butwhen he arrived there, the club was shut up. 'What the deuce isVossner about?' said he, pulling out his watch. It was nearly fiveo'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that thiswas an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may callprivate clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told himthe astounding news;--The club was shut up! 'Do you mean to say I can'tcome in?' said Sir Felix. The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrowaperture. Mr Vossner had gone away. There had been a meeting of theCommittee, and the club was shut up. Whatever further informationrested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to Sir FelixCarbury. 

'By George!' The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet'sbosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dineat his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasantamong his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and Vossnerhad gone away! What business had the club to be shut up? What righthad Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance?Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant ishe at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he couldrecover damages from the whole Committee. 

He went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house. When he made that half promiseof marriage in Mrs Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would comeagain on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thoughtnothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in hisposition, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herselfwho was of course delighted to see him. 'Who do you think is in town?'she said. 'John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, Iwouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away. ' SirFelix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creepover him. 'I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, andme telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want tosee him again. '

'He's not of much account, ' said the baronet. 

'He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him, 'continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover shouldnot be spoken of as being altogether of no account. 'And he haseverything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And theydo say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him, ' saidRuby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards heraristocratic lover's shoulder. 

This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs Pipkin had ascendedfrom the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss withwretched references to the cold outer world. 'Well, now, Sir Felix, 'she began, 'if things is square, of course you're welcome to see myniece. '

'And what if they're round, Mrs Pipkin?' said the gallant, careless, sparkling Lothario. 

'Well, or round either, so long as they're honest. '

'Ruby and I are both honest;--ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her outto dinner, Mrs Pipkin. She shall be back before late;--before ten; sheshall indeed. ' Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards hisshoulder. 'Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'llbe off. I've ever so many things to tell you. '

Ever so many things to tell her! They must be to fix a day for themarriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settlewhat dress she should wear, --and perhaps to give her the money to goand buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! She looked up into MrsPipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely on such an occasion as thisan aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and aslave. 'Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?' demanded MrsPipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs Hurtle had given it as her decidedopinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Rugglesunless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of awritten contract. 

'Writing be bothered, ' said Sir Felix. 

'That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. Butwhen a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer norwords. Ruby don't go nowhere to dine unless you puts it into writing. '

'Aunt Pipkin!' exclaimed the wretched Ruby. 

'What do you think I'm going to do with her?' asked Sir Felix. 

'If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be asyou don't, just say so, and walk away, --free. '

'I shall go, ' said Ruby. 'I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner forany one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down ina minute. ' The girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs, and began tochange her dress without giving herself a moment for thought. 

'She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix, ' said Mrs Pipkin, in hermost solemn tones. 'She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was mypoor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace. But I'd be loth to see her on the streets. '

'Then why won't you let me bring her back again?'

''Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marryher. ' To this Sir Felix said nothing. 'You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport, --and then there she is, an old shoe to bechucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seenscores of 'em, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to the likes o' you. '

'I haven't done her any harm, ' said Sir Felix, almost frightened. 

'Then go away, and don't do her any. That's Mrs Hurtle's door open. You go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better nor me. '

'Mrs Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well. '

'Mrs Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen theworld. ' As she spoke, Mrs Hurtle came downstairs, and an introduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between her and Sir Felix. MrsHurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was quite as certainas Mrs Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a fewminutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs Hurtle in her own room. Hehad been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagementwith Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard ofPaul's engagement with his sister. It was not an hour since Paulhimself had referred him to her for corroboration of his ownstatement. 

'Sir Felix Carbury, ' she said, 'I am afraid you are doing that poorgirl no good, and are intending to do her none. ' It did occur to himvery strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs Hurtle's, and thathe, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in anunjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was MrsHurtle? 'Would it not be better that you should leave her to becomethe wife of a man who is really fond of her?'

He could already see something in Mrs Hurtle's eye which prevented hisat once bursting into wrath;--but! who was Mrs Hurtle, that she shouldinterfere with him? 'Upon my word, ma'am, ' he said, 'I'm very muchobliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour ofyour--your--'

'Interference you mean. '

'I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it. '

'I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made, ' said Mrs Hurtlewith energy. 'We're all apt to wait a little too long, because we'reashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You must goand leave her, Sir Felix. '

'I suppose she may do as she pleases about that. '

'Do you mean to make her your wife?' asked Mrs Hurtle sternly. 

'Does Mr Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?' rejoined Sir Felixwith an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly hardenough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised that hewould have heard aught of her own concerns. She only barely connectedhim 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 whomPaul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp shouldknow all her story?

She thought awhile, --she had to think for a moment, --before she couldanswer him. 'I do not see, ' she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, 'that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any rate, amold enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as Iwas before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself tobe taken about the town by you at night?' She had desired in what shesaid to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it matter whetherthis young man was left in a belief that she was, or that she was not, about to be married?

'If you'll answer me, I'll answer you, ' said Sir Felix. 'Does MrMontague mean to make you his wife?'

'It does not concern you to know, ' said she, flashing upon him. 'Thequestion is insolent. '

'It does concern me, --a great deal more than anything about Ruby canconcern you. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you. '

'Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head. '

'I know all about that, ' said the baronet. 

'And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably knowwhere to find you, ' added Mrs Hurtle. 

To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix leftthe room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And werethere not policemen in London? And what additional harm would be doneto John Crumb, or what increase of danger engendered in that truelover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had dancedwith him so often at the Music Hall that John Crumb could hardly bemade more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on thisevening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed. 'You don't come in here again to-night, ' said Mrs Pipkin, thumping thelittle table which stood in the passage, 'if you goes out of thatthere door with that there young man. '

'Then I shall, ' said Ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm. 

'Baggage! Slut!' said Mrs Pipkin; 'after all I've done for you, justas one as though you were my own flesh and blood. '

'I've worked for it, I suppose;--haven't I?' rejoined Ruby. 

'You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here nomore. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 'vesaved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you, '--and she looked at SirFelix, --'only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the ladyupstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more afterpoor girls. ' I do not think that she need have feared any remonstrancefrom Mrs Hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution. 

Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs Pipkin and herlodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby hadbeen triumphant, and was happy. She did not stop to consider whetherher aunt would or would not open her door when she should returntired, and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm, in her bestclothes, and going out to have a dinner given to her. And her loverhad told her that he had ever so many things, --ever so many things tosay to her! But she would ask no impertinent questions in the firsthour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up toPentonville;--so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half public-houseand half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the good things, which in his company would be so nice! Who cannot understand that evenan urban Rosherville must be an Elysium to those who have lately beeneating their meals in all the gloom of a small London undergroundkitchen? There we will leave Ruby in her bliss. 

At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs Pipkin's, and wastold that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury. He hit his leg ablow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. 'He'll have it hotsome day, ' said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for Rubytill midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took hisdeparture. 

CHAPTER LXXI - JOHN CRUMB FALLS INTO TROUBLE

It was on a Friday evening, an inauspicious Friday, that poor RubyRuggles had insisted on leaving the security of her Aunt Pipkin'shouse with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of thepositive assurance made to her by Mrs Pipkin that if she went forth insuch company she should not be allowed to return. 'Of course you mustlet her in, ' Mrs Hurtle had said soon after the girl's departure. Whereupon Mrs Pipkin had cried. She knew her own softness too well tosuppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl out in thestreets all night; but yet it was hard upon her, very hard, that sheshould be so troubled. 'We usen't to have our ways like that when Iwas young, ' she said, sobbing. What was to be the end of it? Was sheto be forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let thegirl's conduct be what it might? Nevertheless she acknowledged thatRuby must be let in when she came back. Then, about nine o'clock, JohnCrumb came; and the latter part of the evening was more melancholyeven than the first. It was impossible to conceal the truth from JohnCrumb. Mrs Hurtle saw the poor man and told the story in Mrs Pipkin'spresence. 

'She's headstrong, Mr Crumb, ' said Mrs Hurtle. 

'She is that, ma'am. And it was along wi' the baronite she went?'

'It was so, Mr Crumb. '

'Baro-nite! Well;--perhaps I shall catch him some of these days;--wentto dinner wi' him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner here?'

Then Mrs Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence. Ruby Ruggleshad had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in London, --abullock's heart and potatoes, --just as much as ever she had pleased toeat of it. Mrs Pipkin could tell Mr Crumb that there was 'no starvationnor yet no stint in her house. ' John Crumb immediately produced a verythick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak, which he had brought upwith him to London from Bungay, as a present to the woman who had beengood to his Ruby. He assured her that he did not doubt that her victualswere good and plentiful, and went on to say that he had made bold tobring her a trifle out of respect. It was some little time before MrsPipkin would allow herself to be appeased;--but at last she permittedthe garment to be placed on her shoulders. But it was done after amelancholy fashion. There was no smiling consciousness of the bestowalof joy on the countenance of the donor as he gave it, no exuberance ofthanks from the recipient as she received it. Mrs Hurtle, standing by, declared it to be perfect;--but the occasion was one which admitted ofno delight. 'It's very good of you, Mr Crumb, to think of an old womanlike me, --particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a youngun'. '

'It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs Pipkin, or the d'sease in the'tatoes;--it has to be put up with, I suppose. Is she very partial, ma'am, to that young baronite?' This question was asked of Mrs Hurtle. 

'Just a fancy for the time, Mr Crumb, ' said the lady. 

'They never thinks as how their fancies may wellnigh half kill a man!'Then he was silent for a while, sitting back in his chair, not movinga limb, with his eyes fastened on Mrs Pipkin's ceiling. Mrs Hurtle hadsome work in her hand, and sat watching him. The man was to her anextraordinary being, --so constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlikeher own countrymen, --willing to endure so much, and at the same time sowarm in his affections! 'Sir Felix Carbury!' he said. 'I'll Sir Felixhim some of these days. If it was only dinner, wouldn't she be backafore this, ma'am?'

'I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement, ' said Mrs Hurtle. 

'Like enough, ' said John Crumb in a low voice. 

'She's that mad after dancing as never was, ' said Mrs Pipkin. 

'And where is it as 'em dances?' asked Crumb, getting up from hischair, and stretching himself. It was evident to both the ladies thathe was beginning to think that he would follow Ruby to the music hall. Neither of them answered him, however, and then he sat down again. 'Does 'em dance all night at them places, Mrs Pipkin?'

'They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do, ' said Mrs Pipkin. John Crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down heavily on thepalm of his other hand, and then sat silent for awhile. 

'I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing, ' he said. 'I'd a haddancing for her down at Bungay, --just as ready as anything. D'yethink, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?' Thiswas another appeal to Mrs Hurtle. 

'I suppose they go together, ' said the lady. 

Then there was another long pause, at the end of which poor John Crumbburst out with some violence. 'Domn him! Domn him! What 'ad I ever dunto him? Nothing! Did I ever interfere wi' him? Never! But I wull. Iwull. I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Bury!'

'Oh, Mr Crumb, don't talk like that, ' said Mrs Pipkin. 

'Mr Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently, 'said Mrs Hurtle. 

'She's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's treatingyou, ' said Mrs Pipkin. 

'No, ma'am;--she ain't nasty, ' said the lover. 'But she's crou'll, --horrid crou'll. It's no more use my going down about meal and pollard, nor business, and she up here with that baro-nite, --no, no more nornothin'! When I handles it I don't know whether its middlings nornothin' else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it onyourself to say as I was wrong?'

'I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him, ' said MrsHurtle. 

'I could pretty well eat him, --that's what I could. Half past eleven;is it? She must come some time, mustn't she?' Mrs Pipkin, who did notwant to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give noassurance on that head. If Ruby did come, she should, on that night, be admitted. But Mrs Pipkin thought that it would be better to get upand let her in than to sit up for her. Poor Mr Crumb did not at oncetake the hint, and remained there for another half-hour, sayinglittle, but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come. But when theclock struck twelve he was told that he must go. Then he slowlycollected his limbs and dragged them out of the house. 

'That young man is a good fellow, ' said Mrs Hurtle as soon as the doorwas closed. 

'A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles, ' said Mrs Pipkin. 'And he canmaintain a wife. Mr Carbury says as he's as well to do as anytradesman down in them parts. '

Mrs Hurtle disliked the name of Mr Carbury, and took this laststatement as no evidence in John Crumb's favour. 'I don't know that Ithink better of the man for having Mr Carbury's friendship, ' she said. 

'Mr Carbury ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs Hurtle. '

'I don't think much of any of the Carburys, Mrs Pipkin. It seems to methat everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. Nobodyseems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere withnobody else. ' This was all Greek to poor Mrs Pipkin. 'I suppose we mayas well go to bed now. When that girl comes and knocks, of course wemust let her in. If I hear her, I'll go down and open the door forher. '

Mrs Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition ofher household. She would remain up herself to answer the door at thefirst sound, so that Mrs Hurtle should not be disturbed. She would doher best to prevent any further annoyance. She trusted Mrs Hurtlewould see that she was endeavouring to do her duty by the naughtywicked girl. And then she came round to the point of her discourse. She hoped that Mrs Hurtle would not be induced to quit the rooms bythese disagreeable occurrences. 'I don't mind saying it now, MrsHurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't nothing todepend on, --only lodgers, and them as is any good is so hard to get!'The poor woman hardly understood Mrs Hurtle, who, as a lodger, wascertainly peculiar. She cared nothing for disturbances, and ratherliked than otherwise the task of endeavouring to assist in thesalvation of Ruby. Mrs Hurtle begged that Mrs Pipkin would go to bed. She would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking. Anotherhalf-hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the parlour afterCrumb's departure. Then Mrs Hurtle took her candle and had ascendedthe stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud double knockwas heard. She immediately joined Mrs Pipkin in the passage. The doorwas opened, and there stood Ruby Ruggles, John Crumb, and twopolicemen! Ruby rushed in, and casting herself on to one of the stairsbegan to throw her hands about, and to howl piteously. 'Laws a mercy;what is it?' asked Mrs Pipkin. 

'He's been and murdered him!' screamed Ruby. 'He has! He's been andmurdered him!'

'This young woman is living here;--is she?' asked one of thepolicemen. 

'She is living here, ' said Mrs Hurtle. But now we must go back to theadventures of John Crumb after he had left the house. 

He had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern CountiesRailway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when businessbrought him up to London, and thither he proposed to himself toreturn. At one time there had come upon him an idea that he wouldendeavour to seek Ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of themetropolis; and he had asked a question with that view. But no answerhad been given which seemed to aid him in his project, and his purposehad been abandoned as being too complex and requiring moreintelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. So he hadturned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to knowthat it would take him to the Islington Angel, --where various roadsmeet, and whence he would know his way eastwards. He had just passedthe Angel, and the end of Goswell Road, and was standing with hismouth open, looking about, trying to make certain of himself that hewould not go wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom hesaw, and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to knowhis business. Then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and knewthat it was Ruby's voice. The sound was very near him, but in theglimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it came. Hestood still, putting his hand up to scratch his head under his hat, --trying to think what, in such an emergency, it would be well that heshould do. Then he heard the voice distinctly, 'I won't;--I won't, 'and after that a scream. Then there were further words. 'It's no good--I won't. ' At last he was able to make up his mind. He rushed afterthe sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led back intoGoswell Road, saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms. She had left thedancing establishment with her lover; and when they had come to theturn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to her furtherdestiny for the night. Ruby, though she well remembered Mrs Pipkin'sthreats, was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door. Sir Felixwas of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement for her;and as Ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had thoughtthat a little gentle force might avail him. He had therefore draggedRuby into the passage. The unfortunate one! That so ill a chanceshould have come upon him in the midst of his diversion! He hadswallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was thereforebrave with reference to that interference of the police, the fear ofwhich might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold ofRuby's arm when she first raised her voice. But what amount of brandyand water would have enabled him to persevere, could he have dreamedthat John Crumb was near him? On a sudden he found a hand on his coat, and he was swung violently away, and brought with his back against therailings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of hisbody. But he could hear Ruby's exclamation, 'If it isn't John Crumb!'Then there came upon him a sense of coming destruction, as though theworld for him were all over; and, collapsing throughout his limbs, heslunk down upon the ground. 

'Get up, you wiper, ' said John Crumb. But the baronet thought itbetter to cling to the ground. 'You sholl get up, ' said John, takinghim by the collar of his coat and lifting him. 'Now, Ruby, he'sa-going to have it, ' said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top ofher voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at firstattracted John Crumb's notice. 

'Don't hit a man when he's down, ' said the baronet, pleading as thoughfor his life. 

'I wunt, ' said John;--'but I'll hit a fellow when un's up. ' Sir Felixwas little more than a child in the man's arms. John Crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left arm, --getting his headinto chancery as we used to say when we fought at school, --struck thepoor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowingor caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating afeature. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him andrescued Sir Felix from his arms. 'He's about got enough of it, ' saidJohn Crumb as he gave over his work. Then Sir Felix fell again to theground, moaning fearfully. 'I know'd he'd have to have it, ' said JohnCrumb. 

Ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from eachend of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And nowthe cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which shemade to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was asbitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. Itwas in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand that theyoung woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby sworethat nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been donebefore. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He couldonly moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of bloodfrom his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. And John, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend theextent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a wordagainst Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by herdenunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards, hehad 'dropped into the baronite' just in time, and, having beensuccessful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such anoperation necessary. 

There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen otherpersons, cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houselesswanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred thepavements to the poorhouse wards. They all took part against JohnCrumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and heryoung man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed hiseyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he hadbetter be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he wasso mashed and mauled that she was sure he would never 'come to'again. A precocious youth remarked that he was 'all one as a deadun'. ' A cabman observed that he had ''ad it awful 'eavy. ' To all thesecriticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he didnot much care whither. 

At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. Theyhad learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felixwas Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable toBartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he mightbe produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conductedto the address she gave, --not half a mile from the spot on which theynow stood, --and be left there or not according to the account whichmight be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in thestation-house. He was the offender;--for aught that any of them yetknew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said agood word for himself, and certainly made no objection to thetreatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyedup inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed hisenemy. 

Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Rubycame together to Mrs Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud withcomplaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover, --who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst herlamentations. But from Mrs Hurtle the policemen did manage to learnsomething of the truth. Oh yes;--the girl lived there and was--respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, andwas the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten wasundoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and wasonly the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's name was given. 'I'mJohn Crumb of Bungay, ' said he, 'and I ain't afeared of nothin' nornobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I ain't. Mauled un'! Incourse I've mauled un'. And I meaned it. That ere young woman isengaged to be my wife. '

'No, I ain't, ' shouted Ruby. 

'But she is, ' persisted John Crumb. 

'Well then, I never will, ' rejoined Ruby. 

John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on hisheart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance howit all was, but that Mr Crumb had better come along with him just forthe present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay madenot the slightest objection. 

'Miss Ruggles, ' said Mrs Hurtle, 'if that young man doesn't conqueryou at last you can't have a heart in your bosom. '

'Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's everso. He's been and killed Sir Felix. ' Mrs Hurtle in a whisper to MrsPipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that thethree women all went to bed. 

CHAPTER LXXII - 'ASK HIMSELF'

Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiringhim to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection withMrs Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavouredto ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were notpersonally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give tothe mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? Hewas sure that, as Hetta's cousin and asking as though he were Hetta'sbrother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with thatAmerican woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the presentto offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough ofall the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. Hehad seen Mrs Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known thatthey were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew thatshe had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing thefulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. Heknew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what itmight, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. Hethoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in hisfirmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing thatMrs Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elderbrother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a manembarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montagueto rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his presentcondition was fit to engage himself to another woman. 

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equallyclear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his owncause by telling a tale, --which tale had become known to him as thefriend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He hadresolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs Hurtle together uponthe sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom heloved had confessed her love for the other man, --that man, who inseeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor tohimself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by aperpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love forthe woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already therewere floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in theperson of some child of Hetta's, --but with the distinct understandingthat he and the child's father should never see each other. No morethan twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul'sletter and that from Lady Carbury, --but during those four-and-twentyhours he had almost forgotten Mrs Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Then camethe direct question as to which he was called upon for a directanswer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of acertain Mrs Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make itinexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothedlover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But howwas he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such aletter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to securehimself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival inorder that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury'sletter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell thestory he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, andknocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on themorning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between SirFelix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as apage should look when the family to which he is attached is sufferingfrom some terrible calamity. 'My lady' had been summoned to thehospital to see Sir Felix who was, --as the page reported, --in a verybad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, butsupposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes;Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, thoughshe, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. Thatpoor Hetta should be 'put about' with her brother in the hospital andher lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was naturalenough. 

'What's this about Felix?' asked Roger. The new trouble always hasprecedence over those which are of earlier date. 

'Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home lastnight, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the cityto say that he is there. '

'What has happened to him?'

'Somebody, --somebody has, --beaten him, ' said Hetta whimpering. Then shetold the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospitalhad declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of hisbones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teethknocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on tosay, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentlemanshould not be taken home. 'And mamma has gone to fetch him, ' saidHetta. 

'That's John Crumb, ' said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. 'You have not been toldabout John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him. '

'Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?'

'They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occurin the world. ' The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the wholestory of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. 'If it be as Isuppose, ' continued Roger, 'John Crumb has considered himself to beaggrieved and has thus avenged himself. '

'Did you--know of him before?'

'Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love witha girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife andhave been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honestman with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Yourbrother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been toldby myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on thegirl's love, he thought, --well, I suppose he thought that such apretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb. '

'But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!'

'You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way, --to be off withyour old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be allchanged now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in lovewith two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now hehas been punished. '

'You know all about it then?'

'No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that JohnCrumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner orlater he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is toblame him?'

Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in hismanner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of thatstranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would havemade her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offerher. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe andrespected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though itwere her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of theold-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are onwith the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story ofthe American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice itby words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could besupposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. 'It is veryshocking, ' she said. 

'Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and Ipity you. '

'It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us, ' said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs Hurtle, but she did not asyet dare to ask the question. 

'I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not, ' said he aftera short pause. 

'Pray wait for her if you are not very busy. '

'I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to behere when she brings Felix back to the house. '

'Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there aretroubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me. '

'Tell you what?'

'She has written to you;--has she not?'

'Yes; she has written to me. '

'And about me?'

'Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr Montague has written to mealso. '

'He told me that he would, ' whispered Hetta. 

'Did he tell you my answer?'

'No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since. '

'You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also havesomething of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt toshow it after the same fashion. '

'Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?'

'I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is adifference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. Younever have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hardthought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It isnot you that I reproach. But he, --he has been if possible more falsethan Felix. '

'Oh, Roger, how has he been false?'

Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs Hurtle. Thetreachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought hadbeen committed by his friend towards himself. 'He should have left theplace and never have come near you, ' said Roger, 'when he found how itwas likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup ofwater from my lips. '

How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touchedhis lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had totell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid storyof Mrs Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. Shewould be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover hadsinned in loving her. 'But, Roger, ' she said, --'it would have been thesame. '

'You may say so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate willnot contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But hedidn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother, --and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what youmean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have beenimpossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have toldmyself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And Iwon't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you willbe the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearestcreature living. My hatred to him--'

'Oh, Roger, do not say hatred. '

'My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. Itell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. Asto not coveting, --how is a man to cease to covet that which he hasalways coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. Ihave no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. Hemight have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I couldonly have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me. '

But still there was no word of Mrs Hurtle. 'Roger, ' she said, 'I havegiven it all away now. It cannot be given twice. '

'If he were unworthy would your heart never change?'

'I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?'

'How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. Hehas been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He hasturned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; hehas choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy!I cannot tell you. '

'If you thought him worthy you would tell me, ' she said, getting upand taking him by the arm. 

'No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;' andhe tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himselffrom her hold. 

'Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because youyourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. Itwould not be you to leave a false impression even against yourenemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I cantrust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as asister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He hasmy heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have myhand?'

'Ask himself, Hetta. '

'And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though youknow that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs Hurtle?'

'Have you asked him?'

'I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even knowthat such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her?Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannottrust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--butmamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?'

'There is such a woman certainly. '

'And she has been, --a friend of Paul's?'

'Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I willsay neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conductto myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of MrsHurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if helies you will know that he is lying. '

'And that is all?'

'All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother;--but Icannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly thatI am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the manwhom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husbandof yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you werestill Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover, --though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?'

'Ah what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma'sheart. '

'Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence. '

'But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into thestreet?'

'I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve himperhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go downand let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him upto bed, so that I need not see him. '

Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in thehall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able todescend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in thedining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not afeature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part ofhis beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether beenso treated that even the page would hardly have known him. 'Roger isupstairs, mamma, ' said Hetta in the hall. 

'Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?'

'He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of yourletter. He says that a man named Crumb did it. '

'Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?'

'Is he hurt, mamma?'

'Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to killhim. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself andyou?'

On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personalintercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made ascomfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and LadyCarbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She hadlearned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though SirFelix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are somecircumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost anecessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when ayoung man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man'spleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can hedo but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rashencounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital hadtold all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had beenCrumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young womancalled Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much couldnot be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when SirFelix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beatinghim, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to bebelieved. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and onlyhopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his ownwords. 

'What am I to do with him?' Lady Carbury said to her cousin. 'It is nouse telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I knowthat I have done much to make him what he is. ' As she said this thetears were running down her poor worn cheeks. 'But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?'

This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felixhad reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did of his cousinhe could see no possible salvation for him. 'Perhaps I should take himabroad, ' he said. 

'Would he be better abroad than here?'

'He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of runningyou into debt. '

Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of allthe hopes which she had indulged, --her literary aspirations, herTuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, andher Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination whichshe had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would becomesomebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to thedreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible thatshe should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to bea cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her whenalmost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. Butyet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could betogether. 'Yes, ' she said, 'I suppose it would be so. I only wish thatI might die, so that were an end of it. '

'He might go out to one of the Colonies, ' said Roger. 

'Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink inthe bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go. '

As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousinof his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her tobe unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for theson whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all hersins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, andthe Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in hisappreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. 'If youlike to let your house for a period, ' he said, 'mine is open to you. '

'But, Felix?'

'You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make ahome for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think thatwould save you you can try it for six months. '

'And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?' Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that therewould be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting MrsHurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could havebeen otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would notsavour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by hercousin Roger. 

'Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself, ' he said. 

'How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is itnot true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he haspromised to marry?'

'No;--that is not true. '

'What is true then? Is he not engaged to the woman?' Roger hesitated amoment. 'I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke tome about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have toldHetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of thiswoman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do notlove him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of hisconnexion with Mrs Hurtle, he will tell her the truth. '

Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he seehis cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by hisjourney up to London, and he returned on that day back to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which hehad made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be noother love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might thensave himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himselfto live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in theworld. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this couldbe right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him, --made italmost the first of his duties, --to watch over the interests of her heloved and of those who belonged to her. 

But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague. 

CHAPTER LXXIII - MARIE'S FORTUNE

When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father hadalready endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken fromher without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth. Sheknew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she shouldknow. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with theobject he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge of thedetails of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when the thingwas done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie'smemory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father'santicipation. He was deriving a very considerable income from a largesum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her name, andhad got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him to draw thisincome on her behalf. This he had done fearing shipwreck in the coursewhich he meant to run, and resolved that, let circumstances go as theymight, there should still be left enough to him of the money which hehad realised to enable him to live in comfort and luxury, should he bedoomed to live in obscurity, or even in infamy. He had sworn tohimself solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this moneyto go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he hadbeen true to his oath. Though bankruptcy and apparent ruin might beimminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of this moneyeven though it might appear at the moment that the money would besufficient for the purpose. If such a day should come, then, with thatcertain income, he would make himself happy, if possible, or at anyrate luxurious, in whatever city of the world might know least of hisantecedents, and give him the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. Such had been his scheme of life. But he had failed to considervarious circumstances. His daughter might be untrue to him, or in theevent of her marriage might fail to release his property, --or it mightbe that the very money should be required to dower his daughter. Orthere might come troubles on him so great that even the certainty of afuture income would not enable him to bear them. Now, at this presentmoment, his mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume thisproperty it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to theLongestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some otherdifficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, hecertainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made forhimself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should comethey would be as good creditors as any other. But then he waspainfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtednesswas involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand tracedDolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in oldMr Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed bythe elder Mr Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and he hadhimself posted this letter in a pillarbox near to his house. In theexecution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly befriended him. He had become the tenant of Mr Longestaffe's house, and at the sametime had only been the joint tenant of Mr Longestaffe's study, --sothat Mr Longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands. To pick alock was with him an accomplishment long since learned. But his sciencein that line did not go so far as to enable him to replace the bolt inits receptacle. He had picked a lock, had found the letter prepared byMr Bideawhile with its accompanying envelope, and had then alreadylearned enough of the domestic circumstances of the Longestaffe familyto feel assured that unless he could assist the expedition of thishitherto uncompleted letter by his own skill, the letter would neverreach its intended destination. In all this fortune had in some degreebefriended him. The circumstances being as they were it was hardlypossible that the forgery should be discovered. Even though the youngman were to swear that the signature was not his, even though the oldman were to swear that he had left that drawer properly locked withthe unsigned letter in it, still there could be no evidence. Peoplemight think. People might speak. People might feel sure. And then acrash would come. But there would still be that ample fortune on whichto retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days. 

Then there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had beenso easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe neverwould have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another matter. Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition, andincreasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that werespread abroad, --which to Melmotte were serious indeed, --they named, atany rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing that hadbeen done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually hometo him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done thatthing, of what use then would be all that money? When that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might not be well to usethe money to save him from such ruin, if it might be so used. No doubtall danger in that Longestaffe affair might be bought off by paymentof the price stipulated for the Pickering property. Neither wouldDolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr Melmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the money claimed were paid. Butthen the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as hefirmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove thething which he had done. 

But the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for thecountry of his adoption Mr Melmotte had allowed himself to attachhigher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belongto them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all theworld as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of AuldReekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost safefrom its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought hecould so use the family with which he would be connected as to forcefrom it that protection which he would need. And then again, if hecould tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have aBritish Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failedaltogether to inquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or whatwould be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage would adda charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could not be gotto marry his daughter without the positive assurance of absoluteproperty, but he did think that the income which might thus betransferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had beenpromised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given proofto the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of theproperty in question. 

And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within thelast few days and which had startled Mr Melmotte very much indeed. Ona certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and had told herthat he should require her signature in reference to a deed. She hadasked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a documentregarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a deed oncebefore, telling her that it was all in the way of business. It was notnecessary that she should ask any more questions as she would bewanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not merely byshowing him that she understood a great deal more of the transactionthan he had thought, --but also by a positive refusal to sign anything atall. The reader may understand that there had been many words betweenthem. 'I know, papa. It is that you may have the money to do what youlike with. You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury thatI won't do it. If I ever marry the money will belong to my husband!'His breath almost failed him as he listened to these words. He did notknow whether to approach her with threats, with entreaties, or withblows. Before the interview was over he had tried all three. He hadtold her that he could and would put her in prison for conduct sofraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrousperversity. And at last he took her by both arms and shook herviolently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut her to pieces; butshe would sign nothing. 'I suppose you thought Sir Felix would havehad the entire sum, ' said the father with deriding scorn. 

'And he would;--if he had the spirit to take it, ' answered Marie. 

This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. He wouldno doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would securethe Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in hisnicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave theLongestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that hecould make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that hewas doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were verygreat! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him, and this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she wouldaccept Nidderdale, --or the sweep at the crossing. 

On Monday morning, --it was on the preceding Thursday that he had madehis famous speech in Parliament, --one of the Bideawhiles had come tohim in the City. He had told Mr Bideawhile that all the world knew thatjust at the present moment money was very 'tight' in the City. 'We arenot asking for payment of a commercial debt, ' said Mr Bideawhile, 'butfor the price of a considerable property which you have purchased. ' MrMelmotte had suggested that the characteristics of the money were thesame, let the sum in question have become due how it might. Then heoffered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months'date, with proper interest allowed. But this offer Mr Bideawhilescouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds might berestored to them. 

'You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds, ' said Melmotte. 'You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told you how Ipropose to pay it. '

Mr Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the wholecourse of his business, in all the records of the very respectablefirm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this. Of course Mr Longestaffe had been the person to blame, --so at leastall the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxiousto have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that thetitle-deeds should be given up. But then the title-deeds had not beenhis to surrender. The Pickering estate had been the joint property ofhim and his son. The house had been already pulled down, and now thepurchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! 'Do you mean totell me, Mr Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for whatyou have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have alreadygone out of your hands?'

'I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value, thirty times the value, ' said Melmotte proudly; 'but you must know Ishould think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannotalways realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice. 'Mr Bideawhile without using language that was absolutely vituperativegave Mr Melmotte to understand that he thought that he and his clienthad been robbed, and that he should at once take whatever severeststeps the law put in his power. As Mr Melmotte shrugged his shouldersand made no further reply, Mr Bideawhile could only take hisdeparture. 

The attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client, and to his own house in opposition to Mr Squercum, nevertheless wasbecoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letterwhich Dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed. MrLongestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given itas his opinion that Dolly had not signed the letter. His son hadcertainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could havehad no opportunity of signing it since. He was all but sure that hehad left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the roomwhich had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his own. Then, on entering the room in Melmotte's presence, --their friendship at thetime having already ceased, --he found that his drawer was open. Thissame Mr Bideawhile was with him at the time. 'Do you mean to say thatI have opened your drawer?' said Mr Melmotte. Mr Longestaffe hadbecome very red in the face and had replied by saying that hecertainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not leftthe drawer unlocked. He knew his own habits and was sure that he hadnever left that drawer open in his life. 'Then you must have changedthe habits of your life on this occasion, ' said Mr Melmotte withspirit. Mr Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within thehouse, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured thelawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that tothe best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within thedrawer. Mr Bideawhile could only remark that it was the mostunfortunate circumstance with which he had ever been concerned. 

The marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing, if it could only be accomplished. The reader must understand thatthough Mr Melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licencein that statement as to property thirty times as great as the pricewhich he ought to have paid for Pickering, still there was property. The man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did notreally know what he owned, or what he owed. But he did know that atthe present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. His chieftrust for immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had reallybeen the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway. He hadtrusted much to Cohenlupe, --more than it had been customary with himto trust to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be donewith the railway shares at the present moment. They had fallen underthe panic almost to nothing. Now in the time of his trouble Melmottewanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted moneythe great railway was worth nothing. Cohenlupe told him that he musttide over the evil hour, --or rather over an evil month. It was atCohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to MrBideawhile. 'Offer 'em again, ' said Cohenlupe. 'He must take the billssooner or later. '

On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby ofthe House. 'Have you seen Marie lately?' he said. Nidderdale had beenassured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father'spresence, that if he married Miss Melmotte at present he wouldundoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over£5, 000 a year. He had intended to get more than that, --and was hardlyprepared to accept Marie at such a price; but then there probablywould be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering. Melmotte certainly had been raising money. But this might probably bean affair of a few weeks. Melmotte had declared that Pickering shouldbe made over to the young people at the marriage. His father hadrecommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could bebroken off at the last day if the property were not forthcoming. 

'I'm going up to your house almost immediately, ' said Nidderdale. 

'You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six, 'said Melmotte. 

CHAPTER LXXIV - MELMOTTE MAKES A FRIEND

'Have you been thinking any more about it?' Lord Nidderdale said tothe girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving themalone together. 

'I have thought ever so much more about it, ' said Marie. 

'And what's the result?'

'Oh, --I'll have you. '

'That's right, ' said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close toher, so that he might put his arm round her waist. 

'Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale, ' she said. 

'You might as well call me John. '

'Then wait a moment, --John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit. '

'That's not true, Marie. '

'Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same, --that I mightas well marry you, though I don't love you a bit. '

'But you will. '

'I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had betterknow the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did notthink you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've beenin love with. '

'But you can't be in love with him now. '

'Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come tome, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad. '

'Have I behaved bad?'

'Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared. '

'Oh yes, --I have. '

'Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm beingthere if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of usto look on it as business. '

'How very hard you are, Marie. '

'No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. Idid love him. '

'Surely you have found him out now. '

'Yes, I have, ' said Marie. 'He's a poor creature. '

'He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets, --most horribly. 'Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover'sarms. 'You hadn't heard it?'

'Who has thrashed him?'

'I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has beencut about in a terrible manner. '

'Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?'

'There was a young lady in the question, Marie. '

'A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothingto me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. Isuppose you've made up all that out of your own head. '

'Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about ayoung woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose itsignifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?'

'I don't care the least, ' said Marie. 'The longer it's put off thebetter I shall like it;--that's all. '

'Because I'm so detestable?'

'No, --you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; onlyyou don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do whatone wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and neverto be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable havingnothing on earth to give one any interest. '

'You couldn't take any interest in me?'

'Not the least. '

'Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the placewhere we live?'

'It's a castle, I know. '

'Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old. '

'I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and anew horse every week, --and a new lover. Your father lives at thecastle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too. '

'We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?'

'The year after next. '

'Nonsense, Marie. '

'To-morrow. '

'You wouldn't be ready. '

'You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes, --kiss me;of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;--Iwon't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure itwill be true. That's more than you can say of yourself, --John. '

So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the housethinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind toany operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it. As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latterdays, become much more attractive to him than when he had first knownher. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tellhimself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner ofher own which made him think that she would be able to live withladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to thecontrary, she was becoming fond of him, --as he certainly had becomefond of her. 'Have you been up with the ladies?' Melmotte asked him. 

'Oh yes. '

'And what does Marie say?'

