Title: The Way We Live Now
Author: Trollope, Anthony, 1815-1882
Language: English
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Loewenstein, M.D.



THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

by Anthony Trollope



CHAPTER I - THREE EDITORS


Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and
doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as
she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in
Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, and wrote
many letters wrote also very much beside letters. She spoke of herself
in these days as a woman devoted to Literature, always spelling the
word with a big L. Something of the nature of her devotion may be
learned by the perusal of three letters which on this morning she had
written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was rapid in
everything, 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 important
of the three. Mr Broune was a man powerful in his profession,--and he
was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself an
old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no one
else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to the
reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr Broune, it had
never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her years so
well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossible
to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she used her beauty
not only to increase her influence,--as is natural to women who are
well-favoured,--but also with a well-considered calculation that she
could obtain material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese,
which was very necessary to Her, by a prudent adaptation to her
purposes of the good things with which providence had endowed her. She
did not fall in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit
herself; but she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and
looked out of her own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be
some mysterious bond between her and them--if only mysterious
circumstances would permit it. But the end of all was to induce some
one to do something which would cause a publisher to give her good
payment for indifferent writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon
the merits of the case, he should have been severe. Among all her
literary friends, Mr Broune was the one in whom she most trusted; and
Mr Broune was fond of handsome women. It may be as well to give a
short record of a scene which had taken place between Lady Carbury and
her friend about a month before the writing of this letter which has
been produced. She had wanted him to take a series of papers for the
'Morning Breakfast Table,' and to have them paid for at rate No. 1,
whereas she suspected that he was rather doubtful as to their merit,
and knew that, without special favour, she could not hope for
remuneration above rate No. 2, or possibly even No. 3. So she had
looked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a moment
in his. A man in such circumstances is so often awkward, not knowing
with any accuracy when to do one thing and when another! Mr Broune, in
a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and
had kissed her. To say that Lady Carbury was angry, as most women
would be angry if so treated, would be to give an unjust idea of her
character. It was a little accident which really carried with it no
injury, unless it should be the injury of leading to a rupture between
herself and a valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What
did it matter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had
been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at
once to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and
then made him an excellent little speech. 'Mr Broune, how foolish, how
wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put an
end 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 suffered
and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as you do. Think of
my name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! Say
that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten.'

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

When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been
quite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hard
work done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a street
cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a
private carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to have
been kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr Broune the affair was more
serious. '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 away
he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss her
again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had not done
so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated
the offence.

We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed
to the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr
Booker, of the 'Literary Chronicle.' Mr Booker was a hard-working
professor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means
without influence, and by no means without a conscience. But, from the
nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged, by compromises
which had gradually been driven upon him by the encroachment of
brother authors on the one side and by the demands on the other of
employers who looked only to their profits, he had fallen into a
routine of work in which it was very difficult to be scrupulous, and
almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a literary conscience.
He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with a large family of
daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on him with two little
children. He had five hundred a year for editing the 'Literary
Chronicle,' which, through his energy, had become a valuable property.
He wrote for magazines, and brought out some book of his own almost
annually. He kept his head above water, and was regarded by those who
knew about him, but did not know him, as a successful man. He always
kept up his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that he
could hold his own. But he was driven by the stress of circumstances
to take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly afford
to be independent. It must be confessed that literary scruple had long
departed 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 laughed
inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of Lady
Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,--as he thought also
of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must
inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to
know nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable
notice in the 'Breakfast Table' of his very thoughtful work, called
the 'New Tale of a Tub,' would serve him, even though written by the
hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction
as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the 'Literary
Chronicle.' He would not probably say that the book was accurate, but
he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that the
feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a
masterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make
its way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work,
and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's 'Criminal
Queens,' without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could
almost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes
of after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr Booker was an honest
man, and had set his face persistently against many literary
malpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the French
habit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been
rebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to be
rather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he
could 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 with
him on his periodical. 'Who doubts that? How many very bad things are
there that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways
at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong enough to
put 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 during
the last two years had become 'quite a property,' as men connected
with the press were in the habit of saying. The 'Evening Pulpit' was
supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and done
up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in the
metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be the
sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was effected
with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently with an
ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing was
clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if
not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of the paper had the
gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he catered
would like to read, and how to get his subjects handled so that the
reading should be pleasant. Mr Booker's 'Literary Chronicle' did not
presume to entertain any special political opinions. The 'Breakfast
Table' was decidedly Liberal. The 'Evening Pulpit' was much given to
politics, 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 abusing
what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper
that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and
weary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull,--a
fact that Mr Alf had discovered and had utilized.