'That you must fix the day. '

'We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to getaway in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was workedso hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and thathorrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind tellingyou that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. Inever had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm notquite through it yet. '

'I wonder why you gave the dinner then. '

'My dear boy, '--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of amarquis his dear boy, --'as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effectupon my condition one way or the other. '

'I wish it could be the same way with me, ' said Nidderdale. 

'If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie'smoney out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is verygreat. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, orwhither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds andwaves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only halfthe man he was. I've had it very hard this time. '

'I suppose you are getting right now. '

'Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear, if you mean that. Idon't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are tobe Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you couldhurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it. '

'Certainly I would not. '

'You see I've no partner, --nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable tounderstand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well, --in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me inone or two things, --our American railway for instance, but he has nointerest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and Ican tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatestcomfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in thematter. '

'I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business, ' saidthe modest young lord. 

'You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. ButI should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are goingon. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The factwas that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that theycould carry the election by running me down. They were at it fora fortnight, --perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or whatharm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. Theycouldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect ofdepreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!'

'I don't understand how it could be done. '

'Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. Theypersuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, andconsequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. Theeffect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. TheMexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days tosomething quite nominal, --so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8, 000 of these shares. Think whatthat comes to!' Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, butfailed altogether. 'That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. Whena man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largelywith them all, he is of course exchanging one property for anotherevery day of his life, --according as the markets go. I don't keep sucha sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then whena panic comes, don't you see how it hits?'

'Will they never go up again?'

'Oh yes, --perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in themeantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for otherpurposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down inSussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged toraise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be allright in a week or two. And as for Marie's money, --that, you know, issettled. '

He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that hespoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man'sbosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be ofservice to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, ashe had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extendedscale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost moreexciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whateverthe man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on thisoccasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from theinterview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one withwhom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could becomeattached. 

And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from asimulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to himto talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to aparticipation in his secrets. It was out of the question that heshould ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth ofhis own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale hadbeen a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been onlyon behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Eventhough his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship, --though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before threemonths had passed by, --still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendallshad left him since the day of the dinner, --Miles having sent him aletter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was acomfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he muchpreferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall. 

This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was overMelmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to theBeargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though withdifficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be donewithout rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner hadnever more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaidwere held to be good against the club, whereas every note of handwhich he had taken from the members was left in the possession of MrFlatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden;but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to itsmembers that it had been reopened under a new management. No one hadfelt this need more strongly during every hour of the day, --of the dayas he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon andgoing to bed three or four hours after midnight, --than did DollyLongestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he hadbegun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such aresort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly couldhave his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he wasaccustomed. 

But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited easeand indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate wouldpay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and wouldstill leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him thatif he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuckto his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, andthe title-deeds gone, --and he had not received a penny! He did notknow whom to be loudest in abusing, --his father, the Bideawhiles, or MrMelmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He wasvery open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for theBideawhiles, --he would bring an action against them. Squercum hadexplained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue theworld had ever produced. 'By George! the world, ' he said, 'must becoming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting inParliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forgedmy name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man everdeserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung. ' This he spokeopenly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking asNidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had beendining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face somehalf-dozen men whom he was addressing. 

Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. 'Dolly, 'said he, 'do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in theroom. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in aday or two. You don't know Melmotte. '

'Mistaken!' Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. 'Am Imistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?'

'I don't believe it has been owing very long. '

'Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?'

'I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything todo with it. '

'Squercum says--'

'Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellowof that kind. '

'I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte. '

'Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than youdo or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quietfor a few days and to hold your tongue here, --I'll make myselfresponsible for the entire sum he owes you. '

'The devil you will. '

'I will indeed. '

Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hearhim, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lowerhis voice. 'That's out of the question, you know, ' he said. 'How couldI take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, andso you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in myfather's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Evenmy governor knows it now, --and Bideawhile. Before many days are overyou'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery. '

This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was eitherengaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter. 

'Since you will speak about it in this public way--' began Nidderdale. 

'I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way, ' said Dolly. 

'I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter exceptthat I am sure Mr Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what Iunderstand there seems to have been some blunder between your fatherand his lawyer. '

'That's true enough, ' said Dolly; 'but it doesn't excuse Melmotte. '

'As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid thanthat I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?'

'Eighty thousand, the whole. '

'Well, --eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a manas Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds. '

'Why don't he do it then?' asked Dolly. 

All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than itused to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up agame of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offendedwith Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country, --afugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at homewith his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, andMontague in these days never went to the club. At the present momenthe was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by MrRamsbottom. 'By George, ' said Dolly, as he filled another pipe andordered more brandy and water, 'I think everything is going to come toan end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a manbeing done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seemseverybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can'teven get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good inhoping that things would ever come right again. '

The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter indispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admittedby some to be 'very fishy. ' If Melmotte were so great a man why didn'the pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property beforeit was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dollywas wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man whowould naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had notsigned. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, throughthe outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be sopunctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. Nodoubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore, --ashe had succeeded in getting the property into his hands, --he did makeuse of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way oflooking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. Theworld at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor ofChina's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinousdepreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted factthat Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined tothink that Melmotte would 'pull through. '

CHAPTER LXXV - IN BRUTON STREET

Mr Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work andanxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough toperceive the whole truth. He did really know it all, --if he could provethat which he knew. He had extended his inquiries in the city till hehad convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have hadtwelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to coverthe liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not afalling, but a fallen star, --perhaps not giving sufficient credence tothe recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certainstockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a 'gone coon. ' The stockbroker made also some fewinquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte wasa 'gone coon. ' If such were the case it would positively be the makingof Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as thedestroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among theBideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors againsthim. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum, --feeling thatthey had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must becareful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. 'I suppose yougive it up about the letter having been signed by my client, ' saidSquercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles. 

'I give up nothing and I assert nothing, ' said the superior attorney. 'Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe itto be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be likethe last. '

'Would you let me look at it again, Mr Bideawhile?' Then the letterwhich had been very often inspected during the last ten days washanded to Mr Squercum. 'It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he nevercould have written had he tried it ever so. '

'Perhaps not, Mr Squercum. We are not generally on the look out forforgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons. '

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But then Mr Longestaffe had already told youthat his son would not sign the letter. '

'How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that willchange his purpose?'

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But you see, after such a declaration as thaton the part of my client's father, the letter, --which is in itself alittle irregular perhaps--'

'I don't know that it's irregular at all. '

'Well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll justsay that. What Mr Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up histitle-deeds without getting anything for them--'

'Excuse me, Mr Squercum, but that's between Mr Longestaffe and us. '

'Just so;--but as Mr Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client'sproperty it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'dhave made a few remarks yourself, Mr Bideawhile, if the case had beenreversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know. 'To this Mr Bideawhile said not a word. 'And I think I understand younow that you do not intend to insist on the signature as beinggenuine. '

'I say nothing about it, Mr Squercum. I think you'll find it very hardto prove that it's not genuine. '

'My client's oath, Mr Bideawhile. '

'I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does. '

'I don't know what you mean by that, Mr Bideawhile. I fancy that if Iwere to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry withme. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman saythat he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such afreak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed itand sent it off? If I understand, Mr Longestaffe says that he lockedthe letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, bealleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he brokeopen the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at itwhichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr Bideawhile. '

'I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground forsupposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can sayanything more. '

'Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together inthis matter. '

'I won't admit even that, Mr Squercum. '

'The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardisedhis own interests and those of my client, while my client has not beenin fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the LordMayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for aninvestigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you willbe served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court. '

'If so you may be sure that we shall produce it. ' Then Mr Squercumtook his leave and went straight away to Mr Bumby, a barrister wellknown in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by MrSquercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr Bumby on thematter more than once. Mr Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it mightnot be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. MrBumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly'sshare of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr Squercumsuggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine salehaving been made. Mr Bumby shook his head. 'Title-deeds givepossession, Mr Squercum. You don't suppose that the company which haslent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. Takethe bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll getout of the property. There must be assets. '

'Every rap will have been made over, ' said Mr Squercum. 

This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offeredhis full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the followingWednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house inBruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had beenabstracted. There were Mr Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, andMelmotte and Mr Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Directapplication for permission to have this meeting in this place had beenformally made to Mr Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting tookplace at eleven o'clock--a terribly early hour. Dolly had at firsthesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of twoenemies, and Mr Squercum had told him that as the matter wouldprobably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meethis father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, atgreat personal inconvenience to himself. 'By George, it's hardly worthhaving if one is to take all this trouble about it, ' Dolly had said toLord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel withNidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither MrLongestaffe nor Mr Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even thetable, in which the letter had been deposited. 

'Now, Mr Longestaffe, ' said Mr Bideawhile, 'perhaps you will show uswhere you think you put the letter. '

'I don't think at all, ' said he. 'Since the matter has been discussedthe whole thing has come back upon my memory. '

'I never signed it, ' said Dolly, standing with his hands in hispockets and interrupting his father. 

'Nobody says you did, sir, ' rejoined the father with an angry voice. 'If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth. '

'But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr Bideawhilesays so. '

'No, Mr Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said thatwe had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. Wehave never gone beyond that. '

'Nothing on earth would have made me sign it, ' said Dolly. 'Why shouldI have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard sucha thing in my life. '

The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying asto the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. 'Now, Mr Longestaffe, 'continued the lawyer, 'let us see where you put the letter. '

Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer, --the second drawer from the top, and took from it abundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed, 'There, ' said he, 'the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, andthe two were the two first documents in the bundle. ' He went on to saythat as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He wasquite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was veryparticular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered thatabout this time Mr Melmotte had been in the room with him when he hadopened it, and, --as he was certain, --had locked it again. At thatspecial time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between himand Melmotte. It was then that Mr Melmotte had offered him a seat atthe Board of the Mexican railway. 

'Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter, ' said Dolly. 'It's as plain as a pikestaff. It's clear enough to hang any man. '

'I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and justmay be the suspicion induced, ' said the lawyer. 'Your father for atime was not quite certain about the letter. '

'He thought that I had signed it, ' said Dolly. 

'I am quite certain now, ' rejoined the father angrily. 'A man has tocollect his memory before he can be sure of anything. '

'I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury. '

'What I want to know is how are we to get the money, ' said Dolly. 'Ishould like to see him hung of, --course; but I'd sooner have the money. Squercum says--'

'Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr Squercum says. '

'I don't know why what Mr Squercum says shouldn't be as good as whatMr Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound veryaristocratic. '

'Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt, ' said the lawyer laughing. 

'No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lowerthan Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. Itwas Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and ifit wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do atpresent. ' Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. Hebelieved, probably without much reason, that all his family troublescame to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have lefthis affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would nothave made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And thesound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummedand hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head andfrowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at hisdispleasure. 'There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose, 'said Dolly putting on his hat. 

'Nothing more, ' said Mr Bideawhile. 'It may be that I shall have toinstruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in thepresence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak sopositively, Mr Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?'

'There is no doubt. '

'And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stopa moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violencehaving been used. ' So saying Mr Bideawhile knelt down in front of thetable and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully andsatisfied himself that there was 'no sign of violence. ' 'Whoever hasdone it, did it very well, ' said Bideawhile. 

'Of course Melmotte did it, ' said Dolly Longestaffe standingimmediately over Bideawhile's shoulder. 

At that moment there was a knock at the door, --a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediatelyenter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked doneso on this occasion Mr Bideawhile would have been found still on hisknees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But theintruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to hisfeet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr Bideawhile moved away from the table, --as he mighthave done had he been picking a lock;--and then Mr Longestaffe bade thestranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and MrMelmotte appeared. 

Now Mr Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It wasknown that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It wasknown also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held inthis room at this special hour, --and he might well have surmised withwhat view. There was now declared hostility between both theLongestaffes and Mr Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all thegentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the wayto meet them on this occasion. 'Gentlemen, ' he said, 'perhaps youthink that I am intruding at the present moment. ' No one said that hedid not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. MrBideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoatpockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled abar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode ofexpressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. 'Ifear that you do think I am intruding, ' said Melmotte, 'but I trustthat what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir, ' hesaid, turning to Mr Longestaffe, and glancing at the still opendrawer, 'that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you willbe more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before. '

'The drawer was locked when I left it, ' said Mr Longestaffe. 'I makeno deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked. '

'Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it. '

'No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw noconclusions, --but I left it locked and I found it open. '

'I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion, ' said Dolly; 'andthat would be that somebody else had opened it. '

'This can answer no purpose at all, ' said Bideawhile. 

'It was but a chance remark, ' said Melmotte. 'I did not come here outof the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabbleabout the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemenwould be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one formeeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business. ' Hepaused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dollyto ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on secondthoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to betaken, and probably for no good. 'Mr Bideawhile, I believe, ' suggestedMelmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. 'If I remember rightly Iwrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients--'

'Squercum is my lawyer, ' said Dolly. 

'That will make no difference. '

'It makes a deal of difference, ' said Dolly. 

'I wrote, ' continued Melmotte, 'offering my bills at three and sixmonths' date. '

'They couldn't be accepted, Mr Melmotte. '

'I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refusedbefore. '

'You must be aware, Mr Melmotte, ' said the lawyer, 'that the sale of aproperty is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which billsare customarily given and taken. The understanding was that moneyshould be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course webecame, --well, I think I may be justified in saying more thansuspicious. It was a most, --most--unusual proceeding. You say you haveanother offer to make, Mr Melmotte. '

'Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whosebusiness 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 beenknown that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truthopenly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment ofsuch a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the timecame at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it wasimpossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against menow. Accusations are made, false as hell, '--Mr Melmotte as he spokeraised his voice and looked round the room 'but which at the presentcrisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if youwill undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in theCity, I will have fifty thousand pounds, --which is the amount due tothese two gentlemen, --ready for payment on Friday at noon. '

'I have taken no proceedings as yet, ' said Bideawhile. 

'It's Squercum, ' says Dolly. 

'Well, sir, ' continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, 'let me assure youthat if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months agothat I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to sucha sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money byFriday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will bedone at a terrible cost. But what Mr Bideawhile says is true. I haveno right to suppose that the purchase of this property should belooked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money shouldhave been paid, --and, if you will now take my word, the money shall bepaid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the LordMayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originatethem, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer. '

Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth theaccuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was atDolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. 'I, onbehalf of my client, ' said Mr Bideawhile, 'will consent to wait tillFriday at noon. '

'I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much, ' said the elderLongestaffe. 

Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, butMelmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorryfor the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though hehad been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or causedit to be forged, --and did not now go so far into the matter as toabandon that conviction, --he had been talked into crediting the reasonsgiven for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief thatthe money would be paid on Friday. Something of the effect whichMelmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they nowalso had on Dolly Longestaffe. 'I'll ask Squercum, you know, ' he said. 

'Of course Mr Squercum will act as you instruct him, ' said Bideawhile. 

'I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more thanthat. And upon my word, Mr Melmotte, you've given me a great deal oftrouble. '

Melmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they threeshould meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the paymentshould then be made, --Dolly stipulating that as his father would beattended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To thisMr Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace. 

CHAPTER LXXVI - HETTA AND HER LOVER

Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son thatshe found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have beenin her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Rogerhad come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any ratewith regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned toSuffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolationturned naturally to Mr Broune, who came to see her for a few minutesalmost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr Broune'slife to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the twopropositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix herresidence in some second-rate French or German town, and that SirFelix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she shouldtake possession of Carbury manor for six months. 'And where would MrCarbury go?' asked Mr Broune. 

'He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. There'sa cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to. ' Mr Brouneshook his head. Mr Broune did not think that an offer so quixoticallygenerous as this should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubtedwhether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrificedemanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to thecolonies. 'That he might drink himself to death, ' said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr Broune. Sir Felix in the meantime wasstill in the doctor's hands upstairs. He had no doubt been veryseverely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing himbeyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present momentbetter satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his roomand to meet the world. 'As to Melmotte, ' said Mr Broune, 'they say nowthat he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who havetrusted him. '

'And the girl?'

'It is impossible to understand it at all. Melmotte was to have beensummoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but itwas postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still meansto marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth about it. Weshall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something. ' The'we' of whom Mr Broune spoke was, of course, the 'Morning BreakfastTable. '

But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thoughtvery much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take somespecial step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written toher from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed herlove to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she wasat that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about MrsHurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mindthat Mrs Hurtle was by no means a fiction, --but indeed a fact veryinjurious to her happiness. Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment, --with not a word in it whichseemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by theexistence of a Mrs Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs Hurtle, the letterwould have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could haveanswered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usualenthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible thatshe should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossiblethat she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to'ask himself;' and she now found herself constrained to bid him eithercome to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, togive her some written account of Mrs Hurtle so that she might know whothe lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any wayinterfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:

'Welbeck Street, 16 July, 18--

'MY DEAR PAUL. ' She found that after that which had passed between themshe could not call him 'My dear Sir, ' or 'My dear Mr Montague, ' andthat it must either be 'Sir' or 'My dear Paul. ' He was dear to her, --very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of anyconduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had therebeen no Mrs Hurtle he would have been her 'Dearest Paul, '--but she madeher choice, and so commenced. 

 MY DEAR PAUL, A strange report has come round to me about a lady called Mrs Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But I fear, --I fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first heard it, --who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell me. He said, --"Ask himself. " And so I ask you. Of course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about this. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter. 

Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration whichmust naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribedherself, Your affectionate friend, HENRIETTA CARBURY. 

'Most affectionately your own Hetta' would have been the form in whichshe would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever writtento him. 

Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on theWednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite awarethat it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of MrsHurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had beenimpossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he hadpleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who isintelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possiblefor him then to have commenced the story of Mrs Hurtle and to havetold it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a secondor third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. WhenPaul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he shouldwrite the story. But there are many reasons strong against suchwritten communications. A man may desire that the woman he lovesshould hear the record of his folly, --so that, in after days, theremay be nothing to detect: so that, should the Mrs Hurtle of his lifeat any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow andundaunted heart say to his beloved one, --'Ah, this is the trouble ofwhich I spoke to you. ' And then he and his beloved one will be in onecause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with awritten record of his folly. And then who does not know how muchtenderness 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 thelady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the MrsHurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through frombeginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with nosweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The softfalsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personalinterview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added todeceit, if sent in a letter. I think therefore that Paul Montague didquite right in hurrying up to London. 

He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was withher mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in thedining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. Theyshould know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could behelped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then, upstairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right tosee him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done itwith her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would notagain accept her lover till this story of Mrs Hurtle had been siftedto the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover had tosay for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room andsuggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister'sbehalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sisterquietly said that she would rather see Mr Montague herself. Felix hadbeen so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, andHetta left the room alone. 

When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in hisarms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and shehad prepared herself for it. 'Paul, ' she said, 'let me hear about allthis--first. ' She sat down at some distance from him, --and he foundhimself compelled to seat himself at some distance from her. 

'And so you have heard of Mrs Hurtle, ' he said, with a faint attemptat a smile. 

'Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her. '

'Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knowsthe whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't thinkyour brother is as well informed. '

'Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?'

'Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you. '

'I will believe anything that you will tell me. '

'If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. I was engaged to marry Mrs Hurtle. '

'Is she a widow?'--He did not answer this at once. 'I suppose she mustbe a widow if you were going to marry her. '

'Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced. '

'Oh, Paul! And she is an American?'

'Yes. '

'And you loved her?'

Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to beinterrogated. 'If you will allow me I will tell it you all frombeginning to end. '

'Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry heryou must have loved her. ' There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and atone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy. 

'Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all. ' Then he did tellhis story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. Hetta listened with fair attention, --not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke werebitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across theAmerican continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paulhad promised to make this woman his wife. 'Had she been divorcedthen?' asked Hetta, --'because I believe they get themselves divorcedjust when they like. ' Simple as the question was he could not answerit. 'I could only know what she told me, ' he said, as he went on withhis story. Then Mrs Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as hereached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. 'Did you give herup then?' demanded Hetta with stern severity. No;--not then. He hadgone back to San Francisco, and, --he had not intended to say that theengagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that ithad not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his secondreturn to England, --and then she had appeared in London at Mrs Pipkin'slodgings in Islington. 'I can hardly tell you how terrible that was tome, ' he said, 'for I had by that time become quite aware that myhappiness must depend upon you. ' He tried the gentle, soft falsehoodsthat should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. Itis odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breakingwith love. Hetta was very stern. 

'But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft, --quite the other day. '

Montague had intended to tell all, --almost all. There was a somethingabout the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to makeHetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. 'It wason account of her health. '

'Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?'

'I did. '

'Was that for her health?'

'Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand thatwhen she came here, following me, I could not desert her?'

'I cannot understand why you deserted her at all, ' said Hetta. 'Yousay you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid tome to marry a divorced woman, --a woman who just says that she wasdivorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And Iam sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, anddown to Lowestoft, --for her health. That was only a week ago. '

'It was nearly three weeks, ' said Paul in despair. 

'Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for agentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged toher, not three weeks ago. '

'No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then. '

'I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you. '

'She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard toexplain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you. '

'But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crushall her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of herbecause she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is anengagement. You had better go back to Mrs Hurtle and tell her that youare quite ready to keep your promise. '

'She knows now that it is all over. '

'I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. Whenshe came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when sheasked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because ofher health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waitinghere, --no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend, --veryold, --and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs Hurtle. ' Allthis she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness. 

'You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel withme!'

'I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married Mrs Hurtle. '

'Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her. '

'Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me thisstory I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when, --hewould not tell it for he was too kind, --but when he would not contradictit. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to mejust at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr Montague, nearlythree weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn'thave been much above a week before you came to me. '

'What does it matter?'

'Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now, MrMontague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes itso much easier. '

'Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?'

'I don't want you to throw Mrs Hurtle over. Good bye. '

'Hetta!'

'No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, MrMontague. ' And so she left him. 

Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. Hehad never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair ofMrs Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she couldonly really know it all, there could be no such result. He had beentrue to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, neverswerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved somewoman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs Hurtle inLondon, --which he would have given half his possessions to haveprevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see her?Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No doubthe had behaved badly to Mrs Hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had neverbehaved badly to her. 

He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that hecould do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled withRoger Carbury. For her sake, --in order that he might be effectuallyfree from Mrs Hurtle, --he had determined to endure the spring of thewild cat. For her sake, --so he told himself, --he had been content toabide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possiblepreserve an income on which to support her. And now she told him thatthey must part, --and that only because he had not been cruellyindifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him fromAmerica. There was no logic in it, no reason, --and, as he thought, verylittle heart. 'I don't want you to throw Mrs Hurtle over, ' she hadsaid. Why should Mrs Hurtle be anything to her? Surely she might haveleft Mrs Hurtle to fight her own battles. But they were all againsthim. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of itwould be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost oldenough to be her father! She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his ownfor her. True love always forgives. And here there was really so verylittle to forgive! Such were his thoughts as he went to bed thatnight. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would haveforgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living'nearly three weeks ago' in close intercourse with another lover ofwhom he had hitherto never even heard the name. But then, --as all theworld knows, --there is a wide difference between young men and youngwomen!

Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to herown room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxiousear had heard the closing of the front door. 'Well; what has he said?'asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears, --or very nigh to tears, --struggling to repress them, and struggling almost successfully. 'Youhave found that what we told you about that woman was all true. '

'Enough of it was true, ' said Hetta, who, angry as she was with herlover, was not on that account less angry with her mother fordisturbing her bliss. 

'What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to meopenly?'

'I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak moreopenly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He islike other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with someabominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that hehas nothing to do but to say so, --and to begin with somebody else. '

'Roger Carbury is very different. '

'Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems tome that you do not understand in the least. '

'I say he is not like that. '

'Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least likethat. '

'I say that he can be trusted. '

'Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?'

'And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no causefor any alarm. '

'Mamma, ' said Hetta jumping up, 'how can you talk to me in that way?As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh, mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me tobe more to Roger Carbury than I am now. '

'You have told Mr Montague that he is not to come here again?'

'I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean. '

'That it is all over?' Hetta made no reply. 'Hetta, I have a right toask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that youhave hitherto behaved badly about Mr Montague. '

'I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have donenothing that I am ashamed of. '

'But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has comehere to you, --with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--'

'I deny that, ' exclaimed Hetta. 

'And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says thatshe is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him thatyou will see him no more?'

'He understood that. '

'If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him. '

'Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly. 'Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and lefther daughter to her solitude. 

CHAPTER LXXVII - ANOTHER SCENE IN BRUTON STREET

When Mr Melmotte made his promise to Mr Longestaffe and to Dolly, inthe 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 thePickering property, he intended to be as good as his word. The readerknows that he had resolved to face the Longestaffe difficulty, --thathe had resolved that at any rate he would not get out of it bysacrificing the property to which he had looked forward as a safehaven when storms should come. But, day by day, every resolution thathe made was forced to undergo some change. Latterly he had been intenton purchasing a noble son-in-law with this money, --still trusting tothe chapter of chances for his future escape from the Longestaffe andother difficulties. But Squercum had been very hard upon him; and inconnexion with this accusation as to the Pickering property, there wasanother, which he would be forced to face also, respecting certainproperty in the East of London, with which the reader need not muchtrouble himself specially, but in reference to which it was statedthat he had induced a foolish old gentleman to consent to acceptrailway shares in lieu of money. The old gentleman had died during thetransaction, and it was asserted that the old gentleman's letter washardly genuine. Melmotte had certainly raised between twenty andthirty thousand pounds on the property, and had made payment for it instock which was now worth--almost nothing at all. Melmotte thought thathe might face this matter successfully if the matter came upon himsingle-handed;--but in regard to the Longestaffes he considered thatnow, at this last moment, he had better pay for Pickering. 

The property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds wasreally his own. There could be no doubt about that. It had never beenhis intention to make it over to his daughter. When he had placed itin her name, he had done so simply for security, --feeling that hiscontrol over his only daughter would be perfect and free from danger. No girl apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud herfather could have crept quietly about a father's house. Nor did he nowthink that she would disobey him when the matter was explained to her. Heavens and earth! That he should be robbed by his own child, --robbedopenly, shamefully, with brazen audacity! It was impossible. But stillhe had felt the necessity of going about this business with somelittle care. It might be that she would disobey him if he simply sentfor her and bade her to affix her signature here and there. He thoughtmuch about it and considered that it would be wise that his wifeshould be present on the occasion, and that a full explanation shouldbe given to Marie, by which she might be made to understand that themoney had in no sense become her own. So he gave instructions to hiswife when he started into the city that morning; and when he returned, for the sake of making his offer to the Longestaffes, he brought withhim the deeds which it would be necessary that Marie should sign, andhe brought also Mr Croll, his clerk, that Mr Croll might witness thesignature. 

When he left the Longestaffes and Mr Bideawhile he went at once to hiswife's room. 'Is she here?' he asked. 

'I will send for her. I have told her. '

'You haven't frightened her?'

'Why should I frighten her? It is not very easy to frighten her, Melmotte. She is changed since these young men have been so much abouther. '

'I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her. Bid her comenow. ' This was said in French. Then Madame Melmotte left the room, andMelmotte arranged a lot of papers in order upon a table. Having doneso, he called to Croll, who was standing on the landing-place, andtold him to seat himself in the back drawing-room till he should becalled. Melmotte then stood with his back to the fireplace in hiswife's sitting-room, with his hands in his pockets, contemplating whatmight be the incidents of the coming interview. He would be verygracious, --affectionate if it were possible, --and, above all things, explanatory. But, by heavens, if there were continued opposition tohis demand, --to his just demand, --if this girl should dare to insistupon exercising her power to rob him, he would not then be affectionatenor gracious! There was some little delay in the coming of the twowomen, and he was already beginning to lose his temper when Mariefollowed Madame Melmotte into the room. He at once swallowed his risinganger with an effort. He would put a constraint upon himself Theaffection and the graciousness should be all there, --as long as theymight secure the purpose in hand. 

'Marie, ' he began, 'I spoke to you the other day about some propertywhich for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we wereleaving Paris. '

'Yes, papa. '

'You were such a child then, --I mean when we left Paris, --that I couldhardly explain to you the purpose of what I did. '

'I understood it, papa. '

'You had better listen to me, my dear. I don't think you did quiteunderstand it. It would have been very odd if you had, as I neverexplained it to you. '

'You wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble. '

This was so true that Melmotte did not know how at the moment tocontradict the assertion. And yet he had not intended to talk of thepossibility of trouble. 'I wanted to lay aside a large sum of moneywhich should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercialenterprise. '

'So that nobody could get at it. '

'You are a little too quick, my dear. '

'Marie, why can't you let your papa speak?' said Madame Melmotte. 

'But of course, my dear, ' continued Melmotte, 'I had no idea ofputting the money beyond my own reach. Such a transaction is verycommon; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some onewho is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he canput full confidence. And it is customary to choose a young person, asthere will then be less danger of the accident of death. It was forthese reasons, which I am sure that you will understand, that I choseyou. Of course the property remained exclusively my own. '

'But it is really mine, ' said Marie. 

'No, miss; it was never yours, ' said Melmotte, almost bursting outinto anger, but restraining himself. 'How could it become yours, Marie? Did I ever make you a gift of it?'

'But I know that it did become mine, --legally. '

'By a quibble of law, --yes; but not so as to give you any right to it. I always draw the income. '

'But I could stop that, papa, --and if I were married, of course itwould be stopped. '

Then, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred toMelmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child ofhis might be stiff-necked. 'As we are thinking of your marriage, ' hesaid, 'it is necessary that a change should be made. Settlements mustbe drawn for the satisfaction of Lord Nidderdale and his father. Theold Marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendidthat I have consented. You must now sign these papers in four or fiveplaces. Mr Croll is here, in the next room, to witness your signature, and I will call him. '

'Wait a moment, papa. '

'Why should we wait?'

'I don't think I will sign them. '

'Why not sign them? You can't really suppose that the property is yourown. You could not even get it if you did think so. '

'I don't know how that may be; but I had rather not sign them. If I amto be married, I ought not to sign anything except what he tells me. '

'He has no authority over you yet. I have authority over you. Marie, do not give more trouble. I am very much pressed for time. Let me callin Mr Croll. '

'No, papa, ' she said. 

Then came across his brow that look which had probably first inducedMarie to declare that she would endure to be 'cut to pieces, ' ratherthan to yield in this or that direction. The lower jaw squared itselfand the teeth became set, and the nostrils of his nose becameextended, --and Marie began to prepare herself to be 'cut to pieces. 'But he reminded himself that there was another game which he hadproposed to play before he resorted to anger and violence. He wouldtell her how much depended on her compliance. Therefore he relaxed thefrown, --as well as he knew how, and softened his face towards her, andturned again to his work. 'I am sure, Marie, that you will not refuseto do this when I explain to you its importance to me. I must have thatproperty for use in the city to-morrow, or--I shall be ruined. ' Thestatement was very short, but the manner in which he made it was notwithout effect. 

'Oh!' shrieked his wife. 

'It is true. These harpies have so beset me about the election thatthey have lowered the price of every stock in which I am concerned, and have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they cannot be soldat all. I don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but onthis occasion I cannot help it. The sum locked up here is very large, and I am compelled to use it. In point of fact it is necessary to saveus from destruction. ' This he said, very slowly, and with the utmostsolemnity. 

'But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to bemarried, ' rejoined Marie. 

A liar has many points to his favour, --but he has this against him, that unless he devote more time to the management of his lies than lifewill generally allow, he cannot make them tally. Melmotte was thrownback for a moment, and almost felt that the time for violence hadcome. He longed to be at her that he might shake the wickedness, andthe folly, and the ingratitude out of her. But he once morecondescended to argue and to explain. 'I think you misunderstood me, Marie. I meant you to understand that settlements must be made, andthat of course I must get my own property back into my own handsbefore anything of that kind can be done. I tell you once more, mydear, that if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use thatproperty the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. Everything willbe gone. '

'This can't be gone, ' said Marie, nodding her head at the papers. 

'Marie, --do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined? I have done agreat deal for you. '

'You turned away the only person I ever cared for, ' said Marie. 

'Marie, how can you be so wicked? Do as your papa bids you, ' saidMadame Melmotte. 

'No!' said Melmotte. 'She does not care who is ruined, because we savedher from that reprobate. '

'She will sign them now, ' said Madame Melmotte. 

'No;--I will not sign them, ' said Marie. 'If I am to be married to LordNidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing withouttelling him. And if the property was once made to be mine, I don'tthink I ought to give it up again because papa says that he is goingto be ruined. I think that's a reason for not giving it up again. '

'It isn't yours to give. It's mine, ' said Melmotte gnashing his teeth. 

'Then you can do what you like with it without my signing, ' saidMarie. 

He paused a moment, and then laying his hand gently upon her shoulder, he asked her yet once again. His voice was changed, and was veryhoarse. But he still tried to be gentle with her. 'Marie, ' he said, 'will you do this to save your father from destruction?'

But she did not believe a word that he said to her. How could shebelieve him? 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 forhis own advantage, and never allowing her for a moment to suppose thataught that he did was to be done for her happiness. And now, almost ina breath, he had told her that this money was wanted that it might besettled on her and the man to whom she was to be married, and thenthat it might be used to save him from instant ruin. She believedneither one story nor the other. That she should have done as she wasdesired in this matter can hardly be disputed. The father had used hername because he thought that he could trust her. She was his daughterand should not have betrayed his trust. But she had steeled herself toobstinacy against him in all things. Even yet, after all that hadpassed, although she had consented to marry Lord Nidderdale, thoughshe had been forced by what she had learned to despise Sir FelixCarbury, there was present to her an idea that she might escape withthe man she really loved. But any such hope could depend only on thepossession of the money which she now claimed as her own. Melmotte hadendeavoured to throw a certain supplicatory pathos into the questionhe had asked her; but, though he was in some degree successful withhis voice, his eyes and his mouth and his forehead still threatenedher. He was always threatening her. All her thoughts respecting himreverted to that inward assertion that he might 'cut her to pieces' ifhe liked. He repeated his question in the pathetic strain. 'Will youdo this now, --to save us all from ruin?' But his eyes still threatenedher. 

'No;' she said, looking up into his face as though watching for thepersonal attack which would be made upon her; 'no, I won't. '

'Marie!' exclaimed Madame Melmotte. 

She glanced round for a moment at her pseudo-mother with contempt. 'No;' she said. 'I don't think I ought, --and I won't. '

'You won't!' shouted Melmotte. She merely shook her head. 'Do you meanthat you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at themoment you can destroy him by your wickedness?' She shook her head butsaid no other word. 

 'Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet. '

 'Let not Medea with unnatural rage Slaughter her mangled infants on the stage. '

Nor will I attempt to harrow my readers by a close description of thescene which followed. Poor Marie. That cutting her up into pieces wascommenced after a most savage fashion. Marie crouching down hardlyuttered a sound. But Madame Melmotte frightened beyond endurancescreamed at the top of her voice, --'Ah, Melmotte, tu la tueras!' Andthen she tried to drag him from his prey. 'Will you sign them now?'said Melmotte, panting. At that moment Croll, frightened by thescreams, burst into the room. It was perhaps not the first time thathe had interfered to save Melmotte from the effects of his own wrath. 

'Oh, Mr Melmotte, vat is de matter?' asked the clerk. Melmotte was outof breath and could hardly tell his story. Marie gradually recoveredherself; and crouched, cowering, in the corner of a sofa, by no meansvanquished in spirit, but with a feeling that the very life had beencrushed out of her body. Madame Melmotte was standing weepingcopiously, with her handkerchief up to her eyes. 'Will you sign thepapers?' Melmotte demanded. Marie, lying as she was, all in a heap, merely shook her head. 'Pig!' said Melmotte, --'wicked, ungratefulpig. '

'Ah, Ma'am-moiselle, ' said Croll, 'you should oblige your fader. '

'Wretched, wicked girl' said Melmotte, collecting the papers together. Then he left the room, and followed by Croll descended to the study, whence the Longestaffes and Mr Bideawhile had long since taken theirdeparture. 

Madame Melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some minutesspoke never a word. Marie lay on the sofa, all in a heap, with herhair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing hard, bututtering no sobs and shedding no tears. The stepmother, --if she mightso be called, --did not think of attempting to persuade where herhusband had failed. She feared Melmotte so thoroughly, and was so timidin regard to her own person, that she could not understand the girl'scourage. Melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as Satan, --whomshe never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived him, and wasconstantly detected in her deceptions. Marie seemed to her to have allher father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much of his power. Atthe present moment she did not dare to tell the girl that she had beenwrong. But she had believed her husband when he had said thatdestruction was coming, and had partly believed him when he declaredthat the destruction might be averted by Marie's obedience. Her lifehad been passed in almost daily fear of destruction. To Marie the lasttwo years of splendour had been so long that they had produced afeeling of security. But to the elder woman the two years had notsufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and neverfor a moment had she felt herself to be secure. At last she asked thegirl what she would like to have done for her. 'I wish he had killedme, ' Marie said, slowly dragging herself up from the sofa, andretreating without another word to her own room. 