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

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

He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himself
as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, with
dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for the
dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on his
mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharp
severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost simplicity, but also
with the utmost care. He was unmarried, had a small house of his own
close to Berkeley Square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties,
kept four or five hunters in Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn
£6,000 a year out of the 'Evening Pulpit' and to spend about half of
that income. He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury,
whose diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had been
unwearied. 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 in
her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though about to
rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life did not
admit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and began scribbling
further notes.



CHAPTER II - THE CARBURY FAMILY


Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader in
the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added. She
has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown
that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with
much confidence. If the reader does not understand so much from her
letters to the three editors they have been written in vain. She has
been made to say that her object in work was to provide for the need
of her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she was
struggling to make for herself a career in literature. Detestably
false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely and
abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouring
to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had been
carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she
had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself were
substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered.
She was true to her children,--especially devoted to one of them--and
was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance their
interests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad
training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardly
possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as
an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. And yet
again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training
should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for
others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless
they touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemed that he
lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though the
futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by a single
month, a single week,--but by a single night. He liked to be kindly
treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and
they who so treated him were his chosen friends. He had in this the
instincts 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 the
extent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's
behalf. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to lock at,
ready-witted, and intelligent. He was very dark, with that soft olive
complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance of
aristocratic breeding. His hair, which was never allowed to become
long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint of
grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings. His eyes were
long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch of
the perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was due more to
the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to
his other features. On his short upper lip he had a moustache as well
formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his
chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of
expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys.
He was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure
as in face. It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women
that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it
was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He
had given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor
fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his
army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of
superiority in fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough to
dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of
thought about his outward man. As yet the little world of his
associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections,--or
rather how devoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance,
joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the
viciousness of his life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by
a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more
than he had done by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel
between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor;
and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced
manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white
feather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the
evil;--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 it
was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lacked
something in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the manners
of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had
no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel.
But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even a
young girl believe that he felt it. When he talked of love, he not
only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought
so. From this fault he had already failed with one young lady reputed
to have £40,000, who had refused him because, as she naively said, she
knew 'he did not really care.' 'How can I show that I care more than
by wishing to make you my wife?' he had asked. 'I don't know that you
can, but all the same you don't care,' she said. And so that young
lady escaped the pitfall. Now there was another young lady, to whom
the reader shall be introduced in time, whom Sir Felix was instigated
to pursue with unremitting diligence. Her wealth was not defined, as
had been the £40,000 of her predecessor, but was known to be very much
greater than that. It was, indeed, generally supposed to be
fathomless, bottomless, endless. It was said that in regard to money
for ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels,
and the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of this
young lady. He had great concerns;--concerns so great that the payment
of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to
him,--as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it matters
little 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 to
anyone marrying his daughter during the present season of his
outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. Lady
Carbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been once
wrecked, was very anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a proper
use of the intimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping
Croesus of the day.

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

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

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

'What affectation it is, mother,' he said, throwing, however, the
half-smoked cigar into the fire-place. 'Some women swear they like
smoke, others say they hate it like the devil. It depends altogether
on 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 have
twenty 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 till
something is settled. A fellow can't live without some money in his
pocket. I do with as little as most fellows. I pay for nothing that I
can help. I even get my hair cut on credit, and as long as it was
possible 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 a
horse 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 to
follow. What's the use?' The young man did not say 'carpe diem,' but
that was the philosophy which he intended to preach.

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

'I have just come away.'

'And what do you think of her?'

'To tell the truth, mother, I have thought very little about her. She
is 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 wife
she would be good enough for me.'

'What does the mother say?'

'The mother is a caution. I cannot help speculating whether, if I
marry the daughter, I shall ever find out where the mother came from.
Dolly Longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a Bohemian
Jewess; 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 course
there are half-a-dozen after her, and I think the old fellow is
bewildered among them all. He's thinking more of getting dukes to dine
with him than of his daughter's lovers. Any fellow might pick her up
who happened to hit her fancy.'

'And why not you?'

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

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

'I have got two horses, if you mean that; and I haven't paid a
shilling 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 your
advice. If I can marry Miss Melmotte, I suppose all will be right. But
I don't think the way to get her would be to throw up everything and
let all the world know that I haven't got a copper. To do that kind of
thing a man must live a little up to the mark. I've brought my hunting
down to a minimum, but if I gave it up altogether there would be lots
of fellows to tell them in Grosvenor Square why I had done so.'

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

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

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

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

'Going to hunt to-morrow?'

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

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

'It isn't moonlight at three. At any rate I can't get myself to Euston
Square by nine. I don't think that fellow of mine likes getting up
himself. 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 sold
one; 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 so
seldom get down. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two of
them last week. I don't think I ever told him he might. I think he
tipped 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 did
when 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 ride
my horses.'

'To save his own.'