In the meantime another scene was being acted in the room below. Melmotte after he reached the room, --hardly made a reference to hisdaughter merely saying that nothing would overcome her wickedobstinacy. He made no allusion to his own violence, nor had Croll thecourage to expostulate with him now that the immediate danger wasover. The Great Financier again arranged the papers, just as they hadbeen laid out before, --as though he thought that the girl might bebrought down to sign them there. And then he went on to explain toCroll what he had wanted to have done, --how necessary it was that thething should be done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that insuch a crisis of his life he should be hampered, impeded, --he did notventure to his clerk to say ruined, --by the ill-conditioned obstinacyof a girl! He explained very fully how absolutely the property was hisown, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it fromhim! How monstrous in its injustice was the present position ofthings! In all this Croll fully agreed. Then Melmotte went on todeclare that he would not feel the slightest scruple in writingMarie's signature to the papers himself. He was the girl's father andwas justified in acting for her. The property was his own property, and he was justified in doing with it as he pleased. Of course hewould have no scruple in writing his daughter's name. Then he lookedup at the clerk. The clerk again assented, --after a fashion, not by anymeans with the comfortable certainty with which he had signified hisaccordance with his employer's first propositions. But he did not, atany rate, hint any disapprobation of the step which Melmotte proposedto take. Then Melmotte went a step farther, and explained that theonly difficulty in reference to such a transaction would be that thesignature of his daughter would be required to be corroborated by thatof a witness before he could use it. Then he again looked up atCroll;--but on this occasion Croll did not move a muscle of his face. There certainly was no assent. Melmotte continued to look at him; butthen came upon the old clerk's countenance a stern look which amountedto very strong dissent. And yet Croll had been conversant with someirregular doings in his time, and Melmotte knew well the extent ofCroll's experience. Then Melmotte made a little remark to himself. 'Heknows that the game is pretty well over. ' 'You had better return tothe city now, ' he said aloud. 'I shall follow you in half an hour. Itis quite possible that I may bring my daughter with me. If I can makeher understand this thing I shall do so. In that case I shall want youto be ready. ' Croll again smiled, and again assented, and went hisway. 

But Melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter. As soon asCroll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk anddrawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter and ofthis German clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin tissuepaper. He commenced his present operation by bolting his door andpulling down the blinds. He practised the two signatures for the bestpart of an hour. Then he forged them on the various documents;--and, having completed the operation, refolded them, placed them in a lockedbag of which he had always kept the key in his purse, and then, withthe bag in his hand, was taken in his brougham into the city. 

CHAPTER LXXVIII - MISS LONGESTAFFE AGAIN AT CAVERSHAM

All this time Mr Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London whilethe three ladies of his family were living forlornly at Caversham. He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit toLady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of hersuggested marriage with Mr Brehgert as a thing utterly out of thequestion. Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence atthe Jermyn Street Hotel. 'Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard, ' shesaid. 

'What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bearthem. '

'You can do nothing for me. '

'Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes towear, and a carriage to go about in, --and books to read if you chooseto read them? What do you expect?'

'You know, papa, that's nonsense. '

'How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?'

'Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what'sto be the end of it? Sophia, I suppose, is going to be married. '

'I am happy to say she is, --to a most respectable young man and athorough gentleman. '

'And Dolly has his own way of going on. '

'You have nothing to do with Adolphus. '

'Nor will he have anything to do with me. If I don't marry what's tobecome of me? It isn't that Mr Brehgert is the sort of man I shouldchoose. '

'Do not mention his name to me. '

'But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I tosee people? It was you sent me to Mr Melmotte. '

'I didn't send you to Mr Melmotte. '

'It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I couldonly see the people he had there. I like nice people as well asanybody. '

'There's no use talking any more about it. '

'I don't see that. I must talk about it, and think about it too. If Ican put up with Mr Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma shouldcomplain. '

'A Jew!'

'People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a veryfine income, and I should always have a house in--'

Then Mr Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped herfor that time. 'Look here, ' he said, 'if you mean to tell me that youwill marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But youshall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of myhouse, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presenceagain. It is disgusting, degrading, --disgraceful!' And then he lefther. 

On the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see MrBrehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had shethe courage to ask him. The objectionable name was not mentioned againin her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between herself, Lady Pomona, and her sister. When Mr Longestaffe and his youngerdaughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the hall tomeet her child, --from whom she had that morning received the dreadfultidings about the Jew. As to these tidings she had as yet heard nodirect condemnation from her husband. The effect upon Lady Pomona hadbeen more grievous even than that made upon the father. Mr Longestaffehad been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage wasout of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed, andcould take upon himself to see the Jew with the object of breaking offthe engagement. But poor Lady Pomona was helpless in her sorrow. IfGeorgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not help it. Butsuch an occurrence in the family would, she felt, be to her as thoughthe end of all things had come. She could never again hold up herhead, never go into society, never take pleasure in her powderedfootmen. When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't thinkthat she could pluck up the courage to look even her neighbours MrsYeld and Mrs Hepworth in the face. Georgiana found no one in the hallto meet her, and dreaded to go to her mother. She first went with hermaid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. As shesat pretending to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regainher courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Why, at any rate, should she be afraid of other females? Had she not always beendominant over her mother and sister? 'Oh, Georgey, ' said Sophia, 'thisis wonderful news!'

'I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to bemarried except yourself. '

'No;--but such a very odd match!'

'Look here, Sophia. If you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don'tlike to come to us, you needn't. That's about all. '

'George wouldn't let me go there at all, ' said Sophia. 

'Then--George--had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma?I should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a wordto me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like this. '

'Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up in her own room. You mustn't besurprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up aboutthis. ' Then Georgiana understood that she must be content to stand allalone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up MrBrehgert. 

'So I've come back, ' said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing hermother. 

'Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!' said Lady Pomona, slowly raisingherself and covering her face with one of her hands. 'This isdreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it fromyou. '

'What is the good of all that, mamma?'

'It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worsethan your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bibleagainst it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be goingto do this. '

'Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing, --and she goeseverywhere. '

'What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he'sfixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think ofthat, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise. '

'Mamma, that's nonsense. '

'Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybodyis. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they havebeen able to sit in Parliament. '

'One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew, ' said Georgiana, whohad already learned to fortify her own case. 

'Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but whatthey are. I'm sure that Mr Whitstable, who is to be yourbrother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him. '

Now if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised fromher youth upwards it was George Whitstable. He had been alaughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded as alout when he left school, and had been her common example of ruraldullness since he had become a man. He certainly was neither beautifulnor bright;--but he was a Conservative squire born of Tory parents. Nor was he rich;--having but a moderate income, sufficient to maintaina moderate country house and no more. When first there came indicationsthat Sophia intended to put up with George Whitstable, the moreambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her scorn. And now shewas told that George Whitstable would not speak to her future husband!She was not to marry Mr Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, amongothers, upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured. 

'Then Mr Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and nottrouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan'ttrouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think aboutme. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about themoon. '

'He has always been in county society, ' said Sophia, 'and was stayingonly the other day at Lord Cantab's. '

'Then there were two fools together, ' said Georgiana, who at thismoment was very unhappy. 

'Mr Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will makeyour sister happy; but as for Mr Brehgert, --I can't bear to have hisname mentioned in my hearing. '

'Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't bementioned again by me. ' Having so spoken, Georgiana bounced out of theroom and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came downinto the drawing-room before dinner. 

Her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to herfeelings. She presumed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert, but didnot in the least know what had passed between them. It might be thather father had been so decided in his objection as to induce MrBrehgert to abandon his intention, --and if this were so, there could beno reason why she should endure the misery of having the Jew thrown inher face. Among them all they had made her think that she would neverbecome Mrs Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail hercolours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almostsick of the thing herself. But she could not back out of it so as toobliterate all traces of the disgrace. Even if she should notultimately marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been engagedto a Jew, --and then it would certainly be said afterwards that theJew had jilted her. She was thus vacillating in her mind, not knowingwhether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening LadyPomona retired immediately after dinner, being 'far from well. ' It wasof course known to them all that Mr Brehgert was her ailment. She wasaccompanied by her elder daughter, and Georgiana was left with herfather. Not a word was spoken between them. He sat behind hisnewspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone anddeserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servantstreated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice. It was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise heraltogether. Of what service would it be to her that Lady JuliaGoldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to beleft without a single Christian friend? Would a life passedexclusively among the Jews content even her lessened ambition? At teno'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. Her fathergrunted less audibly than usual under the operation. She had alwaysgiven herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that hercourage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such asthese. 

On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies wereleft alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstablewedding. Dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultationsheld, --from all which things Georgiana was kept quite apart. Theaccepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as thoughthe Whitstables had always kept a town house. Sophy loomed so large inher triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. All Cavershamtreated her with a new respect. And yet if Toodlam was a couple ofthousand a year, it was all it was:--and there were two unmarriedsisters! Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw heryounger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive parent. Oh, heavens;--was Mr Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feelingof intense regret for the things she was losing came over her. EvenCaversham, the Caversham of old days which she had hated, but in whichshe had made herself respected and partly feared by everybody aboutthe place, --had charms for her which seemed to her delightful now thatthey were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to bethe first personage in the house, --superior even to her father;--butnow she was decidedly the last. 

Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr Longestaffewas not at home the family sat in a small dingy room between thelibrary and the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consistedonly of Georgiana. In the course of the evening she went upstairs andcalling her sister out into the passage demanded to be told why shewas thus deserted. 'Poor mamma is very ill, ' said Sophy. 

'I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this, ' said Georgiana. 'I'll go away somewhere. '

'How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing. Of course you musthave known that you were going to separate yourself from us. '

On the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr Longestaffe, --ofwhat nature Georgey did not know as it was addressed to Lady Pomona. But one enclosure she was allowed to see. 'Mamma, ' said Sophy, 'thinksyou ought to know how Dolly feels about it. ' And then a letter fromDolly to his father was put into Georgey's hands. The letter was asfollows:--

 MY DEAR FATHER, --

 Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up. 

 Yours affectionately, A. LONGESTAFFE. 

Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice or instruction, such as should come froma father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. This letter hadnot been received with a welcome. Nevertheless the head of the familyhad thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it toCaversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter. 

And so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! She'd like tosee somebody do it! As soon as she had read her brother's epistle shetore it into fragments and threw it away in her sister's presence. 'How can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what Dollysays? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought itworth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after thatI must say that I don't much care what papa does. '

'I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybodyelse, ' said Sophy. 

'As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they areabout the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world. '

'Of course we all know, Georgiana, ' rejoined the elder sister, 'thatfor cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercialclasses, and especially among a certain sort. '

'I've done with you all, ' said Georgey, rushing out of the room. 'I'llhave nothing more to do with any one of you. '

But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with herfamily! A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or comeand claim his property after twenty years. A young man may demand anallowance, and has almost a right to live alone. The young male birdis supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. But the daughter of ahouse is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get ahusband. The only way in which Georgey could 'have done' with them allat Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr Brehgert, and at thepresent moment she did not know whether Mr Brehgert did or did notconsider himself as engaged to her. 

That day also passed away with ineffable tedium. At one time she wasso beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to hersister in reference to the wedding garments. In spite of the verybitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would have doneso had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy washeartlessly cruel in her indifference. In her younger days she had hadher bad things, and now, --with George Whitstable by her side, --shemeant to have good things, the goodness of which was infinitelyenhanced by the badness of her sister's things. She had been so greatlydespised that the charm of despising again was irresistible. And shewas able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by telling herselfthat duty required her to show implacable resistance to such a marriageas this which her sister contemplated. Therefore Georgiana dragged outanother day, not in the least knowing what was to be her fate. 

CHAPTER LXXIX - THE BREHGERT CORRESPONDENCE

Mr Longestaffe had brought his daughter down to Caversham on aWednesday. During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a very sadtime, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry MrBrehgert. Her father had declared to her that he would break off thematch, and she believed that he had seen Mr Brehgert with thatpurpose. She had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted toany one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield. But shefelt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to herpurpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return toLondon with a feeling that she might still be controlled. She wasbeginning to be angry with Mr Brehgert, thinking that he had taken hisdismissal from her father without consulting her. It was necessarythat something should be settled, something known. Life such as shewas leading now would drive her mad. She had all the disadvantages ofthe Brehgert connection and none of the advantages. She could notcomfort herself with thinking of the Brehgert wealth and the Brehgerthouses, and yet she was living under the general ban of Caversham onaccount of her Brehgert associations. She was beginning to think thatshe herself must write to Mr Brehgert, --only she did not know what tosay to him. 

But on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr Brehgert. It washanded to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her sister, --whoat that moment was triumphant with a present of gooseberries whichhad been sent over from Toodlam. The Toodlam gooseberries were notedthroughout Suffolk, and when the letters were being brought in Sophiawas taking her lover's offering from the basket with her own fairhands. 'Well!' Georgey had exclaimed, 'to send a pottle ofgooseberries to his lady love across the country! Who but GeorgeWhitstable would do that?'

'I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold, ' Sophy retorted. 'Idon't suppose that Mr Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is. ' At thatmoment the letter was brought in, and Georgiana knew the writing. 'Isuppose that's from Mr Brehgert, ' said Sophy. 

'I don't think it matters much to you who it's from. ' She tried to becomposed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow ofcomposure, and she retired to read it in privacy. 

The letter was as follows:--

 MY DEAR GEORGIANA, Your father came to me the day after I was to have met you at Lady Monogram's party. 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;--and also that I thought it better that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to you. 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. 

 The long and short of it is this. He altogether disapproves of your promise to marry me. He has given three reasons;--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. In regard to the first I can hardly think that he is earnest. 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. There would be a blindness of arrogance in such a proposition of which I think your father to be incapable. This has merely been added in to strengthen his other objections. 

 As to my age, it is just fifty-one. I do not at all think myself too old to be married again. Whether I am too old for you is for you to judge, --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. 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. No doubt there are many years between us;--and so I think there should be. A man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman of the same standing as himself. But the question is one for the lady to decide and you must decide it now. 

 As to my religion, I acknowledge the force of what your father says, --though I think that a gentleman brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in language less likely to give offence. However I am a man not easily offended; and on this occasion I am ready to take what he has said in good part. I can easily conceive that there should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in religion. I am indifferent to it myself. I shall not interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, I suppose, will you with me. Should you have a daughter or daughters I am quite willing that they should be brought up subject to your influence. 

There was a plain-speaking in this which made Georgiana look round theroom as though to see whether any one was watching her as she read it. 

 But no doubt your father objects to me specially because I am a Jew. If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on the subject of religion. 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. Fifty years ago, whatever claim a Jew might have to be as well considered as a Christian, he certainly was not so considered. Society was closed against him, except under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high position. But that has been altered. Your father does not admit the change; but I think he is blind to it, because he does not wish to see. 

 I say all this more as defending myself than as combating his views with you. It must be for you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern you. 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. 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. I had not the pleasure of meeting you in his house, nor had I any acquaintance with him. 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. 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. 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. 

 And now, having said so much, I must leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself. 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. 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. 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. Take a day or two to think of this and turn it well over in your mind. 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. 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. You will understand that I do not say this as any reproach to you. Quite the contrary. I think your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that he should be so. 

 As to my own feelings they remain exactly as they were when I endeavoured to explain them to you. Though I do not find myself to be too old to marry, I do think myself too old to write love letters. 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. 

 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. 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. This you must understand is private between you and me, though I have thought it proper to inform your father. 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. I am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to become so. Nor will this loss at all interfere with my present mode of living. But I have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if it occur, --as I think it will, --I shall not deem it right to keep a second establishment probably for the next two or three years. But my house at Fulham and my stables there will be kept up just as they are at present. 

 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. When you have resolved you will let me know but a day or two may probably be necessary for your decision. I hope I need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a happy man. 

 I am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend, EZEKIEL BREHGERT. 

This very long letter puzzled Georgey a good deal, and left her, atthe time of reading it, very much in doubt as to what she would do. She could understand that it was a plain-spoken and truth-tellingletter. Not that she, to herself, gave it praise for those virtues;but that it imbued her unconsciously with a thorough belief. She wasapt to suspect deceit in other people;--but it did not occur to herthat Mr Brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to deceiveher. But the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogetherthrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she read it, thatshe 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. She did not see that the letter wasparticularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be pained by thetotal absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first allusion to herage, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed thatBrehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. She was well awarethat the world in general attributes more years to unmarried womenthan they have lived, as a sort of equalising counter-weight againstthe pretences which young women make on the other side, or the lieswhich are told on their behalf. Nor had she wished to appearpeculiarly young in his eyes. But, nevertheless, she regarded thereference to be uncivil, --perhaps almost butcher-like, --and it had itseffect upon her. And then the allusion to the 'daughter or daughters'troubled her. She told herself that it was vulgar, --just what a butchermight have said. And although she was quite prepared to call herfather the most irrational, the most prejudiced, and most ill-naturedof men, yet she was displeased that Mr Brehgert should take such aliberty with him. But the passage in Mr Brehgert's letter which wasmost distasteful to her was that which told her of the loss which hemight probably incur through his connection with Melmotte. What righthad he to incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping hisengagements with her? The town-house had been the great persuasion, and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that there was to be notown-house for three years. When she read this she felt that she oughtto be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down withoutfurther consideration and tell the man with considerable scorn thatshe would have nothing more to say to him. 

But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would shehave fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her father andmother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she should consentto fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of GeorgeWhitstable! And what would then be left to her in life? This episodeof the Jew would make it quite impossible for her again to contest thequestion of the London house with her father. Lady Pomona and MrsGeorge Whitstable would be united with him against her. There would beno 'season' for her, and she would be nobody at Caversham. As forLondon, she would hardly wish to go there! Everybody would know thestory of the Jew. She thought that she could have plucked up courageto face the world as the Jew's wife, but not as the young woman whohad wanted to marry the Jew and had failed. How would her future lifego with her, should she now make up her mind to retire from theproposed alliance? If she could get her father to take her abroad atonce, she would do it; but she was not now in a condition to make anyterms with her father. As all this gradually passed through her mind, she determined that she would so far take Mr Brehgert's advice as topostpone her answer till she had well considered the matter. 

She slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a fewquestions. 'Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?'

'In what way, my dear?' Lady Pomona's voice was not gracious, as shewas free from that fear of her daughter's ascendancy which hadformerly affected her. 

'Well;--I suppose he must have some plan. '

'You must explain yourself. I don't know why he should have anyparticular plan. '

'Will he go to London next year?'

'That depends upon money, I suppose. What makes you ask?'

'Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced. Everybody must seethat. I'm sure you do, mamma. The long and short of it is this;--if Igive up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a year?'

'Why should he?'

'You can't suppose that I should be very comfortable in England. If weare to remain here at Caversham, how am I to hope ever to getsettled?'

'Sophy is doing very well. '

'Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;--thank God. ' Shehad meant to be humble and supplicating, but she could not restrainherself from the use of that one shaft. 'I don't mean but what Sophymay be very happy, and I am sure that I hope she will. But that won'tdo me any good. I should be very unhappy here. '

'I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by goingabroad, ' said Lady Pomona, 'and I don't see why your papa is to betaken away from his own home. He likes Caversham. '

'Then I am to be sacrificed on every side, ' said Georgey, stalking outof the room. But still she could not make up her mind what letter shewould write to Mr Brehgert, and she slept upon it another night. 

On the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though whenshe sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind what shewould say. But she did get it written, and here it is. 

 Caversham, Monday. 

 MY DEAR MR BREHGERT, As you told me not to hurry, I have taken a little time to think about your letter. Of course it would be very disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and everybody. And if I do do so, I'm sure somebody ought to be very grateful. But papa has been very unfair in what he has said. As to not asking him, it could have been of no good, for of course he would be against it. He thinks a great deal of the Longestaffe family, and so, I suppose, ought I. But the world does change so quick that one doesn't think of anything now as one used to do. Anyway, I don't feel that I'm bound to do what papa tells me just because he says it. Though I'm not quite so old as you seem to think, I'm old enough to judge for myself, --and I mean to do so. You say very little about affection, but I suppose I am to take all that for granted. 

 I don't wonder at papa being annoyed about the loss of the money. It must be a very great sum when it will prevent your having a house in London, --as you agreed. 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. Fulham is all very well now and then, but I don't think I should like to live at Fulham all the year through. You talk of three years, which would be dreadful. If as you say it will not have any lasting effect, could you not manage to have a house in town? If you can do it in three years, I should think you could do it now. I should like to have an answer to this question. I do think so much about being the season in town!

 As for the other parts of your letter, I knew very well beforehand that papa would be unhappy about it. 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. Of course you will write to me again, and I hope you will say something satisfactory about the house in London. 

 Yours always sincerely, GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE. 

It probably never occurred to Georgey that Mr Brehgert would under anycircumstances be anxious to go back from his engagement. She so fullyrecognised her own value as a Christian lady of high birth andposition giving herself to a commercial Jew, that she thought thatunder any circumstances Mr Brehgert would be only too anxious to stickto his bargain. Nor had she any idea that there was anything in herletter which could probably offend him. She thought that she might atany rate make good her claim to the house in London; and that as therewere other difficulties on his side, he would yield to her on thispoint. But as yet she hardly knew Mr Brehgert. He did not lose a dayin sending to her a second letter. He took her letter with him to hisoffice in the city, and there he answered it without a moment's delay. 

 No. 7, St. Cuthbert's Court, London, Tuesday, July 16, 18--. 

 MY DEAR MISS LONGESTAFFE, 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. 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. 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. But this for the present is out of my power. 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. 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. But of course I have no right to ask you to share with me the discomfort of a single home. 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. 

 As you may perhaps under these circumstances be unwilling that I should wear the ring you gave me, I return it by post. 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. 

 Yours sincerely, EZEKIEL BREHGERT. 

And so it was all over! Georgey, when she read this letter, was veryindignant at her lover's conduct. She did not believe that her ownletter had at all been of a nature to warrant it. She had regardedherself 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. And nowthe Jew had rejected her! She read this last letter over and overagain, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart ofhearts she had intended to marry him. There would have beeninconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the sorrowon the other side. Now she saw nothing before her but a long vista ofCaversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by her fatherand mother, and scorned by Mr and Mrs George Whitstable. 

She got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. But whatvengeance was possible to her? Everybody belonging to her would takethe part of the Jew in that which he had now done. She could not askDolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with astern frown of paternal indignation. There could be no revenge. For atime, --only a few seconds, --she thought that she would write to MrBrehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about thistermination of their engagement. This, no doubt, would have been anappeal to the Jew for mercy;--and she could not quite descend to that. But she would keep the watch and chain he had given her, and whichsomebody had told her had not cost less than a hundred and fiftyguineas. She could not wear them, as people would know whence they hadcome; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could wear. 

At lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of theafternoon she thought it best to inform her mother. 'Mamma, ' she said, 'as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken offeverything with Mr Brehgert. '

'Of course it must be broken off, ' said Lady Pomona. This was veryungracious, --so much so that Georgey almost flounced out of the room. 'Have you heard from the man?' asked her ladyship. 

'I have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all settled. I thought that you would have said something kind to me. ' And theunfortunate young woman burst out into tears. 

'It was so dreadful, ' said Lady Pomona;--'so very dreadful. I neverheard of anything so bad. When young what's-his-name married thetallow-chandler's daughter I thought it would have killed me if it hadbeen Dolly; but this was worse than that. Her father was a methodist. '

'They had neither of them a shilling of money, ' said Georgey throughher tears. 

'And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. But it's allover?'

'Yes, mamma. '

'And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget it. It has been very hard upon George Whitstable, because of courseeverybody has known it through the county. I once thought he wouldhave been off, and I really don't know that we could have saidanything. ' At that moment Sophy entered the room. 'It's all overbetween Georgiana and the--man, ' said Lady Pomona, who hardly savedherself from stigmatising him by a further reference to his religion. 

'I knew it would be, ' said Sophia. 

'Of course it could never have really taken place, ' said their mother. 

'And now I beg that nothing more may be said about it, ' saidGeorgiana. 'I suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?'

'You must send him back his watch and chain, Georgey, ' said Sophia. 

'What business is that of yours?'

'Of course she must. Her papa would not let her keep it. '

To such a miserable depth of humility had the younger Miss Longestaffebeen brought by her ill-considered intimacy with the Melmottes!Georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable episode in her life, always attributed her grief to the scandalous breach of compact ofwhich her father had been guilty. 

CHAPTER LXXX - RUBY PREPARES FOR SERVICE

Our poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to durance vileafter his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was locked upfor the remainder of the night. This indignity did not sit so heavilyon his spirits as it might have done on those of a quicker nature. He was aware that he had not killed the baronet, and that he hadtherefore enjoyed his revenge without the necessity of 'swinging forit at Bury. ' That in itself was a comfort to him. Then it was a greatsatisfaction to think that he had 'served the young man out' in theactual presence of his Ruby. He was not prone to give himself unduecredit for his capability and willingness to knock his enemies about;but he did think that Ruby must have observed on this occasion thathe was the better man of the two. And, to John, a night in thestation-house was no great personal inconvenience. Though he wasvery proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very muchfor such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned. Nor did hefeel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. He was verygood-humoured with the policeman, who seemed perfectly to understandhis nature, and was as meek as a child when the lock was turned uponhim. As he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself withthinking 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. Hethought a good deal about Ruby, but never attributed any blame to herfor her share in the evils that had befallen him. 

The next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told atan early hour of the day that he was again free. Sir Felix was notmuch the worse for what had happened to him, and had refused to makeany complaint against the man who had beaten him. John Crumb shookhands cordially with the policeman who had had him in charge, andsuggested beer. The constable, with regrets, was forced to decline, and bade adieu to his late prisoner with the expression of a hope thatthey might meet again before long. 'You come down to Bungay, ' saidJohn, 'and I'll show you how we live there. '

From the police-office he went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house, and atonce asked for Ruby. He was told that Ruby was out with the children, and was advised both by Mrs Pipkin and Mrs Hurtle not to presenthimself before Ruby quite yet. 'You see, ' said Mrs Pipkin, 'she's athinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman. '

'But I wasn't;--not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair thewuss. '

'You let her alone for a time, ' said Mrs Hurtle. 'A little neglectwill do her good. '

'Maybe, ' said John, --'only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'lllet her have her wittles regular, Mrs Pipkin. '

It was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should notextend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving anassurance from Mrs Hurtle that he should be summoned to town as soonas it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes;and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly women that assoon as ever a 'line should be dropped' he would appear again upon thescene, he took Mrs Pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were 'anyhextras, ' he was ready to pay for them. Then he took his leave withoutseeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay. 

When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb hadcalled. 'I thought as he was in prison, ' said Ruby. 

'What should they keep him in prison for?' said Mrs Pipkin. 'He hasn'tdone nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was draggingyou about as far as I can make out, and Mr Crumb just did as anybodyought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't going to keephim in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be inprison. '

'And where is he now, aunt?'

'Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming hereany more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what'sworth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby. '

'John Crumb'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give himencouragement, ' said Ruby. 'If I'd hold up my finger he'd come. '

'Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you goabout your work. ' Ruby didn't like to be told to go about her work, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded theservant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do withherself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to herafter the treatment he had received;--and a further idea that if he didcome he was not, as she phrased it to herself, 'of much account. ' Shecertainly did not like him the better for having been beaten, though, at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. She did notbelieve that she would ever dance with him again. That had been thecharm of her life in London, and that was now all over. And as formarrying her, --she began to feel certain that he did not intend it. John Crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whomRuby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love andJohn Crumb were poles asunder. But--! Ruby did not like wheeling theperambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to goabout her work. What Ruby did like was being in love and dancing; butif all that must come to an end, then there would be a questionwhether she could not do better for herself, than by staying with heraunt and wheeling the perambulator about Islington. 

Mrs Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and havingbut little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to theinterest of John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymenshe had never seen. 'I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in hishead, ' she had said to Mrs Pipkin. Mrs Pipkin had replied that MrCrumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. MrsHurtle had smiled, thinking that Mrs Pipkin was also very unlike herown countrywomen. But she was very kind to Mrs Pipkin, orderingrice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she wasquite determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power. 

In order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs Pipkin intoconfidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to Ruby. MrsPipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan wasaltogether Mrs Hurtle's plan. On the day following John's return toBungay Mrs Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and thusaddressed her. 'Ruby, you know, this must come to an end now. '

'What must come to an end?'

'You can't stay here always, you know. '

'I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages. '

'I can't do with more than one girl, --and there's the keep if thereisn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won'thave you back there; that's certain. '

'I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so. '

'But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here always, --norI couldn't have you. You must go into service. '

'I don't know anybody as'd have me, ' said Ruby. 

'You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say asnursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must giveyou a character;--only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't askmuch wages just at first. ' Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tearswere near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall wasso startling and so oppressive! 'It has got to be done sooner or later, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon. '

'You'r going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin. '

'Well;--if that's turning out, I am. You see you never would be saidby me as though I was your mistress. You would go out with thatrapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular placelike, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for you. You've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it. Youmust earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your loverand your grandfather. '

There was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessarynotice was put into the paper, --Mrs Hurtle paying for its insertion. 'Because, you know, ' said Mrs Hurtle, 'she must stay here really, tillMr Crumb comes and takes her away. ' Mrs Pipkin expressed her opinionthat Ruby was a 'baggage' and John Crumb a 'soft. ' Mrs Pipkin wasperhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger took in herniece, thinking perhaps that all Mrs Hurtle's sympathies were due toherself. 

Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon themothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The answers which she hadreceived had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy, and the houses which she visited did not appal her by their splendour. Many objections were made to her. A character from an aunt wasobjectionable. Her ringlets were objectionable. She was a deal tooflighty-looking. She spoke up much too free. At last one happy motherof five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at £12a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This wasslavery;--abject slavery. And she too, who had been the beloved of abaronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better house thanthat into which she was to go as a servant, --if she would only holdup her finger! But the place was accepted, and with broken-heartedsobbings Ruby prepared herself for her departure from Aunt Pipkin'sroof. 

'I hope you like your place, Ruby, ' Mrs Hurtle said on the afternoonof her last day. 

'Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children youever see, Mrs Hurtle. '

'Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones. '

'And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross. '

'It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?'

'I don't know as I've done anything out of the way. '

'Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a youngman and then to throw him over? All this has come because you wouldn'tkeep your word to Mr Crumb. Only for that your grandfather wouldn'thave turned you out of his house. '

'He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my head. '

'But he was angry with you about Mr Crumb. When a young woman becomesengaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word. ' Nodoubt Mrs Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought that the samelaw might be laid down with propriety for the conduct of young men. 'Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry you don'tlike the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now. '

'I am agoing, --I suppose, ' said Ruby, probably feeling that if shecould but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be openfor her a way of escape. 

'I shall write and tell Mr Crumb where you are placed. '

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain'tnothing to him. '

'I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken. '

'You can forget that, Mrs Hurtle. Pray don't write. I don't want himto know as I'm in service. '

'I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose youcare much now what he hears about you. '

'Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him toknow. '

'What harm can it do you?'

'Well, I don't want him to know. It's such a come down, Mrs Hurtle. '

'There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to beashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do;--wasn't it, Ruby?'

'I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs Hurtle; only why couldn't he say whathe had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him?What would you feel, Mrs Hurtle, if a man was to come and say it allout of another man's mouth?'

'I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last. You know he meant it. '

'Yes;--I did know that. '

'And you know he means it now?'

'I'm not so sure about that. He's gone back to Bungay, and he isn't nogood at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh, --he'll go and getsomebody else now. '

'Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd bettertell him. I know what would happen. '

'What would happen, Mrs Hurtle?'

'He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a placeyou'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say theword. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to MrsBuggins'. ' Ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at MrsHurtle. 'I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as youdid before. '

'But I'm to go to Mrs Buggins' to-morrow. '

'We'll send to Mrs Buggins and tell her to get somebody else. You'rebreaking your heart about going there;--are you not?'

'I don't like it, Mrs Hurtle. '

'And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn'tgood at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester manin the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a womanbetter. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart withit? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metalisn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don'tthink now he was a very fine fellow. '

'He was so beautiful, Mrs Hurtle!'

'But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. Well, Ruby, youhave one more choice left you. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs Buggins?'

'He wouldn't come, Mrs Hurtle. '

'Leave that to me, Ruby. May I bring him if I can?' Then Ruby in avery low whisper told Mrs Hurtle, that if she thought proper she mightbring John Crumb back again. 'And there shall be no more nonsense?'

'No, ' whispered Ruby. 

On that same night a letter was sent to Mrs Buggins, which Mrs Hurtlealso composed, informing that lady that unforeseen circumstancesprevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement she had made; towhich a verbal answer was returned that Ruby Ruggles was an impudenthussey. And then Mrs Hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to MrJohn Crumb. 

 DEAR MR CRUMB, If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby Ruggles all that you desire. 

 Yours faithfully, WINIFRED HURTLE. 

'She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done foryoung women in my time, ' said Mrs Pipkin, 'and I'm not at all so surethat she has deserved it. '

'John Crumb will think she has. '

'John Crumb's a fool;--and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no patiencewith girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for you, MrsHurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, MrsHurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done. '

CHAPTER LXXXI - MR COHENLUPE LEAVES LONDON

Dolly Longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to Fetter Laneimmediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he hadconsented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. Thiswas on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being Friday. Hehad undertaken that, on his part, Squercum should be made to desistfrom further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry out hisword by visiting Squercum. The trouble to him was very great, but hebegan to feel that he almost liked it. The excitement was nearly asgood as that of loo. Of course it was a 'horrid bore, '--this havingto go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a London July day. Ofcourse it was a 'horrid bore, '--this doubt about his money. And it wentaltogether against the grain with him that he should be engaged in anymatter respecting the family property in agreement with his father andMr Bideawhile. But there was an importance in it that sustained himamidst his troubles. It is said that if you were to take a man ofmoderate parts and make him Prime Minister out of hand, he mightprobably do as well as other Prime Ministers, the greatness of thework elevating the man to its own level. In that way Dolly waselevated to the level of a man of business, and felt and enjoyed hisown capacity. 'By George!' It depended chiefly upon him whether such aman as Melmotte should or should not be charged before the Lord Mayor. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to have promised, ' he said to Squercum, sitting inthe lawyer's office on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth. He preferred Squercum to any other lawyer he had met becauseSquercum's room was untidy and homely, because there was nothing awfulabout it, and because he could sit in what position he pleased, andsmoke all the time. 

'Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me, ' said Squercum. 

'You weren't there to be asked, old fellow. '

'Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in myabsence, ' said Squercum indignantly. 'It was a very unprofessionalthing on his part, and so I shall take an opportunity of telling him. '

'It was you told me to go. '

'Well;--yes. I wanted you to see what they were at in that room; butI told you to look on and say nothing. '

'I didn't speak half-a-dozen words. '

'You shouldn't have spoken those words. Your father then is quiteclear that you did not sign the letter?'

'Oh, yes;--the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest. '

'That's a matter of course, ' said the lawyer. 'All men are honest; butthey are generally specially honest to their own side. Bideawhile'shonest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to prevent hisgetting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay the money onFriday, has he?'

'He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street. '

'I don't believe a word of it;--and I'm sure Bideawhile doesn't. Inwhat shape will he bring it? He'll give you a cheque dated on Monday, and that'll give him two days more, and then on Monday there'll be anote to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should beno compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess intoanother. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything. '

'I suppose we can't help ourselves now. You're to be there on Friday. I particularly bargained for that. It you're there, there won't be anymore compromising. '

Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at allflattering to Dolly's vanity, --which might have caused offence had notthere been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and theyoung man. As it was, Dolly replied to everything that was said withincreased flattery. 'If I was a sharp fellow like you, you know, ' saidDolly, 'of course I should get along better; but I ain't, you know. 'It was then settled that they should meet each other, and also meet MrLongestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve o'clock onFriday morning in Bruton Street. 

Squercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in thismatter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got tothe bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and hadmanaged to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ him. As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject. OldLongestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by thebribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and MexicanRailway to give up the title-deeds of the property, --as far as it wasin his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce Dolly todo so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his work byingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was perfectlyclear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a mostattractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It waspure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. Heregarded Melmotte as a grand swindler, --perhaps the grandest that theworld had ever known, --and he could conceive no greater honour than thedetection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of so greata man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as greatalmost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been unfairlyhampered by his own client. He did not believe that the money would bepaid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had heard a goodmany things in the City, and believed it to be quite out of thequestion that Melmotte should raise the money, --but there were variousways in which a man might escape. 

It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, precededMelmotte into the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to signthe deeds. He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived thatthings were not looking as well as they used to look. Croll had formany years been true to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for such truth. There had been times when things hadgone badly with him, but he had believed in Melmotte, and, whenMelmotte rose, had been rewarded for his faith. Mr Croll at thepresent time had little investments of his own, not made under hisemployer's auspices, which would leave him not absolutely withoutbread for his family should the Melmotte affairs at any time takean awkward turn. Melmotte had never required from him service thatwas actually fraudulent, --had at any rate never required it by spokenwords. Mr Croll had not been over-scrupulous, and had occasionallybeen very useful to Mr Melmotte. But there must be a limit to allthings; and why should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruinsof a falling house, --when convinced that nothing he can do canprevent the fall? Mr Croll would have been of course happy towitness Miss Melmotte's signature; but as for that other kind ofwitnessing, --this clearly to his thinking was not the time for suchgood-nature on his part. 

'You know what's up now;--don't you?' said one of the junior clerks toMr Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane. 

'A good deal will be up soon, ' said the German. 

'Cohenlupe has gone!'

'And to vere has Mr Cohenlupe gone?'

'He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don'twant his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him. Nobody seems to know what's become of him. '

'New York, ' suggested Mr Croll. 

'They seem to think not. They're too hospitable in New York for MrCohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on thecontinent somewhere, --half across France by this time; but nobody knowswhat route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the oldboy;--eh, Croll?' Croll merely shook his head. 'I wonder what hasbecome of Miles Grendall, ' continued the clerk. 

'Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats tostay. '

'There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railwayscrip. '

'Our governor knew noding about dat, ' said Croll. 

'He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been keptup another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly amillion of money, and the governor would have been as good as thebank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayorabout the Pickering title-deeds?' Croll declared that he knew nothingabout the matter, and settled himself down to his work. 

In little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who thusreached the City late in the afternoon. It was he knew too late toraise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the wayfor getting it on the next day, which would be Thursday. Of course thefirst news which he heard was of the defection of Mr Cohenlupe. It wasCroll who told him. He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at first hesaid nothing. 

'It's a bad thing, ' said Mr Croll. 

'Yes;--it is bad. He had a vast amount of my property in his hands. Where has he gone?' Croll shook his head. 'It never rains but itpours, ' said Melmotte. 'Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been worsethan I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousandpounds at my banker's, --loose cash, --before the month was out. '

'Yes, indeed, ' said Croll. 

'But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnablyjealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men willsay that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster therehas been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that affairof the dinner was planned, --planned, by G----, that it might ruin me. It was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of a building. It is hard for one man to stand against all that when he has dealingsso large as mine. '

'Very hard, Mr Melmotte. '

'But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the realstuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing thatcomes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if thestuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose Ishall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court. '

'I should say so, Mr Melmotte. Mr Brehgert never leaves much beforesix. '

Then Mr Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that heusually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in itsusually jaunty air. But Croll as he went heard him mutter the name ofCohenlupe between his teeth. The part which he had to act is one verydifficult to any actor. The carrying an external look of indifferencewhen the heart is sinking within, --or has sunk almost to the veryground, --is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. In all mentalsuffering the sufferer longs for solitude, --for permission to casthimself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every featureof his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. A grandly urbanedeportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond thephysical strength of most men;--but there have been men so strong. Melmotte very nearly accomplished it. It was only to the eyes of sucha one as Herr Croll that the failure was perceptible. 

Melmotte did find Mr Brehgert. At this time Mr Brehgert had completedhis correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he had mentionedthe probability of great losses from the anticipated commercialfailure in Mr Melmotte's affairs. He had now heard that Mr Cohenlupehad gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly sure that hisanticipation would be correct. Nevertheless, he received his oldfriend with a smile. When large sums of money are concerned there isseldom much of personal indignation between man and man. The loss offifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create personal wrath;--but fiftythousand require equanimity. 'So Cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the Cityto-day, ' said Brehgert. 

'He has gone, ' said Melmotte hoarsely. 

'I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for largedealings. '

'Yes, you did, ' said Melmotte. 

'Well;--it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?' Then Melmotteexplained to Mr Brehgert what it was that he wanted then, taking thevarious documents out of the bag which throughout the afternoon he hadcarried in his hand. Mr Brehgert understood enough of his friend'saffairs, and enough of affairs in general, to understand readily allthat was required. He examined the documents, declaring, as he did so, that he did not know how the thing could be arranged by Friday. Melmotte replied that £50, 000 was not a very large sum of money, thatthe security offered was worth twice as much as that. 'You will leavethem with me this evening, ' said Brehgert. Melmotte paused for amoment, and said that he would of course do so. He would have givenmuch, very much, to have been sufficiently master of himself to haveassented without hesitation;--but then the weight within was so veryheavy!

Having left the papers and the bag with Mr Brehgert, he walkedwestwards to the House of Commons. He was accustomed to remain in theCity later than this, often not leaving it till seven, --though duringthe last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the Housein the afternoon. It was now Wednesday, and there was no eveningsitting;--but his mind was too full of other things to allow him toremember this. As he walked along the Embankment, his thoughts werevery heavy. How would things go with him?--What would be the end ofit? Ruin;--yes, but there were worse things than ruin. And a short timesince he had been so fortunate;--had made himself so safe! As he lookedback at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass that he hadbeen driven out of the track that he had laid down for himself. He hadknown that ruin would come, and had made himself so comfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. But insane ambition had drivenhim away from his anchorage. He told himself over and over again thatthe fault had been not in circumstances, --not in that which men callFortune, --but in his own incapacity to bear his position. He saw itnow. He felt it now. If he could only begin again, how differentwould his conduct be!

But of what avail were such regrets as these? He must take things asthey were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himselfto be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. And if the worstshould come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! There was acertain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly inhis own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at thistime. Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside himselfand looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to himself hisown shortcomings. If it were all to be done again he thought that hecould avoid this bump against the rocks on one side, and that terriblyshattering blow on the other. There was much that he was ashamed of, --many a little act which recurred to him vividly in this solitary houras a thing to be repented of with inner sackcloth and ashes. But neveronce, not for a moment, did it occur to him that he should repent ofthe fraud in which his whole life had been passed. No idea evercrossed his mind of what might have been the result had he lived thelife of an honest man. Though he was inquiring into himself as closelyas he could, he never even told himself that he had been dishonest. Fraud and dishonesty had been the very principle of his life, and hadso become a part of his blood and bones that even in this extremity ofhis misery he made no question within himself as to his right judgmentin regard to them. Not to cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to livemore luxuriously than others by cheating more brilliantly, was acondition of things to which his mind had never turned itself. In thatrespect he accused himself of no want of judgment. But why had he, sounrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon ofunrighteousness? Why had he not conciliated Lord Mayors? Why had hetrod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? Why had he beeninsolent at the India Office? Why had he trusted any man as he hadtrusted Cohenlupe? Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead ofgoing into Parliament? Why had he called down unnecessary notice onhis head by entertaining the Emperor of China? It was too late now, and he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him. 

He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of WestminsterAbbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. 'Oh, Wednesday! Of course it is, ' he said, turning round and directing hissteps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the morninghe had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not knowwhat better use to make of the present evening. His house could hardlybe very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from his wife'scompany. But in his own house he could at least be alone. Then, as hewalked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on matters ashardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no, he askedhimself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the moneywhich was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that hecould make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr Squercum could doto him, --for he knew already how busy Mr Squercum was in the matter. Though they should put him on his trial for forgery, what of that? Hehad heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes tothe multitude while their cases were in progress, --who had been fêtedfrom the beginning to the end though no one had doubted their guilt, --and who had come out unscathed at the last. What evidence had theyagainst him? It might be that the Longestaffes and Bideawhiles andSquercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge wouldnot produce a verdict. He, as member for Westminster, as the man whohad entertained the Emperor, as the owner of one of the most gorgeoushouses in London, as the great Melmotte, could certainly command thebest half of the bar. He already felt what popular support might dofor him. Surely there need be no despondency while so good a hoperemained to him! He did tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe'sletter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. And he knew thatit was possible that other things might be adduced; but would it notbe 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 couldnot cleanse his character?

But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr Brehgert!Again he had acted in a hurry, --without giving sufficient thought tothe matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that also. But howis a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when no step thathe takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;--he had certainly put intoBrehgert's hands means of proving him to have been absolutely guiltyof forgery. He did not think that Marie would disclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she shouldunderstand that her father had written her name; nor did he think thathis clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of Croll's namecould not injure Croll. But Brehgert, should he discover what had beendone, would certainly not permit him to escape. And now he had putthese forgeries without any guard into Brehgert's hands. 

He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. Hewould see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on thedocuments, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then hewould instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paperthat should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Havingdone that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag himto gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could notbe admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all that. If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that an endmight come. But how great was the chance that they might fail toconvict him! As to the dead man's letter, and as to DollyLongestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidencecould be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was tohave released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed thathe might still recover those documents. For the present it must be hisduty to do nothing, --when he should have recovered and destroyed thosedocuments, --and to live before the eyes of men as though he fearednothing. 

He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully wentthrough various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes ofthose ministers of the law who would probably before long have theprivilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thusemployed, he drank a bottle of champagne, --feeling himself greatlycomforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and lookmen in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all. How much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once beenimprisoned for fraud at Hamburg, and had come out of gaol a pauper;friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he wasa member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner ofperhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with anestablished character for high finance, --a commercial giant whose namewas a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres. Eventhough he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he wouldnot all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte mightbe sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy. 

In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every oneconnected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount ofawe, --every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times beenhimself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife obeyedhim implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came in nowand stood opposite him, while he spoke to her. She never sat in hispresence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie kept theirjewelry;--for during the last twelve months rich trinkets had beensupplied to both of them. Of course she answered by another question. 'Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?'

'A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or inGrosvenor Square?'

'They are here. '

'Then have them all packed up, --as small as you can; never mind aboutwool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that ifyou have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?'

'Yes; I understand. '

'Why don't you speak, then?'

'What is going to happen, Melmotte?'

'How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's workis such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothingcan hurt you. '

'Can they hurt you, Melmotte?'

'Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to beborne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft allmy life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft now. '

'Shall we have to move?'

'Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving asthough that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you liketo be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?'

'Are they going to send you to prison?'

'Hold your tongue. '

'Tell me, Melmotte;--are they going to?' Then the poor woman didsit down, overcome by her feelings. 

'I didn't ask you to come here for a scene, ' said Melmotte. 'Do as Ibid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have themin small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the lastmoment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't stayany longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan'tanswer them. ' So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, andimmediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with herornaments. 

Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes sippingbrandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work, andhardly touched a paper after his wife left him. 

CHAPTER LXXXII - MARIE'S PERSEVERANCE

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 tosee him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether hewanted to see Croll. 'Is it anything special?' he asked. The manthought that it was something special, as Croll had declared hispurpose of waiting when told that Mr Melmotte was not as yet dressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte longed toknow every detail of Croll's manner, --to know even the servant'sopinion of the clerk's manner, --but he did not dare to ask a question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious. 'Ask him if hehas breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study. ' But MrCroll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment. 

Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he wouldmeet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well thathe should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding himwait for his return. Over and over again, against his will, thequestion of flying would present itself to him; but, though hediscussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he couldnot fly. And if he stood his ground, --as most assuredly he would do, --then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with whatthunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner or later some manmust come with a thunderbolt, --and why not Croll as well as another?He stood against a press in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, andsteadied himself. How easily might he put an end to it all! Then herang his bell and desired that Croll might be shown up into his room. 

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be verylong. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather wasstill upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He wasfighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When theknock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though tosupport himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, andCroll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly. Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession ofMr Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bagin his hand and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bagcontained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in hisown keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been forged!There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll should beignorant of what had been done. 'Well, Croll, ' he said with an attemptat a smile, 'what brings you here so early?' He was pale as death, andlet him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself fromtrembling. 

'Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night, ' said Croll. 

'Eh!'

'And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all. 'Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master'sface, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner. 

'Eh!' repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself fromall coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could notassume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seenCroll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered theforgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forgeddocuments. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived themost good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-naturesuch as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall. 

'Mr Brehgert came to me, ' continued Croll, 'because one signature waswanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'dbring them to you in the morning. '

They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll;but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends hadresolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired toget the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking ina proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him inforgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to such anoccasion. 'It vas a strong order, Mr Melmotte, ' said Croll. Melmottetried to smile but only grinned. 'I vill not be back in the Lane, MrMelmotte. '

'Not back at the office, Croll?'

'I tink not;--no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it. Adieu. ' And so Mr Croll took his final leave of his old master afteran intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that HerrCroll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for businessto be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by hispatron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merelyremarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over wasa 'strong order. '

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It hadbeen necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It had beenof course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but here theforger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written five times;but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again he had himselfbeen at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his owncarelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any foolmight do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive andwide awake at every turn!

Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, andnow he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knewthe crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal stepsagainst him they would not have returned the forgeries to his ownhands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale;--unless thereshould arise some most improbable emergency in which he might makemoney by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Crollhad signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and wouldtherefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemyto his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep thesecret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curryfavour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it. 

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl washis own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had beenhis own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose ofpeculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud ofwhat he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed theknowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must besuppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bagand all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate hisbreakfast, --and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp. 

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which hewould pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the moneyfor Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he wouldexplain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that alittle difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could notexactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For hehad resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gonesince he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame onCohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of onemerchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear theburden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into theCity. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter ofcertainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal securitycould hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He couldhardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr Brehgert! He would stay athome till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then hewould face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and standabout in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in thelobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators, --and, if itwere possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He wasabout to have a crushing fall, --but the world should say that he hadfallen like a man. 

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It canhardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps shewas the only person who in the whole course of his career had receivedindulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had alsooften made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of hisopulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now shehad not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her parthad driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. Hehad cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause foranger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rateforgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of itsoccurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal. 

'Papa, ' she said, coming very gently into the room, 'I think thatperhaps I was wrong yesterday. '

'Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now. '

'If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose LordNidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whetherhe does or not. '

'What makes you think that, Marie?'

'I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there. I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more. '

'Was he uncivil to you?'

'Oh dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how. Inever told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?'

'What do you mean?'

'Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that otherman?'

'He is a penniless adventurer. '

'But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then therewould have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still ifyou would let him. '

'Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?'

'Never, papa. '

'Or heard from him?'

'Not a line. '

'Then what makes you think he would marry you?'

'He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. Andthere would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live inGermany. '

'We could do that just as well without your marrying. '

'But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't wantafter all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned uptheir noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else. '

'He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you. '

'He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he'sanything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand. He's as good as anybody else. '

'It can't be done, Marie. '

'Why can't it be done?'

'There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him?And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now thanmarriage. '

'You don't want me to sign the papers?'

'No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that themoney is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do notlet me find myself deceived by my daughter. '

'I won't, --if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more. '

Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. 'I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Whycannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about yourjewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in yourhand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think ofthat young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are verygood, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as Ibid you. '

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury andtold her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see SirFelix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's househad been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously takenaway from him, and all messages brought for him reached his handsthrough those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from hisface, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion withwhich we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted whenthey have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questionsabout the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no specialdescription, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. LadyCarbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her ownpresence, --and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. 'I dare sayyou don't remember me, Lady Carbury, ' Marie said. 'I am MarieMelmotte. '

At first Lady Carbury had not recognized her visitor;--but she did sobefore she replied. 'Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you. '

'Yes;--I am Mr Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he isbetter. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man inthe street. '

'Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better. ' Now Lady Carbury hadheard within the last two days from Mr Broune that 'it was all over'with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, histhorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him aruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on thevery point of bursting. 'Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before aweek is over. ' That was the information which had reached Lady Carburyabout the Melmottes only on the previous evening. 

'I want to see him, ' said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing whatanswer to make, was silent for a while. 'I suppose he told youeverything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? Iloved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming andtelling you. '

'I thought it was all off, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and wasvery good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; butperhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true. '

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at themoment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerableamount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affectionor for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. 'Iam afraid, ' she said, 'that it would not be suitable. '

'Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. Thereis enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it ismine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great deal. Weshould be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tellyou, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should havethought it would be suitable. '

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriageafter all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether itwas true? 'I understand that your papa is opposed to it, ' she said. 

'Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give upthe money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dareto do it, why can't he?'

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found itimpossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she shouldsee Mr Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what wayto get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aidin destroying him, --this was the great trouble of her life, the burdenthat was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing butpersistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him, --as shedeclared, --with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands werethere, --or even an income of a single thousand a year, --then what ablessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so lowthat his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining aconnection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To getany niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparativesafety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. 'My son isupstairs, ' she said. 'I will go up and speak to him. '

'Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive himeverything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true tome, I will be true to him. '

'I couldn't go down to her, ' said Sir Felix, 'with my face all in thisway. '

'I don't think she would mind that. '

'I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I neverdid believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go toLiverpool. '

'I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to acertainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she isvery fond of you. '

'What's the use of that, if he is ruined?' He would not go down to seethe girl, --because he could not endure to expose his face, and wasashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As regardedthe money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But thefruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far offand to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scenewith Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

'What shall I say to her?' asked his mother. 

'She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You mightsend the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again. '

But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. Shereturned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, andthinking what answer she would make. 'Miss Melmotte, ' she said, 'myson feels that everything has been so changed since he and you lastmet, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance. '

'That is his message;--is it?' Lady Carbury remained silent. 'Then heis indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I shouldhave loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you willthink that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not runafter a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed ofthinking so much of so mean a person. Goodbye, Lady Carbury. '

'Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me. '

'No;--no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as youplease, and I will try to forget him. '

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going roundby Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way. Whatshould she now do with herself? What sort of life should she endeavourto prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the last yearhad been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship which sheremembered in her early days had been more endurable. The servitude towhich she had been subjected before she had learned by intercoursewith the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In these daysof her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen anemperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she hadencountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She hadreally loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made of thebasest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay wasshe would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away from herand had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to herfather. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been consciousof their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. Theywould again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city, --probably in some very distant part. But go where she might, she wouldnow be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she succeeded informing before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street. 

CHAPTER LXXXIII - MELMOTTE AGAIN AT THE HOUSE

On that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there was tobe a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs. As soon as Cohenlupehad gone, no man doubted. The City men who had not gone to the dinnerprided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians whohad declined to meet the Emperor of China at the table of thesuspected Financier. They who had got up the dinner and had beeninstrumental in taking the Emperor to the house in Grosvenor Square, and they also who had brought him forward at Westminster and hadfought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defendthemselves against heavy attacks. No one now had a word to say in hisfavour, or a doubt as to his guilt. The Grendalls had retiredaltogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. Lord Alfredhad not been seen since the day of the dinner. The Duchess of Albury, too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, asthe world said, by the general Melmotte failure. But this departurehad not as yet taken place at the time at which we have now arrived. 

When the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four o'clock, there were a great many members present, and a general feelingprevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because ofMelmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted throughoutthe morning that he would be put upon his trial for forgery inreference to the purchase of the Pickering property from MrLongestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown himselfanywhere on this day. People had gone to look at the house inGrosvenor Square, --not knowing that he was still living in MrLongestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with theimpression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainlyto be seen upon it. 'I wonder where he is, ' said Mr Lupton to MrBeauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House. 

'They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's inLongestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. Theman has got his place in the country and his house in town. There'sNidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all. '

'This is awful;--ain't it?' said Nidderdale. 

'It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are concerned, 'replied Mr Lupton. 

'Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understandit all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money wascertainly there. '

'And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago, ' said Lupton, --'buthe isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in timefor you. ' Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave. 

'There's Brown, ' said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to thecommercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr Melmotte on aprevious occasion had been anxious to correct. 'He'll be able to tellus where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he wasoff to the continent after Cohenlupe. ' But Mr Brown shook his head. MrBrown didn't know anything. But Mr Brown was very strongly of opinionthat the police would know all that there was to be known about MrMelmotte before this time on the following day. Mr Brown had been verybitter against Melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him inthe House. 

Even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinaryquestion-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than upontheir own defence. 'Do you know anything about it?' asked theChancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for the HomeDepartment. 

'I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is ageneral opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whetherthey've got their evidence together. '

'He's a ruined man, I suppose, ' said the Chancellor. 'I doubt whetherhe ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;--he has been aboutthe grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundredthousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personalexpenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he learns thetruth. ' Another minister sitting close to the Secretary of State wasof opinion that the Emperor of China would not care half so much aboutit as our own First Lord of the Treasury. 

At this moment there came a silence over the House which was almostaudible. They who know the sensation which arises from the continuedhum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the ear isthe feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound. Everybodylooked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. AnUnder-Secretary of State had just got upon his legs to answer a mostindignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings ofa certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was sohappy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. It is notoften that such a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; andhe was intent upon his performance. But even he was startled intomomentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. Augustus Melmotte, themember for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House. 

He had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of theHouse as to know what to do with his hat, --when to wear it, and when totake it off, --and how to sit down. As he entered by the door facing theSpeaker, he wore his hat on the side of his head, as was his custom. Much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from this habit, which had been adopted probably from a conviction that it addedsomething to his powers of self-assertion. At this moment he was moredetermined than ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or inany feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a littlemore cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back alittle wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore in hisshirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was speciallyconspicuous. He had come down in his brougham, and as he had walked upWestminster Hall and entered the House by the private door of themembers, and then made his way in across the great lobby and betweenthe doorkeepers, --no one had spoken a word to him. He had of courseseen many whom he had known. He had indeed known nearly all whom he hadseen;--but he had been aware, from the beginning of this enterprise ofthe day, that men would shun him, and that he must bear their coldlooks and colder silence without seeming to notice them. He hadschooled himself to the task, and he was now performing it. It was notonly that he would have to move among men without being noticed, butthat he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same plight. Buthe was resolved, and he was now doing it. He bowed to the Speaker withmore than usual courtesy, raising his hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual, on the third opposition-bench, but withmore than his usual fling. He was a big man, who always endeavoured tomake an effect by deportment, and was therefore customarilyconspicuous in his movements. He was desirous now of being as he wasalways, neither more nor less demonstrative;--but, as a matter ofcourse, he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him thatthere was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up theHouse and took his seat. The Under-Secretary of State, who was on hislegs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facingswas lost to Parliament for ever. 

That unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat next tothat on which Melmotte had placed himself. It had so happened three orfour times since Melmotte had been in the House, as the young lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had resolved thathe would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. He understood thatcountenance of the sort which he as a young aristocrat could give tothe man of millions who had risen no one knew whence, was part of thebargain in reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingledhonesty and courage which together made him willing and able to carryout his idea. He had given Melmotte little lessons as to ordinaryforms of the House, and had done what in him lay to earn the moneywhich was to be forthcoming. But it had become manifest both to himand to his father during the last two days, --very painfully manifest tohis father, --that the thing must be abandoned. And if so, --then whyshould he be any longer gracious to Melmotte? And, moreover, though hehad been ready to be courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeableman, he was not anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he wasnow assured, had been certainly guilty of forgery. But to get up atonce and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by hisside, did not suit the turn of his mind. He looked round to hisneighbour on the right with a half-comic look of misery, and thenprepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be. 

'Have you been up with Marie to-day?' said Melmotte. 

'No;--I've not, ' replied the lord. 

'Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shallbe in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to makeyou comfortable. '

Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world wasunited in accusing him of forgery? 'I'll tell you what it is, ' saidNidderdale. 'I think you had better see my governor again, MrMelmotte. '

'There's nothing wrong, I hope. '

'Well;--I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only justcame down to enter an appearance. ' He had to cross Melmotte on his wayout, and as he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand. 'Good night, my boy, ' said Melmotte quite aloud, --in a voice much louder than thatwhich members generally allow themselves for conversation. Nidderdalewas confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man in theHouse who did not understand the whole thing. He rushed down throughthe gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step, and as heescaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton, who, since his littleconversation with Mr Beauclerk, had heard further news. 

'You know what has happened, Nidderdale?'

'About Melmotte, you mean?'

'Yes, about Melmotte, ' continued Lupton. 'He has been arrested in hisown house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery. '

'I wish he had, ' said Nidderdale, 'with all my heart. If you go inyou'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking tome as though everything were all right. '

'Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been takenunder a warrant from the Lord Mayor. '

'The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisonerhimself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't onhis legs before long. '

Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the Houseadjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then with aslow step, --with almost majestic steps, --he descended to the dining-roomand ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and some littledifficulty about a seat. No one was very willing to make room for him. But at last he secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate whowas there before him. It was impossible to expel him, --almost asimpossible to sit next him. Even the waiters were unwilling to servehim;--but with patience and endurance he did at last get his dinner. Hewas there in his right, as a member of the House of Commons, and therewas no ground on which such service as he required could be refused tohim. It was not long before he had the table all to himself. But ofthis he took no apparent notice. He spoke loudly to the waiters anddrank his bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment. Since hisfriendly intercourse with Nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor hadhe spoken to any man. They who watched him declared among themselvesthat he was happy in his own audacity;--but in truth he was probablyat that moment the most utterly wretched man in London. He would havebetter studied his personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spenthis evening in groans and wailings. But even he, with all the worldnow gone from him, with nothing before him but the extremest miserywhich the indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able tospend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at anyrate for audacity. It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his togaaround him before his death!

He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, takingfrom his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded tolight a cigar about eight inches long. Mr Brown, from the City, was inthe room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered Mr Brown oneof the same. Mr Brown was a short, fat, round little man, over sixty, who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace set offeatures an air of importance by the contraction of his lips and theknitting of his brows. It was as good as a play to see Mr Brownjumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting on adouble frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. 'You needn't thinkso much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean anyoffence. ' So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarselaugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he wereenjoying his triumph. 

He sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out intoa laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;--as thoughhe were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all thesemen around him were fools for believing the stories which they hadheard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. Soon afternine he went back again into the House, and again took his old place. At this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, aswell as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. Therewas some debate going on in reference to the game laws, --a subject onwhich Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his housemaids, --but, as somespeaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs. Another gentleman had alsorisen, and when the House called to that other gentleman Melmotte gaveway. The other gentleman had not much to say, and in a few minutesMelmotte was again on his legs. Who shall dare to describe thethoughts which would cross the august mind of a Speaker of the Houseof Commons at such a moment? Of Melmotte's villainy he had no officialknowledge. And even could he have had such knowledge it was not forhim to act upon it. The man was a member of the House, and as muchentitled to speak as another. But it seemed on that occasion that theSpeaker was anxious to save the House from disgrace;--for twice andthrice he refused to have his 'eye caught' by the member forWestminster. As long as any other member would rise he would not havehis eye caught. But Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to beput down. At last no one else would speak, and the House was about tonegative the motion without a division, --when Melmotte was again on hislegs, still persisting. The Speaker scowled at him and leaned back inhis chair. Melmotte standing erect, turning his head round from oneside of the House to another, as though determined that all should seehis audacity, propping himself with his knees against the seat beforehim, remained for half a minute perfectly silent. He was drunk, --butbetter able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing inhis face none of those outward signs of intoxication by whichdrunkenness is generally made apparent. But he had forgotten in hisaudacity that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now hehad not a word at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself, then looked once more round the House with a glance of anger, andafter that toppled headlong over the shoulders of Mr BeauchampBeauclerk, who was sitting in front of him. 

He might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had heremained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his onlyobject, he could hardly have taken a surer course. The scene, as itoccurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performershould have been carried away into enforced obscurity. There was muchcommotion in the House. 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 drunkenman. But Melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping himself. He quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his haton, and endeavoured to look as though nothing special had occurred. The House resumed its business, taking no further notice of Melmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment to beadopted with drunken members. But the member for Westminster caused nofurther inconvenience. He remained in his seat for perhaps tenminutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still withcapacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to thedoors. His exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxiousone for the Speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. Had hefallen some one, --or rather some two or three, --must have picked himup and carried him out. But he did not fall either there or in thelobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard. Many were looking at him, but none touched him. When he had got through the gates, leaningagainst the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who waswaiting for him soon took him home to Bruton Street. That was the lastwhich the British Parliament saw of its new member for Westminster. 

Melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-roomwithout difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. Betweeneleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle ofbrandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case. Neither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak ofthem. Nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in themind of the servant. He was habitually left there at night, and theservant as usual went to his bed. But at nine o'clock on the followingmorning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. Drunk as hehad been, --more drunk as he probably became during the night, --stillhe was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties towhich the law might have subjected him by a dose of prussic acid. 

CHAPTER LXXXIV - PAUL MONTAGUE'S VINDICATION

It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta Carburywas a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that dutycompelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I thinkthat she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence againstherself, --the offence against her own dignity as a woman, --was toogreat to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would all have beenforgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it hadreached her ears from any other source. Had he said to her, --when herheart was softest towards him, --I once loved another woman, and thatwoman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and herhistory is so and so, and the history of my love for her was afterthis fashion, and the history of my declining love is after thatfashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman hasnever been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;--hadhe told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening foranger. And he doubtless would have so told it, had not Hetta's brotherinterfered too quickly. He was then forced to exculpate himself, toconfess rather than to tell his own story, --and to admit facts whichwore the air of having been concealed, and which had already beenconceived to be altogether damning if true. It was that journey toLowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief, --a journey asto which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger Carburyhad thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicableintimacy, --this horrid woman, --in intimacy worse than amicable, and hadbeen visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that hehad never passed a day without going there since the arrival of thewoman; and everybody would know what that meant. And during this veryhour he had been, --well, perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to her, and behaving to her in a mannersuch as could not but make her understand that he intended to makelove to her. Of course they had really understood it, since they hadmet at Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that shecould not allow herself to dance with him more than, --say half-a-dozentimes. Of course she had not intended him then to know that she wouldreceive his love with favour, but equally of course she had known thathe must so feel it. She had not only told herself, but had told hermother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the manduring this very time was spending his hours with a--woman, with astrange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been onceengaged. How could she not quarrel with him? How could she refrainfrom telling him that everything must be over between them? Everybodywas against him, --her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and shefelt that she had not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! Awretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to herthat a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such acreature;--but that he should have come to her with a second tale oflove long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;--perhapswith no intention of clearing himself from the first! Of course shecould not forgive him! No;--she would never forgive him. She wouldbreak her heart for him. That was a matter of course; but she wouldnever forgive him. She knew well what it was that her mother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with Montagueshe would force her also into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But hermother would find out that in that she was mistaken. She would nevermarry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge hisworth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man. As shemade this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that itwould be a trouble to her mother;--for though she was altogether inaccord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she wasnot the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose thoseiniquities. 

Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tendernessdid she take out from its guardian case the brooch which Paul hadgiven her! It had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him forit, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she hadbegged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her, --toher dying day, --the one precious thing that had been given to her byher lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must be sent back;--and, nodoubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingeredover it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had shenot told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in hersolitude, by such a demonstration of affection. She had given heranswer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personalcorrespondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with arequest that it might be returned. 

'Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothingelse?'

'No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send thatback to him, --without a word. You won't say anything, will you, mamma?'

'There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understandyou. '

'I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that. '

'He has behaved very, very badly, --from the beginning, ' said LadyCarbury. 

But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved verybadly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of hismisbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved verywell in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only that he hadbehaved so badly in taking Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards! 'It'sno good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of himany more. '

'He is quite unworthy, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'I can't bear to--have him--abused, ' said Hetta sobbing. 

'My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the timeunhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time. But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to beso sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for peopleto allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for thefuture, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shallbe forgotten at once. '

'Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't sayany more. '

'But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life isbefore you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Ofcourse you must be married. '

'There is no of course at all. '

'Of course you must be married, ' continued Lady Carbury, 'and ofcourse it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be bestdone. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owemoney to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr Broune. '

'Money to Mr Broune!'

'Yes, --to Mr Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr Broune toldme ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shallnot be able to keep on this house. And they tell me, --your cousin andMr Broune, --that it is my duty to take Felix out of London probablyabroad. '

'Of course I shall go with you. '

'It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my lifemust be with Felix in some French or German town!'

'Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak ofme always as though I were a burden?'

'Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. Butyou, --if you will only yield in ever so little, --you may go where youwill be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. Youhave the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and ofmaking a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want. '

'Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?'

'Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flownnonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger. '

'This is horrid, ' said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. 'Cannot youunderstand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him frommy very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart inpieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly, --andbecause of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think thatin the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! Iwill never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite--quite sure that Ishall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you goaway with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. Isuppose I could go out as a nurse. ' Then, without waiting for a reply, she left the room and betook herself to her own apartment. 

Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could notconceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking theopportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the otherlover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter, --asshe had been anxious to get a wife for her son, --in order that herchild might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spokecommon sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flewinto tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to thehard truths of the world. Deep as was the sorrow which her son broughtupon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathyfor him than for the girl. If there was anything that she could notforgive in life it was romance. And yet she, at any rate, believedthat she delighted in romantic poetry! At the present moment she wasvery wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see herdaughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserableroamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny. 

In these days she thought a good deal of Mr Broune's offer, and of herown refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more ofhim, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seenor known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy hadbeen very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played atbeing friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks, --since she had refused his offer, --they had really learned to know each other. In the exquisite miseryof her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and herson, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid andtrue counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers tohim. There was no longer any egregious flattery between them, --andhe, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he hadtold her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. Theconsequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed himto escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lostprize, for she told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte cameto her. And, on the same evening, closeted with Mr Broune in herback room, she told him of both occurrences. 'If the girl has gotthe money--, ' she began, regretting her son's obstinacy. 

'I don't believe a bit of it, ' said Broune. 'From all that I can hear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may besure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in thatway. I would not have anything to do with it. '

'You think it is all over with the Melmottes?'

'A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested. ' Itwas now between nine and ten in the evening. 'But as I came away frommy room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have tostand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and Iimagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out ofthe property. '

'What a wonderful career it has been!'

'Yes;--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclinedto think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about byhis reckless personal expenditure. '

'Why did he spend such a lot of money?'

'Because he thought he could conquer the world by it, and obtainuniversal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgottento calculate the force of the envy of his competitors. '

'You think he has committed forgery?'

'Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet. '

'Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her. '

'Certainly better. 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. 'Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that evenMelmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully inwant of assistance as her son. 'At any rate do not think of it anymore. ' Then she told him her grief about Hetta. 'Ah, there, ' said he, 'I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion. '

'He doesn't owe a shilling, ' said Lady Carbury, 'and he is really afine gentleman. '

'But if she doesn't like him?'

'Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in theworld. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. Butshe has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love. '

'A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with thatnonsense. '

'Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like anyother luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. Andthose who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to theground like this Mr Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnightsince we all thought him the greatest man in London. ' Mr Broune onlysmiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had neverheld that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane. 

On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr Longestaffe's room, a letterwas brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that MrMontague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture ofindifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left theroom she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yetto think whether she would or would not receive a letter from herdismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so, --probably willingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American woman. Butnow that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between herand the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and sheran through its contents without allowing herself a moment forthinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover wereor were not such as she ought to accept. 

 DEAREST HETTA, I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. 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. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. 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. 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. This was before I had ever even met you. 

 If I understand it all right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs Hurtle since I so determined. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. You may blame me for that if you please, --though it cannot have been a fault against you. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. 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? I think that that would have been unkind. It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it. 

 She asked me to renew my engagement. I am bound to tell you that, but I know in telling you that it will go no farther. I declined, telling her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been anger and sorrow, --anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded. As far as she was concerned my trouble was over except in so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to me, --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!

 Of course you do not know it all, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me, --or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs Hurtle. 

 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. 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. I cannot think it possible that love, such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't. I don't think it is natural that we should be parted. 

 If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs Hurtle. Anything is better than that we both should be broken-hearted. 

 Yours most affectionately, PAUL MONTAGUE. 

CHAPTER LXXXV - BREAKFAST IN BERKELEY SQUARE

Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of theperformance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say, disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all itscircumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening, andMelmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved withunsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lorddrink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody nowknew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man wereto become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for theCity, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery, everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he hadpretended to buy, and that actually he was a ruined man;--and yet hehad seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord 'hisdear boy' before the whole House. 

And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If hehad not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the girl, hehad allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had quarrelled withone man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentiallytold his most intimate friends that in spite of a little vulgarity ofmanner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now toback out of his intimacy with the Melmottes generally? He was engagedto marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his hands. Thoughat this moment he hated the father most bitterly, as those odiouswords, and the tone in which they had been pronounced, rang in hisears, nevertheless he had some kindly feeling for the girl. Of coursehe could not marry her now. That was manifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others, had known that she was to bemarried for her money, and now that bubble had been burst. But he feltthat he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the whole beenloyal to him, to have some personal explanation with herself. Hearranged in his own mind the sort of speech that he would make to her. 'Of course you know it can't be. It was all arranged because you wereto have a lot of money, and now it turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. It'sout of the question. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like youvery much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon welltogether. ' That was the kind of speech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find for himself the opportunity of makingit. He thought that he must put it all into a letter. But then thatwould be tantamount to a written confession that he had made her anoffer of marriage, and he feared that Melmotte, --or Madame Melmotte onhis behalf, if the great man himself were absent, in prison, --mightmake an ungenerous use of such an admission. 

Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he sawDolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte, the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody. Dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a senseof his own importance. 'I wonder whether it's true, ' he was saying toLord Grasslough. 'He has an appointment to meet me and my governor attwelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He sworeyesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep hisappointment, you know, if he's in prison. '

'You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that, ' saidGrasslough. 

'I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. He had no more right than you have to give up the property. Here'sNidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to speak tohim since he cut up so rough the other night. '

In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grassloughasked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte, the latter answered out loud, 'Yes I left him in the House half anhour ago. '

'People are saying that he has been arrested. '

'I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when I leftthe House. ' Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe'sshoulder, and spoke to him. 'I suppose you were about right the othernight and I was about wrong; but you could understand what it was thatI meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us. '

'Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me, ' said Dolly. 'I thinkyou're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel. Suppose we have a rubber of whist. '

Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte hadtried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, andthat he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall. 'By George, I should like to have seen that!' said Dolly. 

'I am very glad I was not there, ' said Nidderdale. It was threeo'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte waslying dead upon the floor in Mr Longestaffe's house. 

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat atbreakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square. From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a fewhundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with hisfather, and the two had now met by appointment in order that somethingmight be settled between them as to the proposed marriage. The Marquiswas not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in which he wasinterested did not go exactly as he would have them. He could be verycross and say most disagreeable words, --so that the ladies of thefamily, and others connected with him, for the most part, found itimpossible to live with him. But his eldest son had endured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated with anearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own extremegood humour. What did a few hard words matter? If his father wasungracious to him, of course he knew what all that meant. As long ashis father would make fair allowance for his own peccadilloes, --healso would make allowances for his father's roughness. All this wasbased on his grand theory of live and let live. He expected his fatherto be a little cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himselfthat there was cause for it. 

He was a little late himself, and he found his father alreadybuttering his toast. 'I don't believe you'd get out of bed a momentsooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it. '

'You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don'tearn the money. ' Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish. 

'I suppose you were drinking last night, ' said the old lord. 

'Not particular. ' The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth athim. 'The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that. '

'I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne. Well;--what have you got to say about all this?'

'What have you got to say?'

'You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it. '

'I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to ownthat. I suppose the whole thing is over?'

'I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her ownmoney. ' Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviourin the House on the preceding evening. 'What the devil does thatmatter?' said the old man. 'You're not going to marry the manhimself. '

'I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now. '

'And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money ishers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't bechoosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?'

'I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else. ' TheMarquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give hisson much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such asearch. 'At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who isto be put upon his trial for forgery. '

'I can't see what that has to do with you. '

'I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but Icouldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money. '

'Then you may just go to the devil, ' said the old Marquis turninghimself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up thenewspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfectequanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. 'They tellme, ' said the old man, 'that one of those Goldsheiner girls will havea lot of money. '

'A Jewess, ' suggested Nidderdale. 

'What difference does that make?'

'Oh no;--not in the least if the money's really there. Have you heardany sum named, sir?'

The old man only grunted. 'There are two sisters and two brothers. Idon't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each. '

'They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has abouttwenty thousand a year. '

'It's only for her life, sir. '

'She could insure her life. D--- me, sir, we must do something. If youturn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?'

'I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest wouldbe a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it. ' Theold man growled again. 'You see, sir, I've been so much in earnestabout this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any oneelse. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pitythere shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount ofmoney, and what is expected in return. It'd save a deal of trouble. '

'If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away, 'said the old Marquis. 

At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdalethat a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was notalways anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked theservant whether he knew who the man was. 'I believe, my lord, he's oneof the domestics from Mr Melmotte's in Bruton Street, ' said thefootman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstancesof Lord Nidderdale's engagement. The son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. 'You'd better go and see, 'said the Marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as towhat he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. 'Go and seeMelmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him you are readyto marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won'tstir a step till it has been actually paid over. '

'He knows that already, ' said Nidderdale as he left the room. 

In the hall he found a man whom he recognized as Melmotte's butler, aponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. Butthe lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself hadsome story to tell. 'Is there anything the matter?'

'Yes, my lord, --yes. Oh, dear, --oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry tohear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much asyour lordship. '

'They've taken him to prison!' exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shookhis head. 'What is it then? He can't be dead. ' Then the man nodded hishead, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. 'MrMelmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw himmyself. How did he die?' But the fat, ponderous man was so affected bythe tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give anyaccount of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the notewhich he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, andhad been written within half an hour of the time at which news hadbeen brought to her of what had occurred. The note was as follows:

 DEAR LORD NIDDERDALE, The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?

 MARIE. 

He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as tothe manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gathering froma word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that somethingspecial had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. 'Mr Melmotte is--dead, ' said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell backagainst the wall. 'This man says that he is dead, and here is a letterfrom Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he--died?'

'It was--poison, ' said the butler solemnly. 'There has been a doctoralready, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himselflast night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandyand soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. Then in themorning, when the young woman went in, --there he was, --poisoned! I seehim lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was thatsmell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just thesame as when the doctor came and told us. '

Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultationbetween the father and son as to a compliance with the request whichMarie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his sonhad better not go to Bruton Street. 'What's the use? What good can youdo? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've gotto avoid, --at any rate, till you know how things are. '

But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to thisadvice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abjectmisery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any rate forthe time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he feltwilling to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get, --butbecause she had so nearly been so near to him. 'I couldn't refuseher, ' he said over and over again. 'I couldn't bring myself to do it. Oh, no;--I shall certainly go. '

'You'll get into a mess if you do. '

'Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at once. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would beabominable. ' Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by thebutler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half anhour. 

'Don't you go and make a fool of yourself, ' his father said to himwhen he was alone. 'This is just one of those times when a man mayruin himself by being softhearted. ' Nidderdale simply shook his headas he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street. 

CHAPTER LXXXVI - THE MEETING IN BRUTON STREET

When the news of her husband's death was in some very rough wayconveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether. Marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stoodby the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps bythe necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman asby her own superior strength of character, to save herself from thatprostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow is aptto produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidingsof the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside. But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame Melmottesoon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was notonly active but efficacious. No;--she would not go down to the room;she could do no good by going thither. But they must send for a doctor. They should send for a doctor immediately. She was then told that adoctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below. Thenecessity of throwing whatever responsibility there might be on toother shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and theyhad sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled withpersons fit to give directions in such an emergency. The officers fromthe police station were already there when the woman who now filledDidon's place in the house communicated to Madame Melmotte the factthat she was a widow. 

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. But thecondemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly notthat which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters. He had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whoseslightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become mattersof serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles wereglorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missedwould be missed with mourning. How should it have been so with her? Inall the intercourses of her family, since the first rough usage whichshe remembered, there had never been anything sweet or gracious. Though she had recognized a certain duty, as due from herself to herfather, she had found herself bound to measure it, so that more shouldnot be exacted from her than duty required. She had long known thather father would fain make her a slave for his own purposes, and thatif she put no limits to her own obedience he certainly would put none. She had drawn no comparison between him and other fathers, or betweenherself and other daughters, because she had never become conversantwith the ways of other families. After a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had neverrespected him, and had spent the best energies of her character on aresolve that she would never fear him. 'He may cut me into pieces, buthe shall not make me do for his advantage that which I do not think hehas a right to exact from me. ' That had been the state of her mindtowards her father; and now that he had taken himself away withterrible suddenness, leaving her to face the difficulties of the worldwith no protector and no assistance, the feeling which dominated herwas no doubt one of awe rather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Thosewho depart must have earned such sorrow before it can be really felt. They who are left may be overwhelmed by the death--even of their mostcruel tormentors. Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but itcould not probably be said of her with truth that she was crushed bypure grief. There was fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear ofsudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear of some necessarymovement she knew not whither, fear that she might be discovered to bea poor wretched impostor who never could have been justified instanding in the same presence with emperors and princes, withduchesses and cabinet ministers. This and the fact that the dead bodyof the man who had so lately been her tyrant was lying near her, sothat she might hardly dare to leave her room lest she should encounterhim dead, and thus more dreadful even than when alive, utterlyconquered her. Feelings of the same kind, the same fears, and the sameawe were powerful also with Marie;--but they did not conquer her. Shewas strong and conquered them; and she did not care to affect aweakness to which she was in truth superior. In such a household thedeath of such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce thattender sorrow which comes from real love. 

She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and haddoubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had beengreater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to signthose deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told herthe truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means ofknowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. But shehad offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her that itwould be of no avail, --and at that time had not been angry with heras he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin. Shetook some comfort in thinking of that. 

But what was she to do? What was to be done generally by thatover-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had been instructedto pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed the order. Butshe herself at this moment cared but little for any property. Howought she to behave herself? Where should she go? On whose arm couldshe lean for some support at this terrible time? As for love, andengagements, and marriage, --that was all over. In her difficulty shenever for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury. Though she had beensilly enough to love the man because he was pleasant to look at, shehad never been so far gone in silliness as to suppose that he was astaff upon which any one might lean. Had that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. But it might be possible that LordNidderdale would help her. He was good-natured and manly, and would beefficacious, --if only he would come to her. He was near, and shethought that at any rate she would try. So she had written her noteand sent it by the butler, --thinking as she did so of the words shewould use to make the young man understand that all the nonsense theyhad talked as to marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothingnow. 

It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shownupstairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. As hepassed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open, hesaw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of thedead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without aglance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen hisburly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. Andnow the man was dead, --having destroyed his own life. Surely the manmust have known when he uttered those words what it was that heintended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie, conscious as he was that every one was deserting him, he must eventhen have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that itwas better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might betheir 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. And yethe had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and hadspoken of it as though he still believed that it would beaccomplished!

Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Marie waswith him. He walked up to her, took her by both hands, and looked intoher face. There was no trace of a tear, but her whole countenanceseemed to him to be altered. She was the first to speak. 

'I thought you would come when I sent for you. '

'Of course I came. '

'I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. Youwon't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more ofall those things which he was planning?' She paused a moment, but hewas not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. 'Youknow what has happened?'

'Your servant told us. '

'What are we to do? Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poor papa!Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered I wish thatI could be dead too. '

'Has your mother been told?'

'Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment. Itwas better that it should be so;--better at last. But we have nofriends who would be considerate enough to try to save us from sorrow. But I think it was better. Mamma is very bad. She is always nervous andtimid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What ought we to do? Itis Mr Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it to-morrow. '

'He will not mind that now. '

'Where must we go? We can't go back to that big place in GrosvenorSquare. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and thepolicemen?'

'I will do that. '

'But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should Iask you to do anything?'

'Because we are friends. '

'No, ' she said, 'no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I havebeen an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a person likeyou at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor papa, --poorpapa!' And then for the first time she burst into tears. 

'I wish I knew what might comfort you, ' he said. 

'How can there be any comfort? There never can be comfort again! Asfor comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one troubleafter another, --one fear after another! And now we are friendless andhomeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have. '

'Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?'

'I think he had ever so many, --but I do not know who they were. Hisown clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left himyesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; butnow that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the name ofone of them. Mr Miles Grendall used to be with him. '

'I do not think that he could be of much service. '

'Nor Lord Alfred? Lord Alfred was always with him till very lately. 'Nidderdale shook his head. 'I suppose not. They only came because papahad a big house. ' The young lord could not but feel that he wasincluded in the same rebuke. 'Oh, what a life it has been! And now, --now it's over. ' As she said this it seemed that for the moment herstrength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of the sofa. He tried to raise her, but she shook him away, burying her face in herhands. He was standing close to her, still holding her arm, when heheard a knock at the front door, which was immediately opened, as theservants were hanging about in the hall. 'Who are they?' said Marie, whose sharp ears caught the sound of various steps. Lord Nidderdalewent out on to the head of the stairs, and immediately heard the voiceof Dolly Longestaffe. 

Dolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the careof Mr Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had methis father with Mr Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They wereall coming according to appointment to receive the money which MrMelmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. Of course theyhad none of them as yet heard of the way in which the Financier hadmade his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the doorhad been intent only in reference to their own money. Squercum, whohad heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that themoney would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine ofsuccess. 'Don't we wish we may get it?' Dolly had said, and by sayingso had very much offended his father, who had resented the want ofreverence implied in the use of that word 'we'. They had all beenadmitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an oldacquaintance with some of the articles around him. 'I knew I'd got acoat just like that, ' said Dolly, 'and I never could make out what myfellow had done with it. ' This was the speech which Nidderdale hadheard, standing on the top of the stairs. 

The two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who hadopened the door and from the presence of three or four servants in thehall, that things were not going on in their usual course. BeforeDolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to MrBideawhile that Mr Melmotte--'was no more. '

'Dead!' exclaimed Mr Bideawhile. Squercum put his hands into histrousers pockets and opened his mouth wide. 'Dead!' muttered MrLongestaffe senior. 'Dead!' said Dolly. 'Who's dead?' The butler shookhis head. Then Squercum whispered a word into the butler's ear, andthe butler thereupon nodded his head. 'It's about what I expected, 'said Squercum. Then the butler whispered the word to Mr Longestaffe, and whispered it also to Mr Bideawhile, and they all knew that themillionaire had swallowed poison during the night. 

It was known to the servants that Mr Longestaffe was the owner of thehouse, and he was therefore, as having authority there, shown into theroom where the body of Melmotte was lying on a sofa. The two lawyersand Dolly of course followed, as did also Lord Nidderdale, who had nowjoined them from the lobby above. There was a policeman in the roomwho seemed to be simply watching the body, and who rose from his seatwhen the gentlemen entered. Two or three of the servants followedthem, so that there was almost a crowd round the dead man's bier. There was no further tale to be told. That Melmotte had been in theHouse on the previous night, and had there disgraced himself byintoxication, they had known already. That he had been found dead thatmorning had been already announced. They could only stand round andgaze on the square, sullen, livid features of the big-framed man, andeach lament that he had ever heard the name of Melmotte. 

'Are you in the house here?' said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in awhisper. 

'She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebodyto tell her something. I must go up to her again now. '

'Had you seen him before?'

'No indeed. I only came down when I heard your voices. I fear it willbe rather bad for you;--won't it?'

'He was regularly smashed, I suppose?' asked Dolly. 

'I know nothing myself. He talked to me about his affairs once, but hewas such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything. Ibelieved him then. How it will go, I can't say. '

'That other thing is all over of course, ' suggested Dolly. Nidderdaleintimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing was all over, and then returned to Marie. There was nothing further that the fourgentlemen could do, and they soon departed from the house;--not, however, till Mr Bideawhile had given certain short injunctions to thebutler concerning the property contained in Mr Longestaffe's townresidence. 

'They had come to see him, ' said Lord Nidderdale in a whisper. 'Therewas some appointment. He had told them to be all here at this hour. '

'They didn't know, then?' asked Marie. 

'Nothing;--till the man told them. '

'And did you go in?'

'Yes; we all went into the room. ' Marie shuddered, and again hid herface. 'I think the best thing I can do, ' said Nidderdale, 'is to go toAbchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom hechiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, becausehe has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find outCroll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyerto arrange everything for you. '

'And where had we better go to?'

'Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?'

'Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfort would bethe best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? Andcouldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr Longestaffe'shouse?' Nidderdale promised that he himself would look for lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer. 'And now, my lord, I suppose that Inever shall see you again, ' said Marie. 

'I don't know why you should say that. '

'Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be troubleenough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't thinkit has been my fault. '

'Nothing has ever been your fault. '

'Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindestpeople I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for differentreasons, but I do not want you to come back. '

'Good-bye, Marie. I shall always remember you. ' And so they parted. 

After that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding both MrSmith and Herr Croll. When he reached Abchurch Lane, the news ofMelmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known orsaid to be known, of his circumstances than Nidderdale had as yetheard. The crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been thedesertion of Cohenlupe, --that and the sudden fall in the value of theSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway shares, consequent on therumours spread about the City respecting the Pickering property. Itwas asserted in Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touchedthe Pickering property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood forWestminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to doany or all of those things without danger, simply as the result of themoney which would then have been realized by the railway. But he hadallowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively smallsums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one dangerto another, till at last the waters around him had become too deepeven for him, and had overwhelmed him. As to his immediate death, HerrCroll expressed not the slightest astonishment. It was just the thing, Herr Croll said, that he had been sure that Melmotte would do, shouldhis difficulties ever become too great for him. 'And dere vas a leetleting he lay himself open by de oder day, ' said Croll, 'dat vas nasty, --very nasty. ' Nidderdale shook his head, but asked no questions. Crollhad alluded to the use of his own name, but did not on this occasionmake any further revelation. Then Croll made a further statement toLord Nidderdale, which I think he must have done in pure good-nature. 'Mylor, ' he said, whispering very gravely, 'de money of de yong ladyis all her own. ' Then he nodded his head three times. 'Nobody can tochit, not if he vas in debt millions. ' Again he nodded his head. 

'I am very glad to hear it for her sake, ' said Lord Nidderdale as hetook his leave. 

CHAPTER LXXXVII - DOWN AT CARBURY

When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins inWelbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself. That heshould be discontented generally with the circumstances of his lifewas a matter of course. He knew that he was farther removed than everfrom the object on which his whole mind was set. Had Hetta Carburylearned all the circumstances of Paul's engagement with Mrs Hurtlebefore she had confessed her love to Paul, --so that her heart mighthave been turned against the man before she had made her confession, --then, he thought, she might at last have listened to him. Even thoughshe had loved the other man, she might have at last done so, as herlove would have been buried in her own bosom. But the tale had beentold after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his owninterests. Hetta had never heard Mrs Hurtle's name till she had givenherself away, and had declared to all her friends that she had givenherself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. The more Rogerthought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the moreconvinced that that man had done him an injury which he could neverforgive. 

But his grief extended even beyond that. Though he was never tired ofswearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul Montague, yet therewas 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. He haddeclined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs Hurtle, --actuatedby a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust put in him by a manwho was at the time his friend; and he had told nothing. But no oneknew so well as he did the fact that all the attention latterly givenby 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 desertthe woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness. IfHetta could know everything exactly, --if she could look back and readthe state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it, --then she wouldprobably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that there wasnothing for her to forgive. Roger was anxious that Hetta's angershould burn hot, --because of the injury done to himself. He thought thatthere were ample reasons why Paul Montague should be punished, --why Paulshould be utterly expelled from among them, and allowed to go his owncourse. But it was not right that the man should be punished on falsegrounds. It seemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to hisenemy by refraining from telling all that he knew. 

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 hehad to her happiness, I do not think that at the present moment he wasdisturbed in that direction. It is hardly natural, perhaps, that a manshould love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make her happy bygiving her to another man. Roger told himself that Paul would be anunsafe husband, a fickle husband, --one who might be carried hither andthither both in his circumstances and his feelings, --and that it wouldbe better for Hetta that she should not marry him; but at the sametime he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to acertain amount of deceit. 

And yet he had said not a word. He had referred Hetta to the manhimself. He thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know, the state of Hetta's mind. She was wretched because she thought thatwhile her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willinglyallowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, andmaking to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her. This was not true. Roger knew that it was not true. But when he triedto quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out amongthemselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance. 

His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had becometired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never fora moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. Roger had told himonce that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject offurther conversation between them. In answer to this, Father Barhamhad declared that he would never consent to remain as an intimateassociate with any man on those terms. Roger had persisted in hisstipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his host'sintention to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply, and the priest had of course been banished. But even this added to hismisery. Father Barham was a gentleman, was a good man, and in greatpenury. To ill-treat such a one, to expel such a one from his house, seemed to Roger to be an abominable cruelty. He was unhappy withhimself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come backto him. It was already being said of him among his neighbours, atEardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that he either hadbecome or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the priest's influence. Mrs Yeld had even taken upon herself to write to him a mostaffectionate letter, in which she said very little as to any evidencethat had reached her as to Roger's defection, but dilated at verygreat length on the abominations of a certain lady who is supposed toindulge in gorgeous colours. 

He was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at Sheep'sAcre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry JohnCrumb. Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and accused by hisneighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to thatsource of consolation which he found to be most easily within hisreach. Since Ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was makinghimself generally a scandal and a nuisance. His landlord hadinterfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had alwaysdeclared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause of it all; fornow, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the loveras he did to the girl. John Crumb wasn't in earnest. If he had been inearnest he would have gone after her to London at once. No;--he wouldn'tinvite Ruby to come back. If Ruby would come back, repentant, full ofsorrow, --and hadn't been and made a fool of herself in the meantime, --then he'd think of taking her back. In the meantime, with circumstancesin their present condition, he evidently thought that he could best facethe difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, earlyin the day and all day long. This, too, was a grievance to RogerCarbury. 

But he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the presentmoment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. He wasmaking hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river side; andwas standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw JohnCrumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since theeventful journey to London; nor had he seen him in London; but he knewwell all that had occurred, --how the dealer in pollard had thrashed hiscousin, Sir Felix, how he had been locked up by the police and thenliberated, --and how he was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, as far asarms were concerned, but as being very 'soft' in the matter of love. The reader need hardly be told that Roger was not at all disposed toquarrel with Mr Crumb, because the victim of Crumb's heroism had beenhis own cousin. Crumb had acted well, and had never said a word aboutSir Felix since his return to the country. No doubt he had now come totalk about his love, --and in order that his confessions might not bemade before all the assembled haymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meethim. There was soon evident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine ofdelight. As Roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wavea bit of paper that he had in his hands. 'She's a coomin; she's acoomin, ' were the first words he uttered. Roger knew very well that inhis friend's mind there was but one 'she' in the world, and that thename of that she was Ruby Ruggles. 

'I am delighted to hear it, ' said Roger. 'She has made it up with hergrandfather?'

'Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me. Know'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd shewould. '

'Has she written to you, then?'

'Well, squoire, --she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn'tthe way they does it. But it's all as one. ' And then Mr Crumb thrustMrs Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's hand. 

Roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of MrsHurtle. Since he had first known Mrs Hurtle's name, when Paul Montaguehad told the story of his engagement on his return from America, Rogerhad regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman. It may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced against all Americans, lookingupon Washington much as he did upon Jack Cade or Wat Tyler; and hepictured to himself all American women as being loud, masculine, andatheistical. But it certainly did seem that in this instance MrsHurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity. 'She is alady, ' Crumb began to explain, 'who do be living with Mrs Pipkin; andshe is a lady as is a lady. '

Roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but heexplained that he, too, knew something of Mrs Hurtle, and that hethought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true. 'True, squoire, ' said Crumb, laughing with his whole face. 'I ha' nae a doubtit's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped intot'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was toblame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into himwhen I first heard as he was arter her. It's that as girls like. So, squoire, I'm just going again to Lon'on right away. '

Roger suggested that old Ruggles would, of course, receive his niece;but as to this John expressed his supreme indifference. The old manwas nothing to him. Of course he would like to have the old man'smoney; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed thatthings would come right in time. But this he knew, --that he wasn'tgoing to cringe to the old man about his money. When Roger observedthat it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which shemight at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all thesubstantial comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea, thaton arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to church and bemarried to her out of hand. He had thrashed his rival, and what causecould there now be for delay?

But before he left the field he made one other speech to the squire. 'You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin toyourself?'

'Not in the least, Mr Crumb. '

'That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, andI 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'llcome to Bungay. '

Roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation onthe part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on hisown part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in that matter of thestreet encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate andcontinued happiness of Mr and Mrs John Crumb. 

'Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire, ' said Crumb as he went exulting outof the field. 

On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbedhim very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return anyanswer, or what answer. It was from Paul Montague, and was written byhim but a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta with hisown hands, at the door of her mother's house. Paul's letter to Rogerwas as follows:--

 MY DEAR ROGER, --

 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. 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. 

 You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I am justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right. 

 Somebody has told her the story of Mrs Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix, and that he had learned it from those people at Islington. But she has been told that which is untrue. Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. 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. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs Hurtle, --as to which nothing at present need be said, --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. But after all that had passed I certainly owed it to her not to neglect her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one. 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. 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. 

 I appeal to you to let Hetta know that this is true. 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. Neither Lady Carbury nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it. You, and you only, have known the truth. And now, though at the present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. You will understand me when I say that I feel that I am being destroyed by a false representation. 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. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that. 

 Yours always, PAUL MONTAGUE. 

'What business is all that of mine?' This, of course, was the firstfeeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's letter. If Hetta hadreceived any false impression, it had not come from him. He had toldno stories against his rival, whether true or false. He had been soscrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And if any falseimpression had been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances orby untrue words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might fallupon him? 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 erroneousimpressions. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offeringto make Mrs Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury. Such, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as he thought over allthe circumstances. At any rate, it was no business of his to correctthese wrong impressions. 

And yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. He did believethat every word in Montague's letter was true. Though he had been veryindignant when he met Roger and Mrs Hurtle together on the sands atLowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their comingthere had been precisely that which Montague had stated. It took himtwo days to think over all this, two days of great discomfort andunhappiness. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girldid not care for him, --looked upon him as an old man to be regardedin a fashion altogether different from that in which she regardedPaul Montague. He had let his time for love-making go by, and now itbehoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not tolose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could neverattain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair andhonest, without reference to his own feelings. And yet the passionwhich dominated John Crumb altogether, which made the mealman sointent on the attainment of his object as to render all other thingsindifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with RogerCarbury. Unfortunately for Roger, strong as his passion was, it wasembarrassed by other feelings. It never occurred to Crumb to thinkwhether he was a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having adecided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him. Butwith Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamperhim. John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should do. He hadto get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her whatever shemight cost him. He was always confident though sometimes perplexed. But Roger had no confidence. He knew that he should never win thegame. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. Thepeople around him, from old fashion, still called him the youngsquire! Why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years old, --so oldthat he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile spirits asthose of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend Hepworth. Couldhe, by any training, bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?

In such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's letter, --andhe answered it as follows:--

 I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. 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. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. 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. 

 ROGER CARBURY. 

 Paul Montague, Esq. 

 You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!

There was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that spiritof self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself; and so hehimself felt after the letter had been dispatched. 

CHAPTER LXXXVIII - THE INQUEST

Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on theevening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed tolodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead. HerrCroll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance hadbusied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were madeinstantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale himselfhad assisted them in their departure; and the German, with the poorwoman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed according toMelmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which tookthe mother and the daughter. They did not start till nine o'clock inthe evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment would fain have beenallowed to rest one other night in Bruton Street. But Lord Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand that the inquestwould be held early on the following morning, and Marie was imperiouswith her mother and carried her point. So the poor woman was takenaway from Mr Longestaffe's residence, and never again saw the grandeurof her own house in Grosvenor Square, which she had not visited sincethe night on which she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China. 

On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightestdoubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The servants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them, learned that hehad come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisonedby prussic acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in theHouse of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, verymuch against his will, was called upon to testify. That he haddestroyed himself there was no doubt, --nor was there any doubt as tothe cause. 

In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether theunfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and hasrushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition ofthings elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Survivingfriends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in thatcase no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like anyother body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man wasmad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to havebeen mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in theirverdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life; if he benot hated, or has not in his last moments made himself speciallyobnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven byhorrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw noescape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubtto the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? Who wouldremit to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopherwho has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himselfpowerless to do further good upon earth? Such, and such like, have ofcourse been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangenessmay have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings withtheir fellow-mortals. But let a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottleof prussic acid by his side--a man who has become horrid to the worldbecause of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to berich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties withoutpaying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin tofriends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard towealth, a brute who had got into the House of Commons by falsepretences, and had disgraced the House by being drunk there, --and, ofcourse, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the crossroads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who havekilled themselves with their wits about them. Just at this momentthere was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps asmuch to his having tumbled over poor Mr Beauchamp in the House ofCommons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and thevirtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have beenresponsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was felo dese, and therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But itmay be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become asmad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers ofendurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himselfconstrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all thathappened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summonsto attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There weresome, among them Croll and Mr Brehgert, who absolutely knew that hehad committed forgery. He had no money for the Longestaffes, and hewas well aware what Squercum would do at once. He had assured himselflong ago, --he had assured himself indeed not very long ago, --that hewould brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we canbear, and what would break our backs. Melmotte's back had been soutterly crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to havejustified a verdict of temporary insanity. 

But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his namewas hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing tookplace, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made to themanes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious. Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in otherdistricts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinnedagainst than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the oldstagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderfulthings. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite withaffection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could hisghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while totalk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had beendone to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone alonethat spoke of a monument. 

Mr Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of ita few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had beenno further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town;and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour ofencountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much for MrLongestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming aquestion with both of them how far they had been ruined by theirconnection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not getback the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying theamount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clearthat they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so byfunds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking uponthe stool in Mr Squercum's office, where he now passed a considerableportion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage. 

'By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?'

Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found whatpickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had madeinquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must beproperty, but property so involved and tied up as to make itimpossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. 'They say that the things inthe square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot ofjewels, but the women have taken them, ' said Squercum. 

'By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you everhear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down, --my house; and alldone without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a thingwas ever known before, since properties were properties. ' Then heuttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to whomhe declared his intention of 'making it very hot for them. '

It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr Longestaffe that themanagement of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively intothe hands of Mr Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealingswith Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as muchimmediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. But thenhe was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and hewas the man to whom Mr Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Thenthere arose necessities for the presence of Mr Brehgert in the housein which Melmotte had lately lived and had died. The dead man's paperswere still there, --deeds, documents, and such letters as he had notchosen to destroy;--and these could not be moved quite at once. 'MrBrehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as itis necessary, --absolutely necessary, ' said Mr Longestaffe in answerto a message which was brought to him; 'but he will of course see theexpediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible. 'But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejectedsuitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured andforbearing after the injuries he had received. 

All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which MrLongestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of £300 due to himfor the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it becameknown that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fiftyper cent. Payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing byMelmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was verycomfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all theparties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied beforethe father took anything. Mr Longestaffe resolved during these weeksthat 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 shouldbe absolutely sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants atCaversham should be reduced in number and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, whichshe was instructed to read to her daughters. 'I have suffered greatwrongs, ' said Mr Longestaffe, 'but I must submit to them, and as Isubmit so must my wife and children. If our son were different fromwhat he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature Icannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience. ' Fromwhat incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness atCaversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with hernuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for acombat. I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; butshe said not a word even about that. 

But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story areanticipated. Mr Longestaffe had remained in London actually over the1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of theyear, before the letter was written to which allusion has been made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr Brehgert, and absolutely formed akind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination ofhis religion, --so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask MrBrehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This, too, was inthe early days of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when MrLongestaffe's heart had been softened by that arrangement withreference to the rent. Mr Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhatsingular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat togetherover a bottle of Mr Longestaffe's old port wine. Hitherto not a wordhad passed between them respecting the connection which had once beenproposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had said somany bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening MrBrehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whosefeelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way thatat first startled Mr Longestaffe. The subject was introduced by areference which Brehgert had made to his own affairs. His loss wouldbe, at any rate, double that which Mr Longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very nearhis heart. 'Of course there's a difference between me and you, ' hesaid. Mr Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say thatthere was of course a very wide difference. 'In our affairs, 'continued Brehgert, 'we expect gains, and of course look foroccasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a propertyhe expects to get the purchase-money. '

'Of course he does, Mr Brehgert. That's what made it so hard. '

'I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he tookupon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, andsome of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely. '

'I suppose so. '

'It was old Mr Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as muchas Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of ourhouse. The long and short of it is that I shall lose something aboutsixty thousand pounds. '

'That's a large sum of money. '

'Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In mycorrespondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty topoint out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she toldyou. '

This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset MrLongestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, mostdeserving of censure; but Mr Longestaffe did not know how to pronouncehis censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the presenttime so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the arrangement ofhis affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with theman. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as heasserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact. 

'It was so, ' said Brehgert

'No doubt;'--and Mr Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity. 

'Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enoughto listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I wouldmaintain a second house when we should be married. '

'It was impossible, ' said Mr Longestaffe, --meaning to assert that suchhymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question. 

'It would have been quite possible as things were when thatproposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which Iafterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, Ifound it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, andI thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe. '

'There were other reasons, ' muttered Mr Longestaffe, in a suppressedvoice, almost in a whisper, --in a whisper which was intended to conveya sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence. 

'There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffedid me the honour to write to me, --a letter with which I have not theslightest right to find any fault, --she seemed to me to confine herselfalmost exclusively to that reason. '

'Why mention this now, Mr Brehgert; why mention this now? The subjectis painful. '

'Just because it is not painful to me, Mr Longestaffe; and because Iwish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it isnot painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman. ' MrLongestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowedit three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from sodubious an oracle. 'I am sure. ' continued Brehgert, 'that I behavedlike an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should bepassed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself. '

'Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended. '

'I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend. ' Finishingthe conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to take hisleave, making some promise at the time that he would use all theexpedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotteaffairs. 

As soon as he was gone Mr Longestaffe opened the door and walked aboutthe room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleansehimself from the impurities of his late contact. He told himself thathe could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar had the manbeen, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how littlegrateful for the honour which Mr Longestaffe had conferred upon him byasking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not all Jewsnecessarily an abomination? Yet Mr Longestaffe was aware that in thepresent crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with MrBrehgert. 

CHAPTER LXXXIX - 'THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE'

It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical work onthe Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and given to theworld. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was as farback as in February that she had solicited the assistance of certainof her literary friends who were connected with the daily and weeklypress. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more or lesszealous aid, so that the 'Criminal Queens' had been regarded in thetrade as one of the successful books of the season. Messrs. Leadhamand Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a fourthand fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements to givetestimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury's book wasabout the greatest historical work which had emanated from the pressin the present century. With this object a passage was extracted evenfrom the columns of the 'Evening Pulpit, '--which showed very greatingenuity on the part of some young man connected with theestablishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter. Lady Carbury had sufferedsomething in the struggle. What efforts can mortals make as to whichthere will not be some disappointment? Paper and print cannot be hadfor nothing, and advertisements are very costly. An edition may besold with startling rapidity, but it may have been but a scantyedition. When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and Loitertheir second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a fear ontheir part that there would not probably be a third, --unless someunforeseen demand should arise, --she repeated to herself thosewell-known lines from the satirist, --

 'Oh, Amos Cottle, for a moment think What meagre profits spread from pen and ink. '

But not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to furtherattempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her'Criminal Queens' before she was busy on another work; and althoughthe last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble, andsometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than onceforced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her, stillshe had persevered. From day to day, with all her cares heavy uponher, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so many linesshould be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them bewhat it might. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that they mightbe justified in offering her certain terms for a novel, --terms not veryhigh indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the manuscript bytheir reader. The smallness of the sum offered, and the want ofcertainty, and the pain of the work in her present circumstances, hadall been felt by her to be very hard. But she had persevered, and thenovel was now complete. 

It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special taleto tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr Loiter hadtold her that upon the whole novels did better than anything else. Shewould have written a volume of sermons on the same encouragement, andhave gone about the work exactly after the same fashion. The length ofher novel had been her first question. It must be in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages. But what fewest numberof words might be supposed sufficient to fill a page? The moneyoffered was too trifling to allow of very liberal measure on her part. She had to live, and if possible to write another novel, --and, as shehoped, upon better terms, --when this should be finished. Then whatshould be the name of her novel; what the name of her hero; and aboveall what the name of her heroine? It must be a love story of course;but she thought that she would leave the complications of the plot tocome by chance, --and they did come. 'Don't let it end unhappily, LadyCarbury, ' Mr Loiter had said, 'because though people like it in aplay, they hate it in a book. And whatever you do, Lady Carbury, don'tbe historical. Your historical novel, Lady Carbury, isn't worth a--'Mr Loiter stopping himself suddenly, and remembering that he wasaddressing himself to a lady, satisfied his energy at last by the useof the word 'straw. ' Lady Carbury had followed these instructions withaccuracy. 

The name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur tothe authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itselfand was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title, altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellationmight best suit her work when its purpose should have declared itself. A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which by any othername will smell as sweet. 'The Faultless Father, ' 'The MysteriousMother, ' 'The Lame Lover, '--such names as that she was aware would beuseless now. 'Mary Jane Walker, ' if she could be very simple, woulddo, or 'Blanche De Veau, ' if she were able to maintain throughout asomewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. But as she consideredthat she could best deal with rapid action and strange coincidences, she thought that something more startling and descriptive would bettersuit her purpose. After an hour's thought a name did occur to her, andshe wrote it down, and with considerable energy of purpose framed herwork in accordance with her chosen title, 'The Wheel of Fortune!' Shehad no particular fortune in her mind when she chose it, and noparticular wheel;--but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her theplot which she wanted. A young lady was blessed with great wealth, andlost it all by an uncle, and got it all back by an honest lawyer, andgave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all again in athird volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by LadyCarbury as never having been heard before either in the world of factor in that of fiction. 

And now with all her troubles thick about her, --while her son was stillhanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother'sheart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regardedall those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finished her work, and having just written the last words in which the final glow ofenduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheelhad now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, andhad completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat with her handnear the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. Whetherthe work might have been better done she never asked herself. I do notthink that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the tale. But if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she could induceMudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a monthshould be so loaded with 'The Wheel of Fortune, ' as to make itnecessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that ithad read the book, --then she would pride herself very much upon herwork. 

As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr Alfwas announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight atseeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such atime, --when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr Alf!Mr Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was notpeculiarly occupied just at present. 'The Emperor has left Europe atlast, ' he said. 'Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and theinquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interestto-day. ' Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book, rather eventhan on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. Oh, ifshe could only get Mr Alf! She had tried it before, and had failedlamentably. She was well aware of that; and she had a deep-seatedconviction that it would be almost impossible to get Mr Alf. But thenshe had another deep-seated conviction, that that which is almostimpossible may possibly be done. How great would be the glory, howinfinite the service! And did it not seem as though Providence hadblessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr Alf to her justat the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of hernovel without seeming premeditation?

'I am so tired, ' she said, affecting to throw herself back as thoughstretching her arms out for ease. 

'I hope I am not adding to your fatigue, ' said Mr Alf. 'Oh dear no. Itis not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. Just asyou knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have beenworking, oh, with such diligence!'

'Oh;--a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?'

'You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I have done my part ofthe work. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr Alf?'

'I? Oh dear no; I never write anything. '

'I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most. One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! One lovesthe loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion thosewho are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one istempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's ownpathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one'sown sagacity and knowledge. '

'How very nice!'

'But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of thecoin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. Theheroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is foundto-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so cheeryon the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument, ' and she put her handupon the manuscript; 'to-day I feel it to be only too heavy for agravestone!'

'One's judgement about one's self always does vacillate, ' said Mr Alfin a tone as phlegmatic as were the words. 

'And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctlyof one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, whichis more perhaps than can be said of all the critics. '

'Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carbury, --atleast not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. Inwhat little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I havestriven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker;but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. Ithink that when I gave up the "Evening Pulpit, " I left upon it a staffof writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business. '

'You given up the "Pulpit"?' asked Lady Carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether anyand if so what advantage might be taken of Mr Alf's new position. Hewas no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibilitywould no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. Might he notbe persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeedif she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground beforehim, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poorstruggling woman?

'Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course thatI should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new memberhas so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again. '

'And you are no longer an editor?'

'I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruplesof those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crimeagainst the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while Iwas managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course Iknow where it came from. '

'Where did it come from?'

'Where should it come from but the "Breakfast Table"? Broune and Ihave been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I knowhe is the most jealous. '

'That is so little, ' said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of MrBroune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour Mr Alf. 

'It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit inParliament than an editor of a newspaper, --that is if he is capableas an editor. '

'No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you. '

'The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. Ialmost regret it. '

'I dare say you do, ' said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious totalk about her own affairs instead of his. 'I suppose you still retainan interest in the paper?'

'Some pecuniary interest;--nothing more. '

'Oh, Mr Alf, --you could do me such a favour!'

'Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will. ' False-hearted, false-tonguedman! Of course he knew at the moment what was the favour Lady Carburyintended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he wouldnot do as he was asked. 

'Will you?' And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she pouredforth the words of her prayer. 'I never asked you to do anything forme as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think itright, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I amsure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. Inever complained. Did I?'

'Certainly not. '

'But now that you have left it yourself, --if you would have the "Wheelof Fortune" done for me, --really well done!'

'The "Wheel of Fortune"!'

'That is the name of my novel, ' said Lady Carbury, putting her handsoftly upon the manuscript. 'Just at this moment it would be themaking of a fortune for me! And oh, Mr Alf, if you could but know howI want such assistance!'

'I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, LadyCarbury. '

'Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make itcertain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. Ihave taken so much pains with it. '

'Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits. '

'Don't say that, Mr Alf. The "Evening Pulpit" is like, --oh, it islike, --like, --like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified beforeit? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have itdone. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundredcopies at once, --that is if it were done really con amore. ' Mr Alflooked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. 'The paper standsso high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman isasking you, Mr Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. Thething is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives. '

'I do not think that it has ever been done by the "Evening Pulpit. "'

'I have seen books praised. '

'Of course you have. '

'I think I saw a novel spoken highly of. '

Mr Alf laughed. 'Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object ofthe "Pulpit" to cry down novels?'

'I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. Iwould be so thankful;--so grateful. '

'My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothingto do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue. '

'Oh, no, ' she said, not quite understanding what he meant. 

'The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate thejustice of my successor. '

'I shall never know your successor. '

'But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddlingwith the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for mysister. ' Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. 'Send the book out, andlet it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have itpraised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has beeneulogized as a mark of friendship. '

'No, I shan't, ' said Lady Carbury. 'I don't believe that anything likereal selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. Idon't know how they manage it, but they do. ' Mr Alf shook his head. 'Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been adragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the "NewCleopatra" is a very handsome woman. ' Lady Carbury must have beenworried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to loseher temper as to bring against Mr Alf the double charge of being toofond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed thejustice of his columns to that improper affection. 

'At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom youallude, ' said Mr Alf, getting up to take his leave; 'and I am quitesure that the gentleman who reviewed the book, --if there be any suchlady and any such book, --had never seen her!' And so Mr Alf departed. 

Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also with MrAlf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attemptand then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She haddegraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible goodresult by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to livewas almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over hersorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr Alf and hisconduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had toldher! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. But the assumedhonesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubtthe 'Pulpit' had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probablyhad but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friendsand destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the 'Pulpit. ' Therewas the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors, --ascrowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were donein public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatiblewith that Aristidean justice which Mr Alf arrogated to himself and tohis paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr Alf would spend agreat deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat. 

On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to MessrsLeadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respectwhich seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work ofsix months; her very blood and brains, --the concentrated essence ofher mind, --as she would say herself when talking with energy of her ownperformances; and Mr Leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparentlyperhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcelunceremoniously under the counter. An author feels that his workshould be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited withinthe very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if itshould be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! Those scraps of paper, soeasily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter beacknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than theirweight in gold! If 'Robinson Crusoe' had been lost! If 'Tom Jones' hadbeen consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may be another'Robinson Crusoe, '--a better than 'Tom Jones'? 'Will it be safe there?'asked Lady Carbury. 

'Quite safe, --quite safe, ' said Mr Leadham, who was rather busy, andperhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and amount ofher authorship seemed to him to require. 

'It seemed to be, --put down there, --under the counter!'

'That's quite right, Lady Carbury. They're left there till they'repacked. '

'Packed!'

'There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's downin Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack. '

'Do they go by post, Mr Leadham?'

'Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay theexpense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at thistime of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before thewinter. ' Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey bylong sea to Glasgow!

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr Browne came toher. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existedbetween Lady Carbury and the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table, 'which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any furtherliterary favour. She fully recognized, --no woman perhaps more fully, --the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might comewithin reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling beforeher, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? Butthis man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how tobeg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did intruth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, forwhich, --though she had refused him, --she felt infinitely grateful. Andthough she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supportedher in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to dothis thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees, --buteven she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his otherfavours. Her first word to him was about Mr Alf. 'So he has given upthe paper?'

'Well, yes;--nominally. '

'Is that all?'

'I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobodylikes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. Asfor Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretchMelmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about theforgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such acandidate as they'll get now?'

'He was here yesterday. '

'And full of triumph, I suppose?'

'He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my newbook, --my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothingfurther to do with the paper. '

'He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say. '

'That was just it. Of course I did not believe him. '

'Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If wecan't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see, --what is the name?'

'"The Wheel of Fortune. "' Lady Carbury as she told the title of hernew book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed of it. 

'Let them send it early, --a day or two before it's out, if they can. Ican't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will goto, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. Godbless you. ' And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as thoughthe old susceptibility were returning to him. 

As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all, --thinking ofher own circumstances and of his kindness, --it did not occur to her tocall him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken herman when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which hehad given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for whichshe had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhatsacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have reallyloved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And howhad it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected himwhen he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?

CHAPTER XC - HETTA'S SORROW

When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was givento the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any wayto alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over half-a-dozentimes, she could not bring herself to think it possible that she couldbe reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had sinned againsther by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any ratebeen engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becomingengaged to her, --but also that he had done this in such a manner as tomake his offence known to all her friends. Perhaps she had been tooquick;--but there was the fact that with her own consent she had accededto her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. The man hadbeen rejected, and even Roger Carbury knew that it was so. After thisit was, she thought, impossible that she should recall him. But theyshould all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carbury shouldcertainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on thematter. She would never deny it; and though she knew that the man hadbehaved badly, --having entangled himself with a nasty American woman, --yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned. 

And now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. He said thathe could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his letter withentreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his reproaches moved hermore than any prayer would have done. It was too late now to remedythe evil; but she was not quite sure within her own bosom that she hadnot been unjust to him. The more she thought of it the more puzzledher mind became. Had she quarrelled with him because he had once beenin love with Mrs Hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding MrsHurtle as her present rival? She hated Mrs Hurtle, and she was veryangry with him in that he had ever been on affectionate terms with awoman she hated;--but that had not been the reason put forward by herfor quarrelling with him. Perhaps it was true that he, too, had oflate loved Mrs Hurtle hardly better than she did herself. It might bethat he had been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go withthe woman to Lowestoft. Having so gone with her, it was no doubt rightthat he should be rejected;--for how can it be that a man who isengaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another womanto whom also he was engaged a few months back? But still there might behardship in it. To her, to Hetta herself, the circumstances were veryhard. She loved the man with all her heart. She could look forward tono happiness in life without him. But yet it must be so. 

At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs Hurtle herselfif she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course hehad known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to MrsHurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or fourdays, --unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it fromherself was possible, --and had been read and re-read till she knewevery word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could hearthe story as it might be told by Mrs Hurtle, a good deal that was nowdark might become light to her. As she continued to read the letter, and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from herlover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger. Paul had ofcourse behaved badly, very badly, --but had it not been for them shemight have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had driven her onto the declaration of a purpose from which she could now see no escape. There had been a plot against her, and she was a victim. In the firstdismay and agony occasioned by that awful story of the Americanwoman, --which had, at the moment, struck her with a horror which was nowbecoming less and less every hour, --she had fallen head foremost intothe trap laid for her. She acknowledged to herself that it was too lateto recover her ground. She was, at any rate, almost sure that it mustbe too late. But yet she was disposed to do battle with her mother andher cousin in the matter--if only with the object of showing that shewould not submit her own feelings to their control. She was savage tothe point of rebellion against all authority. Roger Carbury would ofcourse think that any communication between herself and Mrs Hurtlemust be improper, --altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago shethought so herself. But the world was going so hard with her, that shewas beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety anddelicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom shealtogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly stillloved her, --of that she was beginning to have no further doubt, --accusedher of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for a corroborationof his story. She would appeal to Mrs Hurtle. The woman was odious, abominable, a nasty intriguing American female. But her lover desiredthat she should hear the woman's story; and she would hear the story, --if the woman would tell it. 

So resolving, she wrote as follows to Mrs Hurtle, finding greatdifficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neithertoo little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrainedby no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth aboutherself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed forits purpose. 

 Madam, --

 Mr Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him and you. 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. 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. I do not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will make it my business to call any afternoon you may name. 

 Yours truly, HENRIETTA CARBURY. 

When the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but verymuch afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in anewspaper! She had heard that everything was put into newspapers inAmerica. What if this Mrs Hurtle should send back to her some horriblyinsolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother, instead ofherself! And then, again, if the American woman consented to receiveher, would not the American woman, as a matter of course, trample uponher with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter aside, andalmost determined that it should not be sent;--but at last, withdesperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted it herself. She told no word of it to any one. Her mother, she thought, had beencruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and made her wretched forever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy in her presentdistress. There was no friend who would sympathize with her. She mustdo everything alone. 

Mrs Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that shewould retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted. Itis, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various halfresolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mindbefore she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she hadassured herself that this should be the conclusion, --after she had toldPaul Montague that it should be so, --there came back upon her at timesother half resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written a letterto the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then abstained fromsending it, and had then shown it to the man, --not intending to give itto him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that shemight ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that hehad not deserved it. Then she had parted with him, refusing either tohear or to say a word of farewell, and had told Mrs Pipkin that shewas no longer engaged to be married. At that moment everything was donethat could be done. The game had been played and the stakes lost, --and she had schooled herself into such restraint as to have abandonedall idea of vengeance. But from time to time there arose in her hearta feeling that such softness was unworthy of her. Who had ever beensoft to her? Who had spared her? Had she not long since found out thatshe must fight with her very nails and teeth for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be trodden into the dust? Had she not held herown among rough people after a very rough fashion, and should she nowsimply retire that she might weep in a corner like a love-sickschoolgirl? And she had been so stoutly determined that she would atany rate avenge her own wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongsinto triumph! There were moments in which she thought that she couldstill 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. 

Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, writtenat the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and Hetta, inwhich he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to HettaCarbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had so long beenher own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion shouldwrite such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to increase eitherher anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that it was so, andat certain times she had told herself that it was only natural, --hadalmost told herself that it was right. She and this young Englishmanwere not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking a tame, sleekhousehold animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild, --fitter for thewoods than for polished cities. It had been one of the faults of herlife that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feelingto this soft over-civilised man. The result had been disastrous, asmight have been expected. She was angry with him, --almost to the extentof tearing him to pieces, --but she did not become more angry because hewrote to her of her rival. 

Her only present friend was Mrs Pipkin, who treated her with thegreatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions aboutthe lost lover. 'That letter was from Mr Montague?' said Mrs Pipkin onthe morning after it had been received. 

'How can you know that?'

'I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters comefrequent. '

'It was from him. And why not?'

'Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of hislife, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles meso much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs Hurtle?'

'It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over, andthere is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York onSaturday week. '

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle!'

'I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came overhere for a certain purpose and that has--gone by. Now I may just goback again. '

'I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has. '

'I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs Pipkin. '

'I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mindout free. I knew it would me if I'd been served in that way. '

'If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to thegentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never speak ofit again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs Pipkin, and Ishall be sorry to leave you. '

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't onlymy feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings only, astheir betters do. I've never been above telling you what a godsendyou've been to me this summer;--have I? I've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're going away!'Then Mrs Pipkin began to sob. 

'I suppose I shall see Mr Crumb before I go, ' said Mrs Hurtle. 

'She don't deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a wordabout him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just beingbetter than Mrs Buggins's children. That's all. '

'She'll be all right when he has once got her home. '

'And I shall be all alone by myself, ' said Mrs Pipkin, with her apronup to her eyes. 

It was after this that Mrs Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had asyet returned no answer to Paul Montague, --nor had she intended to sendany written answer. Were she to comply with his request she could doso best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than to him. And though she wrote no such letter she thought of it, --of the wordsshe would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she wouldhave to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolvewhether she would tell the tale, --if she told it at all, --in a mannerto suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly toshipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck wereshe so minded. She could certainly have her revenge after that fashion. But it was a woman's fashion, and, as such, did not recommend itself toMrs Hurdle's feelings. A pistol or a horsewhip, a violent seizing bythe neck, with sharp taunts and bitter-ringing words, would have madethe fitting revenge. If she abandoned that she could do herself nogood by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman. 

Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true, --so like the letterof an Englishwoman, as Mrs Hurtle said to herself. Mrs Hurtle smiledas she read the letter. 'I make this proposition not thinking thatanything you can say to me can change my mind. ' Of course the girl'smind would be changed. The girl's mind, indeed, required no change. Mrs Hurtle could see well enough that the girl's heart was set uponthe man. Nevertheless she did not doubt but that she could tell thestory after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girlshould marry him, --if she chose to do so. 

At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. Whatwas it to her? Let them fight their own lovers' battles out aftertheir own childish fashion. If the man meant at last to be honest, there could be no doubt, Mrs Hurtle thought, that the girl would go tohim. It would require no interference of hers. But after a while shethought that she might as well see this English chit who hadsuperseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she hadcondescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was tobe abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for allthe injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word soas to smooth away the existing difficulties? Wild cat as she was, kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wroteto Hetta making an appointment. 

 DEAR MISS CARBURY

 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. 

 Yours sincerely, WINIFRED HURTLE. 

CHAPTER XCI - THE RIVALS

During these days the intercourse between Lady Carbury and herdaughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Hetta, thinking thatshe was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to hermother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carbury watching her, butnot daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl'ssilence. She had assured herself, when she found that Hetta wasdisposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch, that 'things would come round, ' that Paul would be forgotten quickly, --or laid aside as though he were forgotten, --and that Hetta would soonperceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With such aprospect before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as amother to show no tendency to sympathize with her girl's sorrow. Suchheart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them. Whowere the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, norpoverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifleand trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed. Shehad never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within thelast few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she reallyliked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on hershoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to bea lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her heart, --her very soul if she were that way troubled, --to theprocuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hopeto be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chancenow offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was sodevoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her byharsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would notspend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of afair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion thatshe was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrainher girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe andhard. But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in responseto this, --how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation, --shewas almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not knownhow stern and how enduring her daughter could be. 'Hetta, ' she said, 'why don't you speak to me?' On this very day it was Hetta's purpose tovisit Mrs Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intentionto any one. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew hermother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be nodeceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what shehad done. But she considered herself to be emancipated from control. Among them they had robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to therobbery, but she would submit to nothing else. 'Hetta, why don't youspeak to me?' said Lady Carbury. 

'Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without makingeach other unhappy. '

'What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world tointerest you except that wretched young man?'

'None other at all, ' said Hetta obstinately. 

'What folly it is, --I will not say only to speak like that, but toallow yourself to entertain such thoughts!'

'How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after Ihad owned to you that I loved a man, --after I had owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself, --I could have myself separated from him, andthen not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is asthough I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be toyou if Felix were to die. It crushes me. '

There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which themother felt, --as she was intended to feel it, --but to which she couldmake no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her sonto feel any real affection for her daughter. 'You are ignorant of theworld, Hetta, ' she said. 

'I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate, '

'Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? Inwhat little you see around you do you think that girls are generallyable to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?' She paused, but Hetta made no answer to this. 'Marie Melmotte was as warmlyattached to your brother as you can be to Mr Montague. '

'Marie Melmotte!'

'She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth isyou are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can foryourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat drybread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she thinks ofgiving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has afortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none shemust allow herself to be chosen. '

'Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether shelikes the man or not?'

'She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage besuitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin Roger, you know--'

'Mamma, ' said Hetta, getting up from her seat, 'you may as well believeme. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. Itis to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know thatI love that other man with my whole heart. '

'How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmostcontumely?'

'I know nothing of any contumely. What reasons have I to be offendedbecause he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? Ithas been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that Ihave any right whatever to be angry with Mr Paul Montague. ' Having sospoken she walked out of the room without waiting for a further reply. 

It was all very sad to Lady Carbury. She perceived now that she haddriven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague'ssins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrierwhich she had striven to construct between them. But that which painedher most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded allHetta's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world who could notbe taught the folly of such idle dreams?

That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of theMarylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King'sCross. She had studied her geography, and she walked from thence toIslington. She knew well the name of the street and the number atwhich Mrs Hurtle lived. But when she reached the door she did not atfirst dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on to the end ofthe silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she wouldcommence her strange petition. And she endeavoured to dictate toherself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her. Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of replyingto a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the worst cometo the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure. Having gone to the end of the street, she returned with a very quickstep and knocked at the door. It was opened almost immediately by RubyRuggles, to whom she gave her name. 

'Oh laws, --Miss Carbury!' said Ruby, looking up into the stranger'sface. Yes, --sure enough she must be Felix's sister. But Ruby did notdare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her that SirFelix should not be her lover any more, and that John Crumb should beallowed to return. But, nevertheless, her heart twittered as sheshowed Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room. 

Though it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil down. Sheadjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fearof her rival's scrutiny. Mrs Hurtle rose from her chair and cameforward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. Shewas dressed with the most scrupulous care, --simply, and in black, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or aflower. But with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attiredherself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought that shewould vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or thatshe was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman mighthave graces of her own? As she came forward she was gentle and soft inher movements, and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. Hetta, atthe first moment, was almost dumbfounded by her beauty, --by that and byher ease and exquisite self-possession. 'Miss Carbury, ' she said withthat low, rich voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as muchas her loveliness, 'I need not tell you how interested I am in seeingyou. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look ateach other fairly?' Hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak aword, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. She hadhad no personal description of Mrs Hurtle, but had expected somethingvery different from this! She had thought that the woman would becoarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was theywere both of the same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes of the same colour. Hetta thought of all that at themoment, --but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension tobeauty such as that which this woman owned. 'And so you have come tosee me, ' said Mrs Hurtle. 'Sit down so that I may look at you. I amglad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury. '

'I am glad at any rate that you are not angry. '

'Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me I shouldhave declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me tosee you. It is a poor time we women have, --is it not, --in becomingplaythings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behavingbadly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask mefreely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were anAmerican I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is anEnglishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do, orwhat can I say?'

'He told me that you could tell me the truth. '

'What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. Youhave quarrelled with him too. It is not so?'

'Certainly I have quarrelled with him. '

'I am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I knowhim so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can befull of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself thenext. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such cautionwith you. What is it, Miss Carbury?'

Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. 

'Mrs Hurtle, ' she said, 'I had never heard your name when he firstasked me to be his wife. '

'I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?'

'Because, --oh, because--. Surely he ought, if it is true that he hadonce promised to marry you. '

'That is certainly true. '

'And you were here, and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should havebeen very different to him had I known that, --that, --that--'

'That there was such a woman as Winifred Hurtle interfering with him. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?'

'And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me askyou. I have not been unjust. '

'I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think thathe has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him isno more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. To me hehas been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeservedmisfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you todecide. '

'Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?'

'Because I asked him, --and because, like many men, he cannot beill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand notto have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, MissCarbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he hadbeen talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends longbefore he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my ownpart of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. Ifollowed him here to England--because I loved him. I came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He hadtold me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and Ihoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country, --I will not say a broken-heartedwoman, for I will not admit of such a condition, --but a creature witha broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgivenhim; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enoughto punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him, --orI would; or a bullet, --or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing byhis falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myselfthat no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling mywrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it isnot for me to set you against such an act of justice. ' Then she pausedand looked up to Hetta as though expecting a reply. 

But Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come tohear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfortto her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in orderthat she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She hadbelieved that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that shehad done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however falseher lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutelytrue to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul, --had seemed tointend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so spokenas to acquit him of all sin against Hetta. What was it to Hetta that herlover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to herto be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on thatbead. Mrs Hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether shewould take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs. In saying that, Mrs Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongswhich she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thankthe woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, shecould, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. Shehad not yet told herself she would submit herself again to PaulMontague. She had only told herself that, within her own breast, shewas bound to forgive him. 'You have been very kind, ' she said atlast, --speaking only because it was necessary that she should saysomething. 

'It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been somuch that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly toyou. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be hiswife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I havetold you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itselfhave declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at myaccount of his treachery to me. '

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, do not say that of me!'

'But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on thataccount. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concernedthere is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman, --and helikes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to thetouch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions;but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough toacknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enoughto forgive all his treachery. ' Hetta was now holding the woman by thehand, and was weeping, she knew not why. 'I am so glad to have seenyou, ' continued Mrs Hurtle, 'so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of youwill ever be troubled further by Winifred Hurtle. Tell him that if hewill come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind tohim than I can help. '

When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she musthave at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again, --andto see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She nowgot herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whomshe had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in thestreet she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the faceof that American female, --how rich and glorious her voice in spite of aslight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and above all how powerfuland at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! Thatshe would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta, butthat 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. And yetPaul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paulhad certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred theyounger lady to the elder. 

Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been unjustto the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance andconfession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station shebrought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? No doubtshe gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched herlips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes withunrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man sheloved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot hastrodden. But, in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should betrue to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work. Asto the 'now, ' she felt that Mrs Hurtle had given her sufficientassurance. 

She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When shere-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to besilent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received withfavour, --but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy atthe door that Lady Carbury had returned. 

'Hetta, wherever have you been?' asked Lady Carbury. 

'Mamma, ' she said, 'I mean to write to Mr Montague and tell him that Ihave been unjust to him. '

'Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind, ' said Lady Carbury, risingfrom her seat. 

'Yes, mamma. I have been unjust, and I must do so. '

'It will be asking him to come back to you. '

'Yes, mamma:--that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he willcome, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us befriends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me mylove?'

'You have sent him back his brooch, ' said Lady Carbury hoarsely. 

'He shall give it me again. Hear what I have done. I have seen thatAmerican lady. '

'Mrs Hurtle!'

'Yes;--I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman. '

'And she has told you wonderful lies. '

'Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothingin his favour. '

'I can well believe that. What can any one say in his favour?'

'But she told me that which has assured me that Mr Montague has neverbehaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I willshow you the letter. '

'Any letter to him, I will tear, ' said Lady Carbury, full of anger. 

'Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge formyself. ' Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left theroom without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that theletter might be written. 

CHAPTER XCII - HAMILTON K. FISKER AGAIN

Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter, --ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, butin which she had received no reply, --when two gentlemen met each otherin a certain room in Liverpool, who were seen together in the same roomin the early part of this chronicle. These were our young friend PaulMontague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. Melmottehad died on the 18th of July, and tidings of the event had been atonce sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks before thisMontague had written to his partner, giving his account of the SouthCentral Pacific and Mexican Railway Company, --describing its conditionin England as he then believed it to be, --and urging Fisker to comeover to London. On receipt of a message from his American correspondenthe had gone down to Liverpool, and had there awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend Mr Ramsbottom. In the meantime Hetta'sletter was lying at the Beargarden, Paul having written from his cluband having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to hislodgings. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not wellmanaged. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received thatletter, --which would have had for him charms greater than those of anyletter ever before written. 

'This is a terrible business, ' said Fisker, immediately on enteringthe room in which Montague was waiting him. 'He was the last man I'dhave thought would be cut up in that way. '

'He was utterly ruined. '

'He wouldn't have been ruined, --and couldn't have thought so if he'dknown all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulledhim through almost anything if he'd have understood how to play it. '

'We don't think much of the South Central here now, ' said Paul. 

'Ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a bigthing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole, --and then, ofcourse, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmottewould have had spirit. '

'There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was thedread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself. '

'I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took himto be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myselfbecause I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off witha lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get thebetter of him!'

'I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco, 'suggested Paul. 

'Bu'st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu'st up?D'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool likeMelmotte blows his brains out in London?'

'He took poison. '

'Or p'ison either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'mgoing to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares areat a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. Iwired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, andI'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm sorry forhim because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done'll just bethe making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you comeback to Frisco with me?'

In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would notreturn to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave hispartner to understand that he was altogether sick of the greatrailway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to dowith it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at theproposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly, --nay, generously, --byhis partner, having recognized the wisdom of that great commercialrule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of acertain class; but he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montaguewas not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not onlyunscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples inothers. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-ninemen were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth manpredominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealthbecause he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do he woulddo, if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should begood, and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind ingross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man sogreat endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague? 'Andnow what about Winifred Hurtle?' asked Fisker. 

'What makes you ask? She's in London. '

'Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurdle's at Frisco, swearing thathe'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars. '

'He's not dead then?' muttered Paul. 

'Dead!--no, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with himyet. '

'But she divorced him. '

'She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer tosay that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badlyneither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put itso that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out ofthe wood. '

'I'm not thinking of marrying her, --if you mean that. '

'There was a talk about it in Frisco;--that's all. And I have heardHurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she washere with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of thesedays. ' To this Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now bothheard enough and said enough about Mrs Hurtle. 

On the following day the two men, who were still partners, wenttogether to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in thearrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He put himself into communicationwith Mr Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane andthe rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examinedCroll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to bemastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, upto London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day ortwo before Melmotte's death, --having probably perceived that there wasno further occasion for their services. To Fisker's appeal Lord Alfredwas proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should callupon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not every oneknow that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases?Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker'sletter;--but he advised his son to run up to town. 'I should just go, because I'd taken a salary from the d---- Company, ' said the carefulfather, 'but when there I wouldn't say a word. ' So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene. 

But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulouslypaid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no onehad visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, theclerk. Mr Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who hadbecome a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to bealone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could dono more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much goodtaste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he hadbeen domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir Felixwould not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to thedaughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he wentout to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence, --andhe had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite ofall misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of alarge fortune. 

In regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been inducedto abstain from interfering, --giving up the right to all the man'splate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of thecoroner's verdict, --not from tenderness to Madame Melmotte, for whom nogreat commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poorMr Longestaffe and his son. But Marie's money was quite distinct fromthis. She had been right in her own belief as to this property, andhad been right, too, in refusing to sign those papers, --unless it maybe that that refusal led to her father's act. She herself was sure thatit was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offeredto sign the papers before her father's death. What might have been theultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no onecould now say. That the money would have gone there could be no doubt. The money was now hers, --a fact which Fisker soon learned with thatpeculiar cleverness which belonged to him. 

Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief toher in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that which isand is not beneficial to those whom Death has bereaved of a companion. It may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that grief shall be soheavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it anadditional trouble, and this is felt also in acute bodily pain, and inperiods of terrible mental suffering. It may also be, and, no doubt, often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect suchoverbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain, because even suchaffectation has its own rights and privileges. But Madame Melmotte wasneither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. She hadbeen numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. Theman who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed toher to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed, and shownhimself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a womanof very few words, and had spoken almost none on this occasion evento her own daughter; but when Fisker came to her, and told her morethan she had ever known before of her husband's affairs, and spoketo her of her future life, and mixed for her a small glass ofbrandy-and-water warm, and told her that Frisco would be the fittestplace for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to beintrusive. 

And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost wonboth by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much, atleast more than her mother, of the life to which she had beenintroduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for herfather. She was prone to love, --though, perhaps, not prone to deepaffection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he hadalso been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially gratefulfor the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other. Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she had neverknown, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillatingbetween knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel thenext, as the condition of things which was natural to her. When herfather was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and theknickknacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she was not beyondconsolation, and she also found consolation in Mr Fisker's visits. 

'I used to sign a paper every quarter, ' she said to Fisker, as theywere walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead. 

'You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper toany one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the moneyfor yourself. '

'And can that be done over in California?'

'Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for youwithout the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it, ifyou'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, MissMelmotte. '

'And what's that?'

'After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know howyou'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll makeup in the flavour. ' This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, asthough fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Friscowould not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which MissMelmotte had been used. 

'I hate swells, ' said Marie, flashing round upon him. 

'Do you now?'

'Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that theysay, --and they don't say so many words either. They're never more thanhalf awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London. '

'Do you now?'

'Oh, don't I?'

'I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?'

'I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place. '

'Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?'

'Mr Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?'

'But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you docome to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know. ' Then he tookher gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly, badehim behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and MrFisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warmbrandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the wholeMadame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had beeneither in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainlynot a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds. 

'I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know, ' Fisker said toMiles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the SouthCentral Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father'sadvice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazementat the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure hisperformances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, LordNidderdale, and Mr Longestaffe, who were all Directors;--but none ofthem had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. 'Dear MrFisker, --I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale. ' MrLongestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages withhis reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not betroubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused tothe end. 'Upon my word, ' continued Fisker, 'it's astonishing to methat Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I supposeyou understand something of business, Mr Croll?'

'It vas not my department, Mr Fisker, ' said the German. 

'Nor anybody else's either, ' said the domineering American. 'Of courseit's on the cards, Mr Grendall, that we shall have to put you into awitness-box, because there are certain things we must get at. ' Mileswas silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he wouldpass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, andthat his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very fewdays;--or perhaps hours might suffice. 

But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater theconfusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were theprospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatoryon this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed hadcertainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go toGermany, finding that a temporary absence from England would becomfortable to him in more respects than one, --and need not be heardof again in these pages. 

When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to benearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Verymany men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had beenrobbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had beenrobbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to robothers. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr Brehgert, hadspeculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavilywithout dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were ableto prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Ourexcellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. Havingpaid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers, heassured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirelynew leaf. 'I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and Ishall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and hewill do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I likeSquercum. '

'Won't he rob you, old fellow?' suggested Nidderdale, 'Of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. One has tobe plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'llonly let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I canget along. ' Let us hope that Mr Squercum was merciful, and that Dollywas enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions, But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter, --long after Mr Fisker's departure for California. That, however, wasprotracted till a day much later than he anticipated before he hadbecome intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte'saffairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture andplate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte wasallowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her ownproperty;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt wasmade to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted forher maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow wouldwillingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. Itwas agreed between her and Fisker that they were to be taken to NewYork. 'You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part withthem; and nobody'll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell alocket or chain here without all the world talking about it. '

In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's handswith the most absolute confidence, --and, indeed, with a confidence thatwas justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman thatFisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's thinking, Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met, --so infinitelypleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred hadbeen most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than MilesGrendall, understanding her so much better than any man had everdone, --especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers ofsweet brandy-and-water. 'I shall do whatever he tells me, ' she said toMarie. 'I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this country. '

'I'm willing to go, ' said Marie. 'I don't want to stay in London. '

'I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?'

'I don't know anything about that, ' said Marie. 'A man may be verywell without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marryanybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anythingelse. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do youthink Fisker'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he!He ain't slow enough for that. '

'I think he's a very nice young man, ' said Madame Melmotte. 

CHAPTER XCIII - A TRUE LOVER

Hetta Carbury, out of the fullness of her heart, having made up hermind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter fullof penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all thedetails of her meeting with Mrs Hurtle, and bidding him come back toher, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she hadunfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to herfrom that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly throughthe demoralization of that once perfect establishment, the letternever reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he wasjustified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make furtherstruggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. MrsHurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, allinimical to him. Mrs Hurtle, though she had declared that she wouldnot rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. Rogerhad repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would beopposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, hadsubmitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration. AndPaul, though he did not probably analyse very carefully the characterof his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailedwith such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. Andyet how should he continue the struggle? With what weapons should hecarry on the fight? The writing of letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written willnot answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant hasbeen instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes disagreeable, --if not degrading, --after a time. 

But Hetta had written a second epistle, --not to her lover, but to onewho received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly andwith precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at oncecommunicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to hercousin Roger. Though she would not recognize Roger as a lover, she didacknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own specialfriend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herselfdid, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote toher cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, thatshe was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolutesincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, andmost ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on todeclare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her inthis world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech herdearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lendher an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters neveraffect at all, --who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they doread as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury wascertainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had their full weightwith him. He did not try to convince himself that all this was theverbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trainedto another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. To him now, ashe read and re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was notat any rate further hope for himself. Though he was altogetherunchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change, --though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to evena passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved, --yethe told himself what he believed to be the truth. At last he owneddirectly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must dowithout her. He had let time slip by with him too fast and too farbefore he had ventured to love. He must now stomach hisdisappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if he acknowledgedthis, --and he did acknowledge it, --in what fashion should he in futuretreat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?

At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it werepossible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself tothink with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself thatthe man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive theman's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that incomparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly beworth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were onceable to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, shouldstill be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware thatsuch assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it wereto be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be tohim as his heir, --as near as possible his own child. In her favour hemust throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacredthat he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spiteof the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All this must bechanged, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent tothe marriage. In such case Carbury must be the home of the marriedcouple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. There must beborn the future infant to whose existence he was already lookingforward with some idea that in his old age he might there findcomfort. In such case, though he should never again be able to lovePaul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for hersake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether, --asthough there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive theman's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to bejust himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to no extentill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as tothe forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himselfwhether it could really be intended that he should forgive suchtrespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta should bepardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated as thoughhe were pardoned. As for himself, --the chances of the world had beenunkind to him, and he would submit to them!

Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of sucha letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter tohimself hardly required an immediate answer, --did not, indeed, demandany answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certainreasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to theconclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had askedfor her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, wasto be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by anypositive action, Roger's influence with her mother was the assistancewhich Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly begiven by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all this, Rogerdetermined that he would again go up to London. He would have thevacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, andtell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart toagree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people, and perhapslearn something further from their manner and their words, before hefinally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and thecompletion of theirs. 

He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours servedhim much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in theworld so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn overthings in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probablyby our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process ofratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought. But to followout one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reachedthe commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process washardly within the compass of Roger's mind, --who when he was madewretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket ofobjectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore hischaritable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walkedlonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, lookingup at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of theheavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interferewith the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself andmuch fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath, and had got ridof the dust, and had eaten his dinner. 

The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When heknocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for LadyCarbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether 'the ladies'were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was atonce shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurriedup to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He hadnever done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated herafter that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such agreeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with herwishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearestrelation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, wascertainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love, --if he would only consent not to be her lover. 'Oh, Roger, I am so gladto see you, ' she said, escaping gently from his arms. 

'I could not write an answer, and so I came. '

'You always do the kindest thing that can be done. '

'I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now, --kind orunkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have beenall the world to me. '

'Do not reproach me, ' she said. 

'No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. Ishould not have come had I intended to reproach any one. '

'I love you so much for saying that. '

'Let it be as you wish it, --if it must. I have made up my mind to bearit, and there shall be an end of it. ' As he said this he took her bythe hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. 'And still you will be all the world to me, ' he continued, with hisarm round her waist. 'As you will not be my wife, you shall be mydaughter. '

'I will be your sister, Roger. '

'My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I willhurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for theyoung. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child. ' As hethus spoke her tears were renewed. 'I have planned it all out in mymind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to yourhappiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me, --that to makeyou happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life. '

It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man towhom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescendedto answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of hercousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she didnot know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. 'Have youseen him?' she said in a whisper. 

'Seen whom?'

'Mr Montague. '

'No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I amhere. '

'But you will be his friend?'

'Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the faultshall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta, --as nearly as suchthings may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I hadseen you. ' At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury enteredthe room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at herdaughter and then at Roger. 'I have come up, ' said he, 'to signify myadhesion to this marriage. ' Lady Carbury's face fell very low. 'I neednot speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at lastthat it could not have been so. '

'Why should you say so?' exclaimed Lady Carbury. 

'Pray, pray, mamma--, ' Hetta began, but was unable to find words withwhich to go on with her prayer. 

'I do not know that it need be so at all, ' continued Lady Carbury. 'Ithink it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me topress such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your ownwishes. '

'I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague, ' said Roger. 

'Not at all, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'Yes; mamma, --yes, ' cried Hetta boldly. 'It is so. I am engaged tohim. '

'I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent, --nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr Montaguehimself. '

'Mamma!'

'Paul Montague!' ejaculated Roger Carbury. 'The consent of PaulMontague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be nodoubt as to that. '

'There has been a quarrel, ' said Lady Carbury. 

'Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?'

'I wrote to him, --and he has not answered me, ' said Hetta piteously. 

Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of whathad taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. 'Themarriage is on every account objectionable, ' she said at last, 'Hismeans are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has beenvery bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man whodestroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him withoutmy sanction, --in opposition to my express commands, --he takes no noticeof her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his resentmentmay be continued. '

Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Rogerstood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till LadyCarbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow to answer, considering what he might best say. 'I think I had better see him, ' hereplied. 'If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage of such anaccident as that. As to his income, --that I think may be managed. Hisconnection with Mr Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no faultof his. ' At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's greatanxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generousto say a word on that head. 'I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then Iwill come to you again. '

Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to seePaul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into the scaleagainst her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was too powerfulin his honesty and greatness of character, --and had been too oftenadmitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family, --for her tostand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, Hettawould have become his wife. 

It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who hadonly then returned from Liverpool with Fisker, --whose subsequent doingshave been recorded somewhat out of their turn. 

'I don't know what letter you mean, ' said Paul. 

'You wrote to her?'

'Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter wasone which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, andhad given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heardfrom other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with MrsHurtle. ' Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, notunderstanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendlymission. 

'She did answer your letter. '

'I have not had a line from her;--not a word!'

'She did answer your letter. '

'What did she say to me?'

'Nay, --you must ask her that. '

'But if she will not see me?'

'She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you thisalso;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom shedoes wish to see. '

'Is that true?' exclaimed Paul, jumping up. 

'I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardlycome on such a message if there were a doubt. You may go to her, andneed have nothing to fear, --unless, indeed, it be the opposition ofher mother. '

'She is stronger than her mother, ' said Paul. 

'I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say. '

'Of course, ' said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment RogerCarbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had notcommunicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face hadbeen severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend hadwritten him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would probablysay very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all thepatience which he could summon to his assistance. 

'You know my what feelings have been, ' Roger began, 'and how deeply Ihave resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be--'

'I have never quarrelled with you, ' Paul began. 

'If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No angerbetween you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed tointerfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love betterthan all the rest of the world put together. '

'I do, ' said Paul. 

'And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. Sheshall be my daughter. She shall have my property, --or her child shallbe my heir. My house shall be her house, --if you and she will consentto make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, toowell for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have fromme were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do thisbecause I will make the happiness of her life the chief object ofmine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present. By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with moreequable temper. ' Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leavingPaul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced tohim. 

CHAPTER XCIV - JOHN CRUMB'S VICTORY

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk forthe marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb hadbeen up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby, --who hadsubmitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in theworld, but still with a submission that had satisfied her futurehusband, --had been intensely grateful to Mrs Hurtle, and almostmunificent in liberality to Mrs Pipkin, to whom he presented a purplesilk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a formeroccasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by MrsPipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposedto be still 'all one mash of gore, ' he blandly smiled, remarking thatno man could be much worse for a 'few sich taps as them. ' He onlystayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settledeverything. When Mrs Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married fromher house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion withthanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continuedgin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that theold man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little carethe five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby'sfortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that themarriage should be celebrated in Suffolk, --the feast being spread atSheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it, --andif not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him thatthis last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits ofthe fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under thepeculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the worldmight be suspended. 'It ain't jist like other folks, after all aswe've been through, ' said, --he meaning probably to imply that havinghad to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on theoccasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by thebride's grandfather or by himself he was determined that there shouldbe a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both MrsPipkin and Mrs Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs Hurtle topromise that she would bring Mrs Pipkin down to Bungay, for theoccasion. 

Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was ofcourse essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussionas to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladieswould be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. Shewas brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retiredagain among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own, --namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday, --making hisproposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay toeat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. 'That'sout of the question, ' Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elderladies had supported her Mr Crumb yielded with a good grace. He didnot himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs Pipkin told himwith a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14thof August was named he only scratched his head and, mutteringsomething about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would havesuited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed tocombine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs Pipkin told him thathe must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. Hemerely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to thepoliceman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumphwhich he had at last achieved. 

Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgivehis granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. WhenJohn Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that hehad returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups anddowns of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, allBungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr DanielRuggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, allegingthat the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had runaway with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong atorrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out ofhis own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told onRuby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since totake away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact inBungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of anyman 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 strongwas the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject ofgeneral eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps someslight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might bewhispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling infavour of Mr Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. 'I don't see why Iain'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 bythe municipality of Bungay. 

'She's your own flesh and blood, Mr Ruggles, ' said the baker. 

'No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with MrsPipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs Pipkin give 'em abreakfast. '

'She is your own flesh and blood, --and your name, too, Mr Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, MrRuggles. '

'I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat, ' said the farmer. 

But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base hisopposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given atthe King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that noauthority could be found for such a practice, it was known that thebill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr Ruggles pay thefive hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. Hewas very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head wasaltogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When hewas reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out ofher head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did notcontradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose toearn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It wasnot to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all asmuch a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, inreturn for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did atlast consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death, --an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almostas good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumptionof gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuadedto receive Mrs Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous tothe marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr Mixet'smother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from theinn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, anold lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutelyshamed the old man into compliance, --not, however, till she hadpromised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits whichwere thought to be necessary for Mrs Pipkin on the evening precedingthe marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for thespecial accommodation of Mrs Hurtle, --who was supposed to be a ladyof too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm. 

On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded thebridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not beamong the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand, --as far, at least, as silence can giveconsent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatoriesas the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. 'You could come inbehind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it, ' suggestedCrumb. 

'Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may besure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?'John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. 'It wasonly just something for her to say. What have I done that she shouldobject to me?'

'You didn't ever go for to--kiss her, --did you, Joe?'

'What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is justbecause I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep'sAcre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothingabout it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because JoeMixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are thebest friends in Bungay before six months are gone. '

'Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I mustknow the reason why. ' 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. 

He met the ladies at the station and, --for him, --was quite eloquent inhis welcome to Mrs Hurtle and Mrs Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiarywedding garments, with great delight. 'Ain't she bootiful now?' hesaid aloud to Mrs Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of halfBungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing herpraises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to MrsPipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were withina yard or two could hear her: 'He is such a fool!' Then he conductedMrs Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself droveMrs Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of allwhich duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brassbuttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. 'Thou'rt comeback then, Ruby, ' said the old man. 

'I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather, ' said the girl. 

'So best;--so best. And this is Mrs Pipkin?'

'Yes, Mr Ruggles; that's my name. '

'I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as Iever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to thatgirl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that. '

'Grandfather, that ain't true, ' said Ruby with energy. The old manmade no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into thebedroom which they were both to occupy. 'Now, Mrs Pipkin, just yousay, ' pleaded Ruby, 'how was it possible for any girl to live with anold man like that?'

'But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young maninstead when you pleased. '

'You mean John Crumb. '

'Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby. '

'There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite;and the other man says nothing at all. '

'Oh Ruby, Ruby, ' said Mrs Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, 'Ihope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nora fickle tongue, --specially with vittels certain. '

On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, andhalf its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. Hehimself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs Pipkin intothe town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bringthem so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it anydisgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. Hesmiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with hiswhip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, asthough he would have said, 'see, I've got her at last in spite of alldifficulties. ' Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, wouldhave escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she wasaltogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. 'What's the odds?' said Mrs Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in aroom at the Inn just before they entered the church. 'Drat it, --youmake me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you?Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round?Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. Hemeans what he says, and I call that the best of good manners. '

Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled byoutward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who wasstanding there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in hisbutton-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complainof her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself toutter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catchthe familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that theywere heard throughout the whole building. 'I, John, --take thee Ruby, --to my wedded wife, --to 'ave and to 'old, --from this day forrard, --forbetter nor worser, --for richer nor poorer'; and so on to the end. Andwhen he came to the 'worldly goods' with which he endowed his Ruby, hewas very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employedall his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would nowhardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughlyenjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and overagain, every day for a week, had it been possible. 

And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way upthe broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs Hurtle on one arm andMrs Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take hiswife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see agood deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civilto Mrs Hurtle and Mrs Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to themarriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten theorder which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiringthat she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in herpride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outwardcircumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one nearher who knew how to behave himself. 'Mrs Crumb, you have my bestwishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness, ' said Joe Mixet in awhisper. 

'It's very good of you to say so, Mr Mixet. '

'He's a good 'un; is he. '

'Oh, I dare say. '

'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, --all's oneas a babby. '

'A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr Mixet. '

'And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will hecan hold his own. ' Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated byher husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so manypeople should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to thinkso little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance. 

After the breakfast, or 'bit of dinner, ' as John Crumb would call it, Mr Mixet of course made a speech. 'He had had the pleasure of knowingJohn Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquaintedwith Miss Ruby Ruggles, --he begged all their pardons, and should havesaid Mrs John Crumb, --ever since she was a child. ' 'That's a downrightstory, ' said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs Hurtle. 'And he'd never knowntwo young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute toone another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenusalways lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present companywould excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby, --Mrs Crumb he should say, --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. Hedidn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any youngfamily, but he hoped that before long there would be any number ofyoung Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'ashis quiver full of 'em, --and the woman too, if you'll allow me to sayso, Mrs Crumb. ' The speech, of which only a small sample can be givenhere, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present, --withthe single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and lockedherself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would bebrought back again. 

In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought herback to all the glories of his own house on the following day. Hishoneymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. Whenshe was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, andthinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. 'Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss, --asthough you meant it, ' he said, when the first fitting occasionpresented itself. 

'Oh, John, --what nonsense!'

'It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss fromyou than all the wine as ever was swallowed. ' Then she did kiss him, 'as though she meant it;' and when she returned with him to Bungay thenext day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do herduty by him as his wife. 

CHAPTER XCV - THE LONGESTAFFE MARRIAGES

In another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was a ladywhose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's friendshad done for Ruby. Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the early days ofAugust was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with MrGeorge Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, a day which inSuffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined energies ofthe houses of Caversham and Toodlam were being devoted to that happyevent. Poor Georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but itsmisery was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals. Itwas but the other day that she had looked down from a very greatheight on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire ofToodlam. And at that time, still so recent, this contempt from her hadbeen accepted as being almost reasonable. Sophia had hardly venturedto rebel against it, and Mr Whitstable himself had been always afraidto encounter the shafts of irony with which his fashionable futuresister-in-law attacked him. But all that was now changed. Sophia inher pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable, pettedin the house with those sweetmeats which are always showered on embryobridegrooms, absolutely gave himself airs. At this time Mr Longestaffewas never at home. Having assured himself that there was no longer anydanger of the Brehgert alliance he had remained in London, thinkinghis presence to be necessary for the winding up of Melmotte's affairs, and leaving poor Lady Pomona to bear her daughter's ill humour. Thefamily at Caversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and wasenlivened by daily visits from Toodlam. It will be owned that in thisstate of things there was very little consolation for Georgiana. 

It was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her sister, --tothe point of absolutely refusing to act as bridesmaid. The reader mayremember that there had been a watch and chain, and that two of theladies of the family had expressed an opinion that these trinketsshould be returned to Mr Brehgert who had bestowed them. But Georgianahad not sent them back when a week had elapsed since the receipt of MrBrehgert's last letter. The matter had perhaps escaped Lady Pomona'smemory, but Sophia was happily alive to the honour of her family. 'Georgey, ' she said one morning in their mother's presence, 'don't youthink Mr Brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any moredelay?'

'What have you got to do with anybody's watch? The watch wasn't givento you. '

'I think it ought to go back. When papa finds that it has been keptI'm sure he'll be very angry. '

'It's no business of yours whether he's angry or not. '

'If it isn't sent, George will tell Dolly. You know what would happenthen. '

This was unbearable! That George Whitstable should interfere in heraffairs, --that he should talk about her watch and chain. 'I never willspeak to George Whitstable again the longest day that ever I live, 'she said, getting up from her chair. 

'My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that, ' exclaimed theunhappy mother. 

'I do say it. What has George Whitstable to do with me? A miserablystupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride overthe whole family. '

'I think Mr Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back, ' saidSophia. 

'Certainly he ought, ' said Lady Pomona. 'Georgiana, it must be sentback. It really must, --or I shall tell your papa. '

Subsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and chainto her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them, and explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa assoon as he should have returned to Caversham. Lady Pomona was nowempowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to thehands of the odious George Whitstable, who about this time made ajourney to London in reference to certain garments which he required. But Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel withher sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak toGeorge Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the day of themarriage. 

She did think herself to be very hardly used. What was there left inthe world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? Andwhat did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriagehad ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition ofthings to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endurethe idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting tillsome fitting suitor might find her out. She had struggled andstruggled, struggling still in vain, --till every effort of her mind, every thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that asshe grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more intense. The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of hisskill and confident in his strength, can make his way through thewater with the full command of all his powers. But when he begins tofeel 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, --that there is peril where before he had contemplated no danger, --thenhe begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and towaste in anxious gaspings the breath on which his very life mustdepend. So it was with poor Georgey Longestaffe. Something must be doneat once, or it would be of no avail. Twelve years had been passed byher since first she plunged into the stream, --the twelve years of heryouth, --and she was as far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if shebelieved her eyes. She too must strike out with rapid efforts, unless, indeed, she would abandon herself and let the waters close over herhead. But immersed as she was here at Caversham, how could she strikeat all? Even now the waters were closing upon her. The sound of themwas in her ears. The ripple of the wave was already round her lips;robbing her of breath. Ah!--might not there be some last greatconvulsive effort which might dash her on shore, even if it were upona rock!

That ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same asdrowning she never for a moment doubted. It had never occurred to herto consider with equanimity the prospect of living as an old maid. Itwas beyond the scope of her mind to contemplate the chances of a lifein which marriage might be well if it came, but in which unmarriedtranquillity might also be well should that be her lot. Nor could sheunderstand that others should contemplate it for her. No doubt thebattle had been carried on for many years so much under the auspicesof her father and mother as to justify her in thinking that theirtheory of life was the same as her own. Lady Pomona had been very openin her teaching, and Mr Longestaffe had always given a silentadherence to the idea that the house in London was to be kept open inorder that husbands might be caught. And now when they deserted her inher real difficulty, --when they first told her to live at Cavershamall the summer, and then sent her up to the Melmottes, and after thatforbade her marriage with Mr Brehgert, --it seemed to her that theywere unnatural parents who gave her a stone when she wanted bread, aserpent when she asked for a fish. She had no friend left. There wasno one living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not. Shetook to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many thingswith a grim earnestness which had not hitherto belonged to hercharacter. 

'Mamma, ' she said one morning when all the care of the household wasbeing devoted to the future comforts, --chiefly in regard to linen, --ofMrs George Whitstable, 'I wonder whether papa has any intention at allabout me. '

'In what sort of way, my dear?'

'In any way. Does he mean me to live here for ever and ever?'

'I don't think he intends to have a house in town again. '

'And what am I to do?'

'I suppose we shall stay here at Caversham. '

'And I'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent, --only that the nundoes it by her own consent and I don't! Mamma, I won't stand it. Iwon't indeed. '

'I think, my dear, that that is nonsense. You see company here, justas other people do in the country;--and as for not standing it, I don'tknow what you mean. As long as you are one of your papa's family ofcourse you must live where he lives. '

'Oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!--It is horrible--horrible! Asif you didn't know! As if you couldn't understand! Sometimes I almostdoubt whether papa does know, and then I think that if he did he wouldnot be so cruel. But you understand it all as well as I do myself. What is to become of me? Is it not enough to drive me mad to be goingabout here by myself, without any prospect of anything? Should youhave liked at my age to have felt that you had no chance of having ahouse of your own to live in? Why didn't you, among you, let me marryMr Breghert?' As she said this she was almost eloquent with passion. 

'You know, my dear, ' said Lady Pomona, 'that your papa wouldn't hearof it. '

'I know that if you would have helped me I would have done it in spiteof papa. What right has he to domineer over me in that way? Whyshouldn't I have married the man if I chose? I am old enough to knowsurely. You talk now of shutting up girls in convents as being athing quite impossible. This is much worse. Papa won't do anything tohelp me. Why shouldn't he let me do something for myself?'

'You can't regret Mr Brehgert!'

'Why can't I regret him? I do regret him. I'd have him to-morrow if hecame. Bad as it might be, it couldn't be so bad as Caversham. '

'You couldn't have loved him, Georgiana. '

'Loved him! Who thinks about love nowadays? I don't know any one wholoves any one else. You won't tell me that Sophy is going to marrythat idiot because she loves him. Did Julia Triplex love that man withthe large fortune? When you wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte younever thought of his loving her. I had got the better of all that kindof thing before I was twenty. '

'I think a young woman should love her husband. '

'It makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way. It doesindeed. When one has been going on for a dozen years trying to dosomething, --and I have never had any secrets from you, --then that youshould turn round upon me and talk about love! Mamma, if you wouldhelp me I think I could still manage with Mr Brehgert. ' Lady Pomonashuddered. 'You have not got to marry him. '

'It is too horrid. '

'Who would have to put up with it? Not you, or papa, or Dolly. Ishould have a house of my own at least, and I should know what I hadto expect for the rest of my life. If I stay here I shall go mad ordie. '

'It is impossible. '

'If you will stand to me, mamma, I am sure it may be done. I wouldwrite to him, and say that you would see him. '

'Georgiana, I will never see him. '

'Why not?'

'He is a Jew!'

'What abominable prejudice, --what wicked prejudice! As if you didn'tknow that all that is changed now! What possible difference can itmake about a man's religion? Of course I know that he is vulgar, andold, and has a lot of children. But if I can put up with that, I don'tthink that you and papa have a right to interfere. As to his religionit cannot signify. '

'Georgiana, you make me very unhappy. I am wretched to see you sodiscontented. If I could do anything for you, I would. But I will notmeddle about Mr Brehgert. I shouldn't dare to do so. I don't think youknow how angry your papa can be. '

'I'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me. What can hedo? I don't suppose he'll beat me. And I'd rather he would than shutme up here. As for you, mamma, I don't think you care for me a bit. Because Sophy is going to be married to that oaf, you are become soproud of her that you haven't half a thought for anybody else. '

'That's very unjust, Georgiana. '

'I know what's unjust, --and I know who's ill-treated. I tell youfairly, mamma, that I shall write to Mr Brehgert and tell him that I amquite ready to marry him. I don't know why he should be afraid of papa. I don't mean to be afraid of him any more, and you may tell him justwhat I say. '

All this made Lady Pomona very miserable. She did not communicate herdaughter's threat to Mr Longestaffe, but she did discuss it withSophia. Sophia was of opinion that Georgiana did not mean it, and gavetwo or three reasons for thinking so. In the first place had sheintended it she would have written her letter without saying a wordabout it to Lady Pomona. And she certainly would not have declared herpurpose of writing such letter after Lady Pomona had refused herassistance. And moreover, --Lady Pomona had received no former hint ofthe information which was now conveyed to her, --Georgiana was in thehabit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in thepark. 

'Mr Batherbolt!' exclaimed Lady Pomona. 

'She is walking with Mr Batherbolt almost every day. '

'But he is so very strict. '

'It is true, mamma. '

'And he's five years younger than she! And he's got nothing but hiscuracy! And he's a celibate! I heard the bishop laughing at himbecause he called himself a celibate. '

'It doesn't signify, mamma. I know she is with him constantly. Wilsonhas seen them, --and I know it. Perhaps papa could get him a living. Dolly has a living of his own that came to him with his property. '

'Dolly would be sure to sell the presentation, ' said Lady Pomona. 

'Perhaps the bishop would do something, ' said the anxious sister, 'when he found that the man wasn't a celibate. Anything, mamma, wouldbe better than the Jew. ' To this latter proposition Lady Pomona gave acordial assent. 'Of course it is a come-down to marry a curate, --but aclergyman is always considered to be decent. '

The preparations for the Whitstable marriage went on without anyapparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between MrBatherbolt and Georgiana. There was no room to apprehend anythingwrong on that side. Mr Batherbolt was so excellent a young man, and soexclusively given to religion, that, even should Sophy's suspicion becorrect, he might be trusted to walk about the park with Georgiana. Should he at any time come forward and ask to be allowed to make thelady his wife, there would be no disgrace in the matter. He was aclergyman and a gentleman, --and the poverty would be Georgiana's ownaffair. 

Mr Longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest daughter'smarriage, and with him came Dolly. Great trouble had been taken toteach him that duty absolutely required his presence at his sister'smarriage, and he had at last consented to be there. It is notgenerally considered a hardship by a young man that he should have togo into a good partridge country on the 1st of September, and Dollywas an acknowledged sportsman. Nevertheless, he considered that he hadmade a great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by LadyPomona as though he were a bright example to other sons. He found thehouse not in a very comfortable position, for Georgiana stillpersisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to MrWhitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at Caversham, gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money affairs hadbeen comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to squabble with hisfather. It was a great thing that one of the girls should be married, and Dolly had brought down an enormous china dog, about five feethigh, as a wedding present, which added materially to the happiness ofthe meeting. Lady Pomona had determined that she would tell herhusband of those walks in the park, and of other signs of growingintimacy which had reached her ears;--but this she would postpone untilafter the Whitstable marriage. 

But at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage, theywere all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away with MrBatherbolt. She had been up before six. He had met her at the parkgate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at Stowmarket. Then it appeared, too, that, by degrees, various articles of herproperty had been conveyed to Mr Batherbolt's lodgings in the adjacentvillage, so that Lady Pomona's fear that Georgiana would not have athing to wear was needless. When the fact was first known it wasalmost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the Whitstablemarriage must be postponed. But Sophia had a word to say to her motheron that head, and she said it. The marriage was not postponed. Atfirst Dolly talked of going after his younger sister, and the fatherdid dispatch various telegrams. But the fugitives could not be broughtback, and with some little delay, --which made the marriage perhapsuncanonical but not illegal, --Mr George Whitstable was made a happyman. 

It need only be added that in about a month's time Georgiana returnedto Caversham as Mrs Batherbolt, and that she resided there with herhusband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. At the end ofthat time they removed to a small living, for the purchase of which MrLongestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money. 

CHAPTER XCVI - WHERE 'THE WILD ASSES QUENCH THEIR THIRST'

We must now go back a little in our story, --about three weeks, --inorder that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at theBeargarden. That establishment had received a terrible blow in thedefection of Herr Vossner. It was not only that he had robbed theclub, and robbed every member of the club who had ventured to havepersonal dealings with him. Although a bad feeling in regard to himwas no doubt engendered in the minds of those who had suffered deeply, it was not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom over theclub. The sorrow was in this, --that with Herr Vossner all theircomforts had gone. Of course Herr Vossner had been a thief. That nodoubt had been known to them from the beginning. A man does not consentto be called out of bed at all hours in the morning to arrange thegambling accounts of young gentlemen without being a thief. No oneconcerned with Herr Vossner had supposed him to be an honest man. Butthen as a thief he had been so comfortable that his absence wasregretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love even by those whohad suffered most severely from his rapacity. Dolly Longestaffe hadbeen robbed more outrageously than any other member of the club, andyet Dolly Longestaffe had said since the departure of the purveyor thatLondon was not worth living in now that Herr Vossner was gone. In aweek the Beargarden collapsed, --as Germany would collapse for a periodif Herr Vossner's great compatriot were suddenly to remove himself fromthe scene; but as Germany would strive to live even without Bismarck, so did the club make its new efforts. But here the parallel must cease. Germany no doubt would at last succeed, but the Beargarden hadreceived a blow from which it seemed that there was no recovery. Atfirst it was proposed that three men should be appointed as trustees, --trustees for paying Vossner's debts, trustees for borrowing moremoney, trustees for the satisfaction of the landlord who was beginningto be anxious as to his future rent. At a certain very triumphantgeneral meeting of the club it was determined that such a plan shouldbe arranged, and the members assembled were unanimous. It was at firstthought that there might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship. The club was so popular and the authority conveyed by the positionwould be so great, that A, B, and C might feel aggrieved at seeing somuch power conferred on D, E, and F. When at the meeting abovementioned one or two names were suggested, the final choice waspostponed, as a matter of detail to be arranged privately, rather fromthis consideration than with any idea that there might be a difficultyin finding adequate persons. But even the leading members of theBeargarden hesitated when the proposition was submitted to them withall its honours and all its responsibilities. Lord Nidderdale declaredfrom the beginning that he would have nothing to do with it, --pleadinghis poverty openly. Beauchamp Beauclerk was of opinion that he himselfdid not frequent the club often enough. Mr Lupton professed hisinability as a man of business. Lord Grasslough pleaded his father. The club from the first had been sure of Dolly Longestaffe'sservices;--for were not Dolly's pecuniary affairs now in process ofsatisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all men that hiscourage never failed him in regard to money? But even he declined. 'Ihave spoken to Squercum, ' he said to the Committee, 'and Squercum won'thear of it. Squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the club veryshaky. ' When one of the Committee made a remark as to Mr Squercum whichwas not complimentary, --insinuated indeed that Squercum withoutinjustice might be consigned to the infernal deities Dolly took thematter up warmly. 'That's all very well for you, Grasslough; but if youknew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight withoutpreaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise Squercum. I've tried togo alone and I find that does not answer. Squercum's my coach, and Imean to stick pretty close to him. ' Then it came to pass that thetriumphant project as to the trustees fell to the ground, althoughSquercum himself advised that the difficulty might be lessened if threegentlemen could be selected who lived well before the world and yethad nothing to lose. Whereupon Dolly suggested Miles Grendall. But thecommittee shook its heads, not thinking it possible that the clubcould be re-established on a basis of three Miles Grendalls. 

Then dreadful rumours were heard. The Beargarden must surely beabandoned. 'It is such a pity, ' said Nidderdale, 'because there neverhas been anything like it. '

'Smoke all over the house!' said Dolly. 

'No horrid nonsense about closing, ' said Grasslough, 'and no infernalold fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing. '

'Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That'swhat I liked, ' said Nidderdale. 

'It's an old story, ' said Mr Lupton, 'that if you put a man intoParadise he'll make it too hot to hold him. That's what you've donehere. '

'What we ought to do, ' said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of hisown good fortune in regard to Squercum, 'is to get some fellow likeVossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above hisregular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really thinkthat might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt. ' But MrLupton was of opinion that the new Vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity. 

One day, before the Whitstable marriage, when it was understood thatthe club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless some newheaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation, Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the hall and thesteps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner, when SirFelix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a creeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. He had nearly recoveredfrom his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court plaster on hisupper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak as though hehad not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had heard little ornothing of what had been done at the Beargarden since Vossner'sdefection, It was now a month since he had been seen at the club. Histhrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but latterlyhis existence had been almost forgotten. Now, with difficulty, he hadsummoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so completely had hebeen cowed by the latter circumstances of his life; but he haddetermined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to his oldassociates as though no evil thing had befallen him. He had stillmoney enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber ofwhist. If fortune should go against him he might glide into I. O. U. 's, --as others had done before, so much to his cost. 'By George, here'sCarbury!' said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, andwalked upstairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to have theirhands shaken by the stranger. 

'Thought you were out of town, ' said Nidderdale, 'Haven't seen you forthe last ever so long. '

'I have been out of town, ' said Felix, --lying; 'down in Suffolk. ButI'm back now. How are things going on here?'

'They're not going at all;--they're gone, ' said Dolly. 'Everything issmashed, ' said Nidderdale. 

'We shall all have to pay, I don't know how much. '

'Wasn't Vossner ever caught?' asked the baronet. 

'Caught!' ejaculated Dolly. 'No;--but he has caught us. I don't knowthat there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We closealtogether next Monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for. Flatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. Indeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece. He's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of thecellar. '

'That don't matter, ' said Nidderdale, 'as Vossner took care that thereshouldn't be any wine. '

'He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what wehave as a favour. '

'I suppose one can get a dinner here?'

'Yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow, '

'Isn't there any playing?' asked Felix with dismay. 

'I haven't seen a card this fortnight, ' said Dolly. 'There hasn't beenanybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been theaffair of Melmotte, you know;--though, I suppose, you do know all aboutthat. '

'Of course I know he poisoned himself. '

'Of course that had effect, ' said Dolly, continuing his history. 'Though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow likethat takes poison, I can't understand. Last year the only day Imanaged to get down in February, the hounds didn't come because someold cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I callit rot. '

'Melmotte's death was rather awful, ' said Nidderdale. 

'Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. And now they saythe girl is going to be married to Fisker. I don't know how you andNidderdale like that. I never went in for her myself. Squercum neverseemed to see it. '

'Poor dear!' said Nidderdale. 'She's welcome for me, and I dare say shecouldn't do better with herself. I was very fond of her;--I'll be shotif I wasn't. '

'And Carbury too, I suppose, ' said Dolly. 

'No; I wasn't. If I'd really been fond of her I suppose it would havecome off. I should have had her safe enough to America, if I'd caredabout it. ' This was Sir Felix's view of the matter. 

'Come into the smoking-room, Dolly, ' said Nidderdale. 'I can standmost things, and I try to stand everything; but, by George, thatfellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him. You and I are badenough, --but I don't think we're so heartless as Carbury. '

'I don't think I'm heartless at all, ' said Dolly. 'I'm good-natured toeverybody that is good-natured to me, --and to a great many people whoain't. I'm going all the way down to Caversham next week to see mysister married, though I hate the place and hate marriages, and if Iwas to be hung for it I couldn't say a word to the fellow who is goingto be my brother-in-law. But I do agree about Carbury. It's very hardto be good-natured to him. '

But, in the teeth of these adverse opinions Sir Felix managed to gethis dinner-table close to theirs and to tell them at dinner somethingof his future prospects. He was going to travel and see the world. Hehad, according to his own account, completely run through London lifeand found that it was all barren. 

 'In life I've rung all changes through, Run every pleasure down, 'Midst each excess of folly too, And lived with half the town. '

Sir Felix did not exactly quote the old song, probably having neverheard the words. But that was the burden of his present story. It washis determination to seek new scenes, and in search of them to travelover the greater part of the known world. 

'How jolly for you!' said Dolly. 

'It will be a change, you know. '

'No end of a change. Is any one going with you?'

'Well;--yes. I've got a travelling companion;--a very pleasant fellow, who knows a lot, and will be able to coach me up in things. There's adeal to be learned by going abroad, you know. '

'A sort of a tutor, ' said Nidderdale. 

'A parson, I suppose, ' said Dolly. 

'Well;--he is a clergyman. Who told you?'

'It's only my inventive genius. Well;--yes; I should say that would benice, --travelling about Europe with a clergyman. I shouldn't get enoughadvantage out of it to make it pay, but I fancy it will just suityou. '

'It's an expensive sort of thing;--isn't it?' asked Nidderdale. 

'Well;--it does cost something. But I've got so sick of this kind oflife;--and then that railway Board coming to an end, and the clubsmashing up, and--'

'Marie Melmotte marrying Fisker, ' suggested Dolly. 

'That too, if you will. But I want a change, and a change I mean tohave. I've seen this side of things, and now I'll have a look at theother. '

'Didn't you have a row in the street with some one the other day?'This question was asked very abruptly by Lord Grasslough, who, thoughhe was sitting near them, had not yet joined in the conversation, andwho had not before addressed a word to Sir Felix. 'We heard somethingabout it, but we never got the right story. ' Nidderdale glanced acrossthe table at Dolly, and Dolly whistled. Grasslough looked at the manhe addressed as one does look when one expects an answer. Mr Lupton, with whom Grasslough was dining, also sat expectant. Dolly andNidderdale were both silent. 

It was the fear of this that had kept Sir Felix away from the club. Grasslough, as he had told himself, was just the fellow to ask such aquestion, --ill-natured, insolent, and obtrusive. But the questiondemanded an answer of some kind. 'Yes, ' said he; 'a fellow attacked mein the street, coming behind me when I had a girl with me. He didn'tget much the best of it though. '

'Oh;--didn't he?' said Grasslough. 'I think, upon the whole, you know, you're right about going abroad. '

'What business is it of yours?' asked the baronet. 

'Well;--as the club is being broken up, I don't know that it is verymuch the business of any of us. '

'I was speaking to my friends, Lord Nidderdale and Mr Longestaffe, andnot to you. '

'I quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction, ' said LordGrasslough, 'and am sorry for Lord Nidderdale and Mr Longestaffe. '

'What do you mean by that?' said Sir Felix, rising from his chair. Hispresent opponent was not horrible to him as had been John Crumb, asmen in clubs do not now often knock each others' heads or draw swordsone upon another. 

'Don't let's have a quarrel here, ' said Mr Lupton. 'I shall leave theroom if you do. '

'If we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness, ' saidNidderdale. 

'Of course, if there is to be a fight, I'm good to go out withanybody, ' said Dolly. 'When there's any beastly thing to be done, I'vealways got to do it. But don't you think that kind of thing is alittle slow?'

'Who began it?' said Sir Felix, sitting down again. Whereupon LordGrasslough, who had finished his dinner, walked out of the room. 'Thatfellow is always wanting to quarrel. '

'There's one comfort, you know, ' said Dolly. 'It wants two men to makea quarrel. '

'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. '

'Oh, yes, I meant it fast enough, ' said Grasslough afterwards up inthe card-room. The other men who had been together had quicklyfollowed him, leaving Sir Felix alone, and they had collectedthemselves there not with the hope of play, but thinking that theywould be less interrupted than in the smoking-room. 'I don't supposewe shall ever any of us be here again, and as he did come in I thoughtI would tell him my mind. '

'What's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?' said Dolly. 'Ofcourse he's a bad fellow. Most fellows are bad fellows in one way oranother. '

'But he's bad all round, ' said the bitter enemy. 

'And so this is to be the end of the Beargarden, ' said Lord Nidderdalewith a peculiar melancholy. 'Dear old place! I always felt it was toogood to last. I fancy it doesn't do to make things too easy;--one hasto pay so uncommon dear for them. And then, you know, when you've gotthings easy, then they get rowdy;--and, by George, before you knowwhere you are, you find yourself among a lot of blackguards. If onewants to keep one's self straight, one has to work hard at it, one wayor the other. I suppose it all comes from the fall of Adam. '

'If Solomon, Solon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were rolled intoone, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom, ' said Mr Lupton. 

'Live and learn, ' continued the young lord. 'I don't think anybody hasliked the Beargarden so much as I have, but I shall never try thiskind of thing again. I shall begin reading blue books to-morrow, andshall dine at the Carlton. Next session I shan't miss a day in theHouse, and I'll bet anybody a flyer that I make a speech beforeEaster. I shall take to claret at 20s. A dozen, and shall go aboutLondon on the top of an omnibus. '

'How about getting married?' asked Dolly. 

'Oh;--that must be as it comes. That's the governor's affair. None ofyou fellows will believe me, but, upon my word, I liked that girl; andI'd've stuck to her at last, --only there are some things a fellow can'tdo. He was such a thundering scoundrel!'

After a while Sir Felix followed them upstairs, and entered the roomas though nothing unpleasant had happened below. 'We can make up arubber can't we?' said he. 

'I should say not, ' said Nidderdale. 

'I shall not play, ' said Mr Lupton. 

'There isn't a pack of cards in the house, ' said Dolly. LordGrasslough didn't condescend to say a word. Sir Felix sat down withhis cigar in his mouth, and the others continued to smoke in silence. 

'I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall, ' asked Sir Felix. But noone made any answer, and they smoked on in silence. 'He hasn't paid mea shilling yet of the money he owes me. ' Still there was not a word. 'And I don't suppose he ever will. ' There was another pause. 'He isthe biggest scoundrel I ever met, ' said Sir Felix. 

'I know one as big, ' said Lord Grasslough, --'or, at any rate, aslittle. '

There was another pause of a minute, and then Sir Felix left the roommuttering something as to the stupidity of having no cards;--and sobrought to an end his connection with his associates of theBeargarden. From that time forth he was never more seen by them, --or, if seen, was never known. 

The other men remained there till well on into the night, althoughthere was not the excitement of any special amusement to attract them. It was felt by them all that this was the end of the Beargarden, and, with a melancholy seriousness befitting the occasion, they whisperedsad things in low voices, consoling themselves simply with tobacco. 'Inever felt so much like crying in my life, ' said Dolly, as he askedfor a glass of brandy-and-water at about midnight. 'Good-night, oldfellows; good-bye. I'm going down to Caversham, and I shouldn't wonderif I didn't drown myself. '

How Mr Flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture, andthreatened everybody, and at last singled out poor Dolly Longestaffeas his special victim; and how Dolly Longestaffe, by the aid of MrSquercum, utterly confounded Mr Flatfleece, and brought that ingeniousbut unfortunate man, with his wife and small family, to absolute ruin, the reader will hardly expect to have told to him in detail in thischronicle. 

CHAPTER XCVII - MRS HURTLE'S FATE

Mrs Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs Pipkin and JohnCrumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to Bungay andgrace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for thepersons concerned, not so much even from any desire to witness a phaseof English life, as from an irresistible tenderness towards PaulMontague. She not only longed to see him once again, but she couldwith difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which he wasliving. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She hadconsented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to her, --and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken herplace. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all hervery restricted intercourse with such English people as she met, shenever ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return toher own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupidtranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the rough tempestsof her past days. Mrs Pipkin, she thought, was less intellectual thanany American woman she had ever known; and she was quite sure that nohuman being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable of two concurrentideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the United States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb. Howdifferent would her life have been could she have met a man who wouldhave been as true to her as John Crumb was to his Ruby!

She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herselffor loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to seizeglorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples andprejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of apprehensionand readiness of action! But yet she loved him for his very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his Englishmanners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land. The manhad been false to her, --false as hell; had sworn to her and had brokenhis oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything blank beforeher by his treachery! But then she also had not been quite true withhim. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had he. They hadplayed a game against each other; and he, with all the inferiority ofhis intellect to weigh him down, had won, --because he was a man. Shehad much time for thinking, and she thought much about these things. Hecould change his love as often as he pleased, and be as good a loverat the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his defection. He couldlook about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas shecould only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourning would not be more bitter toher in California than in Mrs Pipkin's solitary lodgings at Islington. 

'So he was Mr Montague's partner, --was he now?' asked Mrs Pipkin a dayor two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr Fisker hadcalled on Mrs Hurtle, and Mrs Hurtle had told Mrs Pipkin so much. 'Tomy thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr Montague. ' Mrs Pipkinperhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she might beanxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it might be wellto praise an American at the expense of an Englishman. 

'There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs Pipkin. '

'And that's true, too, Mrs Hurtle. '

'Mr Montague is a gentleman. '

'I always did say that of him, Mrs Hurtle. '

'And Mr Fisker is--an American citizen. ' Mrs Hurtle when she said thiswas very far gone in tenderness. 

'Indeed now!' said Mrs Pipkin, who did not in the least understand themeaning of her friend's last remark. 

'Mr Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had notheard before, and has offered to take me back with him. ' Mrs Pipkin'sapron was immediately at her eyes. 'I must go some day, you knew. '

'I suppose you must. I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always. I wishI could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been. There hasn't beena week without everything settled; and most ladylike, --most ladylike!You seem to me, Mrs Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in yourpocket. ' All this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to speakthe absolute truth. 

'Mr Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine, but I hear thathe will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as welljoin the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefercompany just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the firstof September. ' As this was said about the middle of August there wasstill some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs Pipkin. A fortnight gainedwas something; and as Mr Fisker had come to England on business, andas business is always uncertain, there might possibly be furtherdelay. Then Mrs Hurtle made a further communication to Mrs Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on thedoor, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs Hurtle had desired to say. 'By-the-bye, Mrs Pipkin I expect Mr Montague to call to-morrow ateleven. Just show him up when he comes. ' She had feared that unlesssome such instructions were given, there might be a little scene atthe door when the gentleman came. 

'Mr Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs Hurtle, --of course. I'll see to itmyself. ' Then Mrs Pipkin went away abashed, --feeling that she had madea great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr Montague, if, afterall, recent difficulties were to be adjusted. 

On the following morning Mrs Hurtle dressed herself with almost morethan her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usualcare, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk, nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour asthough she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write aword of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course shewas disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself absolutequiescence. 

She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him. Shehad forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had seen thegirl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity had beensatisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She had no planarranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she at thismoment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she was aboutto return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not know that shehad anything else to say. Then came the knock at the door. Her heartleaped within her, and she made a last great effort to be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door was opened and MrMontague was announced by Mrs Pipkin herself. Mrs Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not oncelook in through the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at thekeyhole. 'I thought you would come and see me once again before Iwent, ' said Mrs Hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but putting out herhand to greet him. 'Sit there opposite, so that we can look at oneanother. I hope it has not been a trouble to you. '

'Of course I came when you left word for me to do so. '

'I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own. '

'I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know that. '

'I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrelas to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has sheforgiven your sins?'

'We are friends, --if you mean that. '

'Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tellher that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was. She was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you. Perhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I wassufficient to serve the turn. '

'Did you say a good word for me?'

'Well; no;' replied Mrs Hurtle. 'I will not boast that I did. I do notwant to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good of you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite as serviceableto you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour without ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behaved to me. I let herknow that from the moment you had seen her, you had thrown me to thewinds. '

'It was not so, my friend. '

'What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, youknow! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies. Icould not make her understand during one short and rather agonizinginterview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your lovefor me by English propriety even before you had seen her beautifuleyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all my disgrace, --anxious as I was to be of service. Besides, as I put it, she was sureto be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly you hadspared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!'

'Winifred, that is untrue. '

'That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr RogerCarbury, who I own is poison to me--'

'You do not know him. '

'Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir. I say thathe is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with theflagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of ourhaving lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful factthat we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that hadbecome the one stumbling-block on your path to happiness. '

'He never said a word to her of our being there. '

'Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only meansof whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and howheartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return offriendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harderthan Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr Carbury on the sands. PerhapsI went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been arrangedas affording you the easiest means of escape from me. '

'You do not believe that. '

'You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conducthad been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve somethanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her thatyour conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. Iconfessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as awoman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed toavenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate andhopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on yourbehalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot wheels. Andnow you have not a word of thanks to give me!'

'Every word you say is a dagger. '

'You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as Imake. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushedbones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you Ihave often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into yourheart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny, spiritless English girl?' All this time she was still seated, lookingat him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow. 'But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, notbecause they will hurt you, but because I know I may take thatcomfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for amoment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinkingthat you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and thenwill you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round herwaist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of mywords interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prickwill last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happinessand joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only onretrospects?'

'I wish I could say a word to comfort you. '

'You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all thatyou have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfortagain. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you allthat I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justifyyour treatment of me. He is not dead. '

'You mean Mr Hurtle. '

'Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce whichwas declared between us was no divorce. Mr Fisker came here to me withtidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love, --though I knowthat he has been my enemy with you, --I shall return with him to SanFrancisco. '

'I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte'sdaughter. '

'So I understand. They are adventurers, --as I am, and I do not see whywe should not suit each other. '

'They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte. '

'Why should I object to that? I shall not be jealous of Mr Fisker'sattentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one towhom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I mayhave a job of work to do there which will require the backing of somefriends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I havetravelled half across the ocean with them. '

'I hope they will be kind to you, ' said Paul. 

'No;--but I will be kind to them. I have conquered others by beingkind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to thatpoor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I used tothink of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that shouldbe clean and sweet and gentle, --of things that should smell of lavenderinstead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair, feminine women, --ofwomen who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die ratherthan do what I did. And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my dreamsshould come true. I ought to have known that it could not be so. I didnot dare quite to tell you all the truth. I know I was wrong, and nowthe punishment has come upon me. Well;--I suppose you had better saygood-bye to me. What is the good of putting it off?' Then she rosefrom her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging listlesslyby her side. 

'God bless you, Winifred!' he said, putting out his hand to her. 

'But he won't. Why should he, --if we are right in supposing that theywho do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evilcursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself now notto wish that you would return to me. If you would come I should carenothing for the misery of that girl, --nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look here;--will youhave this back?' As she asked this she took from out her bosom a smallminiature portrait of himself which he had given her in New York, andheld it towards him. 

'If you wish it I will, --of course, ' he said. 

'I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing onearth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another man, --asI may do, --he must take me and this together. While I live it shall benext my heart. As you know, I have little respect for the proprietiesof life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man Ilove because he becomes the husband of another woman. Having once saidthat I love you I shall not contradict myself because you havedeserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love you, --oh, with my veryheart of hearts. ' So speaking she threw herself into his arms andcovered his face with kisses. 'For one moment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here. Oh, Paul, my love;--my love!'

All this to him was simply agony--though as she had truly said it wasan agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of her love, --without being able even to promise love in return, --to be so told whileyou are in the very act of acknowledging your love for another woman, --carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. He did not want tosee her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be hisfate; but he would have preferred the continuance of moderateresentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood with hisarm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but hedid it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill theywere. 'There, ' she said, smiling through her bitter tears, --'there; youare released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon youagain. If I have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you mustforgive me. '

'No;--but you cut me to the heart. '

'That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools ofthemselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment. Yourswill never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the first ofnext month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr Fisker, andI shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to MrsPipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me again. Indeed it willbe better that you should not. Good-bye. '

He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, whileshe smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pullher towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsedhim, still smiling the while. 'No, sir; no; not again; never again, never, --never, --never again. ' By that time she had recovered her handand stood apart from him. 'Good-bye, Paul;--and now go. ' Then he turnedround and left the room without uttering a word. 

She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his stepdown the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Thenhiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtainshe watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned thecorner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a momentwith her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell proneupon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that shehad loved him with all her heart. 

But that evening she bade Mrs Pipkin drink tea with her and was moregracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but stillcurious landlady asked some question about Mr Montague, Mrs Hurtleseemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover, --and tospeak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, shesaid, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each ofthem preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part. Onthat evening Mrs Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant, having the children up into her room, and giving them jam andbread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed totake a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs Pipkin and herfamily. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed uponMrs Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr Fisker came andtook her away with him to America; and Mrs Pipkin was left, --a desolatebut grateful woman. 

'They do tell bad things about them Americans, ' she said to a friendin the street, 'and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I onlywish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost. She had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eatingpudding just as if they was her own. '

I think Mrs Pipkin was right, and that Mrs Hurtle, with all herfaults, was a good-natured woman. 

CHAPTER XCVIII - MARIE MELMOTTE'S FATE

In the meantime Marie Melmotte was living with Madame Melmotte intheir lodgings up at Hampstead, and was taking quite a new look outinto the world. Fisker had become her devoted servant, --not with thatold-fashioned service which meant making love, but with perhaps atruer devotion to her material interests. He had ascertained on herbehalf that she was the undoubted owner of the money which her fatherhad made over to her on his first arrival in England, --and she also hadmade herself mistress of that fact with equal precision. It would haveastonished those who had known her six months since could they nowhave seen how excellent a woman of business she had become, and howcapable she was of making the fullest use of Mr Fisker's services. Indoing him justice it must be owned that he kept nothing back from herof that which he learned, probably feeling that he might best achievesuccess in his present project by such honesty, --feeling also, no doubt, the girl's own strength in discovering truth and falsehood. 'She's herfather's own daughter, ' he said one day to Croll in Abchurch Lane;--forCroll, though he had left Melmotte's employment when he found that hisname had been forged, had now returned to the service of the daughterin some undefined position, and had been engaged to go with her andMadame Melmotte to New York. 

'Ah; yees, ' said Croll, 'but bigger. He vas passionate, and did losehis 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness. ' Whereupon Croll made anaction as though he were a frog swelling himself to the dimensions ofan ox. ''E bursted himself, Mr Fisker. 'E vas a great man; but thegreater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'E ate so much thathe became too fat to see to eat his vittels. ' It was thus that HerrCroll analysed the character of his late master. 'But Ma'me'selle, --ah, she is different. She vill never eat too moch, but vill see to eatalvays. ' Thus too he analysed the character of his young mistress. 

At first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between MadameMelmotte and Marie. The reader will perhaps remember that they were inno way connected by blood. Madame Melmotte was not Marie's mother, nor, in the eye of the law, could Marie claim Melmotte as her father. She was alone in the world, absolutely without a relation, not knowingeven what had been her mother's name, --not even knowing what was herfather's true name, as in the various biographies of the great manwhich were, as a matter of course, published within a fortnight of hisdeath, various accounts were given as to his birth, parentage, andearly history. The general opinion seemed to be that his father hadbeen a noted coiner in New York, --an Irishman of the name of Melmody, --and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent was argued fromMelmotte's skill in forgery. But Marie, though she was thus isolated, and now altogether separated from the lords and duchesses who a fewweeks since had been interested in her career, was the undoubted ownerof the money, --a fact which was beyond the comprehension of MadameMelmotte. She could understand, --and was delighted to understand, --thata very large sum of money had been saved from the wreck, and that shemight therefore look forward to prosperous tranquillity for the restof her life. Though she never acknowledged so much to herself, shesoon learned to regard the removal of her husband as the end of hertroubles. But she could not comprehend why Marie should claim all themoney as her own. She declared herself to be quite willing to dividethe spoil, --and suggested such an arrangement both to Marie and toCroll. Of Fisker she was afraid, thinking that the iniquity of givingall the money to Marie originated with him, in order that he mightobtain it by marrying the girl. Croll, who understood it allperfectly, told her the story a dozen times, --but quite in vain. Shemade a timid suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, andwas only deterred from doing so by Marie's ready assent to such anarrangement. Marie's equally ready surrender of any right she mighthave to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had perhaps someeffect in softening the elder lady's heart. She thus was in possessionof a treasure of her own, --though a treasure small in comparison withthat of the younger woman; and the younger woman had promised thatin the event of her marriage she would be liberal. 

It was distinctly understood that they were both to go to New Yorkunder Mr Fisker's guidance as soon as things should be sufficientlysettled to allow of their departure; and Madame Melmotte was told, about the middle of August, that their places had been taken for the3rd of September. But nothing more was told her. She did not as yetknow whether Marie was to go out free or as the affianced bride ofHamilton Fisker. And she felt herself injured by being left so much inthe dark. She herself was inimical to Fisker, regarding him as a dark, designing man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her husbandhad left behind him, --and trusted herself entirely to Croll, who waspersonally attentive to her. Fisker was, of course, going on to SanFrancisco. Marie also had talked of crossing the American continent. But Madame Melmotte was disposed to think that for her, with herjewels, and such share of the money as Marie might be induced to giveher, New York would be the most fitting residence. Why should she dragherself across the continent to California? Herr Croll had declaredhis purpose of remaining in New York. Then it occurred to the ladythat 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 wellas any other. She and Herr Croll had known each other for a great manyyears, and were, she thought, of about the same age. Croll had somemoney saved. She had, at any rate, her jewels, --and Croll would probablybe 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. So she smiledupon Croll, and whispered to him; and when she had given Croll twoglasses of Curaçao, --which comforter she kept in her own hands, assafeguarded almost as the jewels, --then Croll understood her. 

But it was essential that she should know what Marie intended to do. Marie was anything but communicative, and certainly was not in any waysubmissive. 'My dear, ' she said one day, asking the question inFrench, without any preface or apology, 'are you going to be marriedto Mr Fisker?'

'What makes you ask that?'

'It is so important I should know. Where am I to live? What am I todo? What money shall I have? Who will be a friend to me? A woman oughtto know. You will marry Fisker if you like him. Why cannot you tellme?'

'Because I do not know. When I know I will tell you. If you go onasking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more. '

And this was true. She did not know. It certainly was not Fisker'sfault that she should still be in the dark as to her own destiny, forhe had asked her often enough, and had pressed his suit with all hiseloquence. But Marie had now been wooed so often that she felt theimportance of the step which was suggested to her. The romance of thething was with her a good deal worn, and the material view ofmatrimony had also been damaged in her sight. She had fallen in lovewith Sir Felix Carbury, and had assured herself over and over againthat she worshipped the very ground on which he stood. But she hadtaught herself this business of falling in love as a lesson, ratherthan felt it. After her father's first attempts to marry her to thisand that suitor because of her wealth, --attempts which she had hardlyopposed amidst the consternation and glitter of the world to which shewas suddenly introduced, --she had learned from novels that it would beright that she should be in love, and she had chosen Sir Felix as heridol. The reader knows what had been the end of that episode in herlife. She certainly was not now in love with Sir Felix Carbury. Thenshe had as it were relapsed into the hands of Lord Nidderdale, --one ofher early suitors, --and had felt that as love was not to prevail, andas it would be well that she should marry some one, he might probablybe as good as any other, and certainly better than many others. Shehad almost learned to like Lord Nidderdale and to believe that heliked her, when the tragedy came. Lord Nidderdale had been verygood-natured, --but he had deserted her at last. She had never allowedherself to be angry with him for a moment. It had been a matter ofcourse that he should do so. Her fortune was still large, but notso large as the sum named in the bargain made. And it was moreoverweighted with her father's blood. From the moment of her father's deathshe had never dreamed that he would marry her. Why should he? Herthoughts in reference to Sir Felix were bitter enough;--but as againstNidderdale they were not at all bitter. Should she ever meet him againshe would shake hands with him and smile, --if not pleasantly as shethought of the things which were past, --at any rate with good humour. But all this had not made her much in love with matrimony generally. Shehad over a hundred thousand pounds of her own, and, feeling consciousof her own power in regard to her own money, knowing that she could doas she pleased with her wealth, she began to look out into lifeseriously. 

What could she do with her money, and in what way would she shape herlife, should she determine to remain her own mistress? Were she torefuse Fisker how should she begin? He would then be banished, and heronly remaining friends, the only persons whose names she would evenknow in her own country, would be her father's widow and Herr Croll. She already began to see Madame Melmotte's purport in reference toCroll, and could not reconcile herself to the idea of opening anestablishment with them on a scale commensurate with her fortune. Norcould she settle in her own mind any pleasant position for herself asa single woman, living alone in perfect independence. She had opinionsof women's rights, --especially in regard to money; and she entertainedalso a vague notion that in America a young woman would not needsupport so essentially as in England. Nevertheless, the idea of a finehouse for herself in Boston, or Philadelphia, --for in that case shewould have to avoid New York as the chosen residence of MadameMelmotte, --did not recommend itself to her. As to Fisker himself, --shecertainly liked him. He was not beautiful like Felix Carbury, nor hadhe the easy good-humour of Lord Nidderdale. She had seen enough ofEnglish gentlemen to know that Fisker was very unlike them. But shehad not seen enough of English gentlemen to make Fisker distasteful toher. He told her that he had a big house at San Francisco, and shecertainly desired to live in a big house. He represented himself to bea thriving man, and she calculated that he certainly would not behere, in London, arranging her father's affairs, were he not possessedof commercial importance. She had contrived to learn that, in theUnited States, a married woman has greater power over her own moneythan in England, and this information acted strongly in Fisker'sfavour. On consideration of the whole subject she was inclined tothink that she would do better in the world as Mrs Fisker than asMarie Melmotte, --if she could see her way clearly in the matter ofher own money. 

'I have got excellent berths, ' Fisker said to her one morning atHampstead. At these interviews, which were devoted first to businessand then to love, Madame Melmotte was never allowed to be present. 

'I am to be alone?'

'Oh, yes. There is a cabin for Madame Melmotte and the maid, and acabin for you. Everything will be comfortable. And there is anotherlady going, --Mrs Hurtle, --whom I think you will like. '

'Has she a husband?'

'Not going with us, ' said Mr Fisker evasively. 

'But she has one?'

'Well, yes;--but you had better not mention him. He is not exactly allthat a husband should be. '

'Did she not come over here to marry some one else?'--For Marie in thedays of her sweet intimacy with Sir Felix Carbury had heard somethingof Mrs Hurtle's story. 

'There is a story, and I dare say I shall tell you all about it someday. But you may be sure I should not ask you to associate with anyone you ought not to know. '

'Oh, --I can take care of myself. '

'No doubt, Miss Melmotte, --no doubt. I feel that quite strongly. Butwhat I meant to observe was this, --that I certainly should notintroduce a lady whom I aspire to make my own lady to any lady whom alady oughtn't to know. I hope I make myself understood, Miss Melmotte. '

'Oh, quite. '

'And perhaps I may go on to say that if I could go on board that shipas your accepted lover, I could do a deal more to make youcomfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere friend, Miss Melmotte. You can't doubt my heart. '

'I don't see why I shouldn't. Gentlemen's hearts are things very muchto be doubted as far as I've seen 'em. I don't think many of 'em have'em at all. '

'Miss Melmotte, you do not know the glorious west. Your pastexperiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold country inwhich passion is no longer allowed to sway. On those golden shoreswhich the Pacific washes man is still true, --and woman is stilltender. '

'Perhaps I'd better wait and see, Mr Fisker. '

But this was not Mr Fisker's view of the case. There might be othermen desirous of being true on those golden shores. 'And then, ' saidhe, pleading his cause not without skill, 'the laws regulating woman'sproperty there are just the reverse of those which the greediness ofman has established here. The wife there can claim her share of herhusband's property, but hers is exclusively her own. America iscertainly the country for women, --and especially California. '

'Ah;--I shall find out all about it, I suppose, when I've been there afew months. '

'But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such muchbetter auspices, --if I may be allowed to say so, --as a married lady oras a lady just going to be married. '

'Ain't single ladies much thought of in California?'

'It isn't that. Come, Miss Melmotte, you know what I mean. '

'Yes, I do. '

'Let us go in for life together. We've both done uncommon well. I'mspending 30, 000 dollars a year, --at that rate, --in my own house. You'llsee it all. If we put them both together, --what's yours and what'smine, --we can put our foot out as far as about any one there, I guess. '

'I don't know that I care about putting my foot out. I've seensomething of that already, Mr Fisker. You shouldn't put your foot outfarther than you can draw it in again. '

'You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte. I shouldn't be able totouch a dollar of your money. It would be such a triumph to go intoFrancisco as man and wife. '

'I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a while andlooked about me. '

'And seen the house! Well;--there's something in that. The house is allthere, I can tell you. I'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like thehouse. But if we were engaged, I could do everything for you. Wherewould you be, going into San Francisco all alone? Oh, Miss Melmotte, Ido admire you so much!'

I doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy. But thearguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certainextent. 'I'll tell you how it must be then, ' she said. 

'How shall it be?' and as he asked the question he jumped up and puthis arm round her waist. 

'Not like that, Mr Fisker, ' she said, withdrawing herself. 'It shallbe in this way. You may consider yourself engaged to me. '

'I'm the happiest man on this continent, ' he said, forgetting in hisecstasy that he was not in the United States. 

'But if I find when I get to Francisco anything to induce me to changemy mind, I shall change it. I like you very well, but I'm not going totake a leap in the dark, and I'm not going to marry a pig in a poke. '

'There you're quite right, ' he said, --'quite right. '

'You may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and I'lltell Madame Melmotte the same. She and Croll don't mean going anyfarther than New York. '

'We needn't break our hearts about that;--need we?'

'It don't much signify. Well;--I'll go on with Mrs Hurtle, if she'llhave me. '

'Too much delighted she'll be. '

'And she shall be told we're engaged. '

'My darling!'

'But if I don't like it when I get to Frisco, as you call it, all theropes in California shan't make me do it. Well--yes; you may give me akiss I suppose now if you care about it. ' And so, --or rather so far, --Mr Fisker and Marie Melmotte became engaged to each other as man andwife. 

After that Mr Fisker's remaining business in England went verysmoothly with him. It was understood up at Hampstead that he wasengaged to Marie Melmotte, --and it soon came to be understood also thatMadame Melmotte was to be married to Herr Croll. No doubt the fatherof the one lady and the husband of the other had died so recently asto make these arrangements subject to certain censorious objections. 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 concernedwith him were not to be weighed by ordinary scales. Nor did it muchmatter, for the persons concerned took their departure soon after thearrangement was made, and Hampstead knew them no more. 

On the 3rd of September Madame Melmotte, Marie, Mrs Hurtle, HamiltonK. Fisker, and Herr Croll left Liverpool for New York; and the threeladies were determined that they never would revisit a country ofwhich their reminiscences certainly were not happy. The writer of thepresent chronicle may so far look forward, --carrying his reader withhim, --as to declare that Marie Melmotte did become Mrs Fisker verysoon after her arrival at San Francisco. 

CHAPTER XCIX - LADY CARBURY AND MR BROUNE

When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden thathe intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreigntravel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestantdivine, --as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune someyears since, --he was not altogether lying. There was indeed a sounderbasis of truth than was usually to be found attached to hisstatements. That he should have intended to produce a false impressionwas a matter of course, --and nearly equally so that he should have madehis attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no onewould believe. He was going to Germany, and he was going in companywith a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain therefor the next twelve months. A representation had lately been made tothe Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certaincommercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were withoutpastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter. Aclergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the incomesuggested was very small. The Protestant English population of thecommercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. It hadcome to pass that the 'Morning Breakfast Table' had interested itselfin the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner notunusual with that paper. The bishop and all those concerned in thematter had fully understood that if the 'Morning Breakfast Table'could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved uponMr Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid thatcould be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus Blake, --abrand snatched from the burning of Rome, --had been induced to undertakethe maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix Carbury for aconsideration. Mr Broune imparted to Mr Blake all that there was toknow about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management ofthe young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he shouldon no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home. It wasevidently Mr Broune's anxious wish that Sir Felix should see as muchas possible of German life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if notabsolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his owncomfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should notadmit of the speedy return to England of the young gentleman himself. 

Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult aswas to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure theidea of driving him into exile. But Mr Broune was very obstinate, veryreasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart. 'What is tobe the end of it then?' he said to her, almost in anger. For in thosedays the great editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed verymuch from that Mr Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look intoher eyes. His manner with her had become so different that sheregarded him as quite another person. She hardly dared to contradicthim, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she reallyfelt and thought. 'Do you mean to let him eat up everything you haveto your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?'

'Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horridthings. '

'It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myselfcompelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there bein his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What canhe do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from thelife he is leading?'

'If he could only be married!'

'Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throwherself away upon him?'

'He is so handsome. '

'What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let metell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep himhere you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. Hehas agreed to go;--let him go. '

She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented, itwas almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr Broune'sgreatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which hepersuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. 'Your mother, ' said MrBroune, 'has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar yoursister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged fora few months. She cannot make you go to Germany of course. But she canturn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so. '

'I don't think she ever said that, Mr Broune. '

'No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her presence;and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so. You may takemy word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take her advice £175a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in Englandnot a shilling further will be paid. ' He had no money. His lastsovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would give him credit fora coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken awayfrom him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes werebecoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement for him during thecoming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement inEastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change forthe better. 

He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr Broune, was dulyintroduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his lastsovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentionsfor the immediate future to those friends at his club who would nodoubt mourn his departure. 

Mr Blake and Mr Broune between them did not allow the grass to growunder their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr and MrsBlake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg, --havingextracted at the very hour of parting a last five pound note from hisfoolish mother. 'It will be just enough to bring him home, ' said MrBroune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained inhis expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate. 'It will be gone, ' she said, 'long before they reach theirdestination. '

'Then why the deuce should you give it him?' said Mr Broune. 

Mr Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year'sallowance in advance to Mr Blake out of his own pocket. Indeed, he hadpaid various sums for Lady Carbury, --so that that unfortunate womanwould often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the greateditor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times aweek, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructionsas to all that she should do. 'I wouldn't write another novel if Iwere you, ' he said. This was hard, as the writing of novels was hergreat ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel whichshe had written was good. Mr Broune's own critic had declared it to bevery good in glowing language. The 'Evening Pulpit' had of courseabused it, --because it is the nature of the 'Evening Pulpit' to abuse. So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise wasall true, whereas the censure had come from malice. After that articlein the 'Breakfast Table, ' it did seem hard that Mr Broune should tellher to write no more novels. She looked up at him piteously but saidnothing. 'I don't think you'd find it answer. Of course you can do itas well as a great many others. But then that is saying so little!'

'I thought I could make some money. '

'I don't think Mr Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--Idon't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else. '

'It is so very hard to get paid for what one does. '

To this Mr Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for awhile, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning LadyCarbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from herdaughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep upthat house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means permittedit. What should she do with herself? Whither should she take herself?Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of MrBroune forbidding her to write more novels. After all, then, she wasnot a clever woman, --not more clever than other women around her!That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as anovelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the 'BreakfastTable. ' Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to allof us, she was more than equally despondent. He would not thus havecrushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her now, --he whoused to be so soft, --he was very good. It did not occur to her to rebelagainst him. After what he had said, of course there would be no morepraise in the 'Breakfast Table, '--and, equally of course, no novel ofhers could succeed without that. The more she thought of him, the moreomnipotent he seemed to be. The more she thought of herself, the moreabsolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopeswith which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelvemonths ago. 

On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's comingmarriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of herbroken schemes. 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 asecond novel. It was impossible now that she should even look at whatshe had written. All this made her very sad. She spent the eveningquite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin'sfriend, Mrs Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her lifepast and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, seesomething of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent. It was all 'leather or prunello, ' as she said to herself;--it was allvanity, --and vanity, --and vanity! What real enjoyment had she foundin anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some daysomething would come which she would like;--but she had never as yetin truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation, --butnow even her anticipations were at an end. Mr Broune had sent her sonaway, had forbidden her to write any more novels and had been refusedwhen he had asked her to marry him!

The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still verywretched. 'I shall give up this house, ' she said. 'I can't afford tokeep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least knowwhere to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place willbe the same to me now. '

'I don't see why you should say that. '

'What does it matter?'

'You wouldn't think of going out of London. '

'Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest. '

'I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not seeyou, ' said Mr Broune plaintively. 

'So shall I, --very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. Butwhat am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserablelodgings. 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 Imay be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't wantme. There is nobody else that I can do any good to. '

'I want you, ' said Mr Broune, very quietly. 

'Ah, --that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good asgoodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptancefrom him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have sosadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost dailytrouble, but where shall I find a friend?'

'When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Twoor three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That hasbeen altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convincedmyself, --not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, Ihave quite convinced myself, --that such a marriage will best contributeto my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would maryours. '

This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, thatthe words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly atfirst brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed hisoffer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made herfeel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not thatshe believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipidcompliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that it couldnot be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of herself wasso poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenessesand pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as thisshould in truth want to make her his wife. At this moment she thoughtless of herself and more of Mr Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kepthis place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on hercountenance. 'Well, ' he said; 'what do you think of it? I never lovedyou better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought thatyou did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed byyour son. '

'That was the reason, ' she said, almost in a whisper. 

'But I shall love you better still for accepting me now if you willaccept me. '

The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambitionof her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsomemaintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to runfrom him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned tohim; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had neverconfessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, herliterary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son'scareer;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. 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 firmbottom? Then she remembered that first kiss, --or attempted kiss, --when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself thatthe man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly had not thoughtthen that his susceptibility was of this nature. Nor could she quiteunderstand now whether she had been right then, and that the man'sfeelings, and almost his nature, had since changed, --or whether he hadreally loved her from first to last. As he remained silent it wasnecessary that she should answer him. 'You can hardly have thought ofit enough, ' she said. 

'I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it forsix months at least. '

'There is so much against me. '

'What is there against you?'

'They say bad things of me in India. '

'I know all about that, ' replied Mr Broune. 

'And Felix!'

'I think I may say that I know all about that also. '

'And then I have become so poor!'

'I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily forme, --I hope luckily for both of us, --it is not necessary that I shoulddo so. '

'And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't knowwhat I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer togive to me. '

'Yourself, ' he said, stretching out his right hand to her. 

And there he sat with it stretched out, --so that she found herselfcompelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with veryabsolute words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to himwithout looking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a momentshe was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude wasawkward. They would certainly have thought so themselves had theyimagined that any one could have seen them. But how many absurditiesof the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy, --as longas they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not thatAge is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it, --but that thedisplay of it is without the graces of which Youth is proud, and whichAge regrets. 

On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He hadcertainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he wentdown to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, notonly for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had wonhim more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue. 

She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to athorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfectblank to her. There was no single object of interest before her. Noweverything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, wasone of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few, --soshe told herself, --were greater or more powerful. Was it not a careerenough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive hisfriends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

Whether her hopes were realised, or, --as human hopes never arerealised, --how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell;but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, LadyCarbury became the wife of Mr Broune and, in furtherance of her ownresolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street waskept, and Mrs Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded bythe literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury. 

CHAPTER C - DOWN IN SUFFOLK

It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjustinghis affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from RogerCarbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in WelbeckStreet, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carburykept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to throwin fact very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understood perfectlythat she was in this matter stronger than her mother and that she needfear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was on her side. 'I don't knowwhat you mean to live on, ' Lady Carbury said, threatening future evilsin a plaintive tone. Hetta repeated, though in other language, theassurance which the young lady made who declared that if her futurehusband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quitesatisfied with the potato-peelings; while Paul made some vagueallusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with thehouse of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. 'I don't see anything like anincome, ' said Lady Carbury; 'but I suppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himself now it seems. ' But this was beforethe halcyon day of Mr Broune's second offer. 

It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the timefixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. When this wasfinally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home, conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass theautumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that shemight 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 inviteher down to the palace. Hetta accepted the invitation and left Londonbefore she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement with MrBroune. 

Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter, --had not brought himselfto determine that he would recognize Paul and Hetta as acknowledgedlovers, --without a fierce inward contest. Two convictions had beenstrong in his mind, both of which were opposed to this recognition, --the first telling him that he would be a fitter husband for the girlthan Paul Montague, and the second assuring him that Paul hadill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness would be bothfoolish and unmanly. For Roger, though he was a religious man, andone anxious to conform to the spirit of Christianity, would not allowhimself to think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man whodid the injury repented of his own injustice. As to giving his coat tothe thief who had taken his cloak, --he told himself that were he andothers to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked inorder that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed. If any onestole his cloak he would certainly put that man in prison as soon aspossible and not commence his lenience till the thief should at anyrate affect to be sorry for his fault. Now, to his thinking, PaulMontague had stolen his cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in thismatter of his love, he would be giving Paul his coat also. No! He wasbound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring himbefore a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentenceof punishment might be at least pronounced. How then could he yield?

And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to women. It might be, --no doubt it was true, --that Mrs Hurtle's appearancein England had been distressing to him. But still he had gone downwith her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's thinking, a manwho could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of Hetta Carbury. He would himself tell no tales against Montague on that head. Evenwhen pressed to do so he had told no tale. But not the less was hisconviction strong that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to beinduced by that knowledge to reject her younger lover. 

But then over these convictions there came a third, --equally strong, --which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not lovehim, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to provehis love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up anddown the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall, --walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea, --he schooledhimself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. What didlove mean if not that? What could be the devotion which men so oftenaffect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of thebeloved one? A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subjecthimself to any toil, --would even die for her! But if this were donesimply with the object of winning her, where was that real love ofwhich sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. The man, thoughhe had been bad to his friend, was not all bad. He was one who mightbecome good in good hands. He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and toohonest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of theman's unfitness. What right had he to think that he could judge of thatbetter than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had beenwalked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart, --though in conqueringit he crushed it, --and in bringing himself to the resolve that theenergies of his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs PaulMontague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolvewhen last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger fromPaul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta. 

When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and ofassuring 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 hehad been during these months in which there had still been doubt. Thesort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself couldcertainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quite sure. Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy oncondition that such boy should take the old name. He would never havea child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he could inducethese people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a partof the year, so that there should be some life in the place, hethought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interestin the property. But as a first step to this he must learn to regardhimself as an old man, --as one who had let life pass by too far forthe purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself tomake happy the homes of others. 

So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his storyto his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those revelationsMrs Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Roger felt that he hadstill much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could besaid in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teachher to regard Suffolk as the county to which she should be attachedand in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he wasover at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come andsee his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea oftalking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked forsympathy in his trouble. 'As to settling your property on her or herchildren, ' said the Bishop, 'it is quite out of the question. Yourlawyer would not allow you to do it. Where would you be if after allyou were to marry?'

'I shall never marry. '

'Very likely not, --but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speakwith certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in thatrespect? You can make your will, doing as you please with yourproperty;--and the will, when made, can be revoked. '

'I think you hardly understand just what I feel, ' said Roger, 'and Iknow very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to actexactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, ifshe had a son, would be my natural heir. '

'But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heiras long as there was a probability or even a chance that you mighthave a son of your own. A man should never put the power, whichproperly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properlybelong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think veryhighly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise thanwell of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only humannature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at yourown disposal should have some effect in producing the more completeobservance of your wishes. '

'I do not believe it in the least, my lord, ' said Roger somewhatangrily. 

'That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the presentmoment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for theirdaughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from thefolly of the old king. "Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, " thefool said to him, "when thou gav'st thy golden one away. " The world, Itake it, thinks that the fool was right. '

The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea ofsettling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not onthat account the less resolute in his determination to make himselfand his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he cameover, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, andwalked there with her for a couple of hours. 'I hope all our troublesare over now, ' he said smiling. 

'You mean about Felix, ' said Hetta, --'and mamma?'

'No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the bestthing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr Broune, and MrBroune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself, Ihope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to Felixand your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself. '

'I hope that you will never have any troubles. '

'I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear. Iwas nearly upset, --what I suppose people call broken-hearted, --when Iwas assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought notto have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should haveknown that I was too old to have a chance. '

'Oh, Roger, --it was not that. '

'Well, --that and other things. I should have known it sooner, andhave got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly andstronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man'slife, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainlymarked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawnfrom them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is donenow. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that Ilook forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as thesource of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as thoughhe were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I askof you is that you will not be chary of your presence there. ' She onlyanswered him by a close pressure on his arm. 'That is what I wanted tosay to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your best andclosest friend, --as he on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all, --except your husband?'

'There is no teaching necessary for that, ' she said. 

'As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly, andalready feel myself to be removed from everything that is young andfoolish. '

'You never were foolish. '

'Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise methis. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury hisresidence. '

'We have no plans as yet at all, Roger. '

'Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into myplan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?'

'What will mamma say?'

'She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard assettled. Then, after that, let this be your home, --so that you shouldlearn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your homereally, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire ofCarbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough tofill that exalted position. ' With all his love to her and hisgood-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that PaulMontague should be Squire of Carbury. 

'Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that. '

'But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mind is quitemade up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to dictate toyou, --and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr Montague. '

'Pray, --pray do not call him Mr Montague. '

'Well, I will not;--to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger. ' Hethrew his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to theair. 'I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is rightthat you should know that I hold my property as steward for those whoare to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship willbe infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share theinterest which I shall take in the matter. It is the only paymentwhich you and he can make me for my trouble. '

'But Felix, Roger!'

His brow became a little black as he answered her. 'To a sister, ' hesaid very solemnly, 'I will not say a word against her brother; but onthat subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, sufferedmuch. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I neednot pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hopewe shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. Thedisposition of a family property, even though it be one so small asmine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make inaccordance with his own caprices, --or even with his own affections. Heowes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to hiscountry. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owesa duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestlywished that the property should be continued in the hands of theirdescendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I amin some respects departing from the theory of my life, --but I do sounder a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall bestperform the duties to which I have alluded. I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that. ' He had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, shedid not venture to dispute his will any further. He did not endeavourto exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her androde home without going into the house. 

Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the samething was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul wasreceived quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw allanger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kepthis promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. As to hislove for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had sonearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusionshould be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed made a solemnresolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as thegirl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of hisfidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and thelabourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of thenecessity of so living that the income might always be more thansufficient for the wants of the household. 

When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishopat the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away thebride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire hadnot seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who wasthere with his wife, --himself now one of Roger's tenants, havingoccupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old DanielRuggles, --declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own. 'John, what a fool you are!' Ruby said to her spouse, when thisopinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. 'Yes, I be, ' saidJohn, --'but not such a fool as to a missed a having o' you. ' 'No, John;it was I was the fool then, ' said Ruby. 'We'll see about that whenthe bairn's born, ' said John, --equally aloud. Then Ruby held hertongue. Mrs Broune, and Mr Broune, were also at Carbury, --thus doinggreat honour to Mr and Mrs Paul Montague, and showing by theirpresence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix was notthere. Happily up to this time Mr Septimus Blake had continued tokeep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the Germantown, --no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.