'He isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell you
what, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I'll
stick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows
want 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 mine
I'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! It
was 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 biting
off the end went upstairs. I suppose he went away when he was tired of
waiting.'

'I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours for
a 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 your
remembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfully
done up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeeze
in 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 whether
that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe Grasslough,
and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the stables. That's
what 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 do
that. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. I
think I'll have a little drop of curacoa before dinner. Come along and
try it. It'll give us an appetite.'

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

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

He found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent to
the trouble of walking home. There was something so joyous in the
feeling of the possession of all this money that it made the night air
pleasant to him. Then, of a sudden, he remembered the low wail with
which his mother had spoken of her poverty when he demanded assistance
from her. Now he could give her back the £20. But it occurred to him
sharply, with an amount of carefulness quite new to him, that it would
be 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 had
gotten it. It would be preferable to say nothing about his money. As
he let himself into the house and went up to his room he resolved that
he would not say anything about it.

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



CHAPTER IV - MADAME MELMOTTE'S BALL


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

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

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

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

Marie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to his
mother. She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not a
saint. But then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, a
sinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, very
unlike her father or mother, having no trace of the Jewess in her
countenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own
position. With such people as the Melmottes things go fast, and it was
very well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who had
been nearly accepted. 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 in
royal espousals interests of State regulate their expedience with an
acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed impossibility, of
personal predilections, so in this case was money allowed to have the
same weight. Such a marriage would or would not be sanctioned in
accordance with great pecuniary arrangements. The young Lord
Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered
to take the girl and make her Marchioness in the process of time for
half a million down. Melmotte had not objected to the sum,--so it was
said,--but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have it
free in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms. Melmotte
had been anxious to secure the Marquis,--very anxious to secure the
Marchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with the
Duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked his
lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such a
sum of money to such a man. 'You are willing to trust your only child
to him,' said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled at the man for a few
seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his answer
had nothing in it, and marched out of the room. So that affair was
over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love to
Marie Melmotte,--or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destiny
had 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 a
very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as
princes and duchesses were obtained by other means,--costly no doubt,
but not so ruinously costly,--the immediate disposition of Marie became
less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl herself,
too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutely
rejected Lord Grasslough, whose father indeed was in a state of
bankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly, vicious,
ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl.
She had had experience since Lord Nidderdale, with a half laugh, had
told her that he might just as well take her for his wife, and was now
tempted from time to time to contemplate her own happiness and her own
condition. People around were beginning to say that if Sir Felix
Carbury managed his affairs well he might be the happy man.

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

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

The three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been prepared
for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess had however
undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she
had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman who
now frequented the City, to give directions to the band and to make
himself generally useful. Indeed, there had sprung up a considerable
intimacy between the Grendall family,--that is Lord Alfred's branch of
the Grendalls,--and the Melmottes; which was as it should be, as each
could give much and each receive much. It was known that Lord Alfred
had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a
duchess, and for the last thirty years there had been one continual
anxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate
marriage without a shilling, had spent his own moderate patrimony, had
three sons and three daughters, and had lived now for a very long time
entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives.
Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling
the burden;--and why should he not? There had once been an idea that
Miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been found
expedient 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 better
that the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildly
the whole Grendall family;--and so Miles went into the city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And how do you like it?'

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

'Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced
backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as
they like. 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'll
go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her.' Just
at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretched
condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief.

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

She had been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not
dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale's
arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. But
she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only
not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had
an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should
have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord
Nidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first
she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious
to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on,
out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had
been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But
she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury. It was not only that the
man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of
his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real
disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came
in 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 to
intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had already
nearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means
quick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a
god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to
give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.

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

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

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

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

'I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell
you 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 me
better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she
said 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. But
I 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 to
Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been
watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening.

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

'It would be a magnificent chance for him.'

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

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

'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 spoke
through 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 it
was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to
spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I
think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had
£20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the
world.' In saying this, however, Mr Paul Montague showed himself unfit
to 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 uncomplaining
solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr
Ferdinand 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 their
daughters without number. They expect Prince George!'

'Do they?'

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

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

'I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending
thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all
they 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 give
them that?'

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

'Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr Alf?' said the lady
after 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 going
to 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 nothing
to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?'

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER V - AFTER THE BALL


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

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

'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 go
home.' So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the
driver.

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

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

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

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

Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had
got upstairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to
her 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 gambles
everything 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 obey
me. 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 as
soon 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 were
but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul
Montague.'

'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 danced
with him twice.' Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her
forehead, and shook her head. 'If you did not want me to speak to Paul
you 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 I
am the unhappiest woman in all London,' she said, sobbing
hysterically.

'Is it my fault, mamma?'

'You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and I
never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself,--
nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never
thinks of me for a moment.'

'I think of you, mamma.'

'If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you
to 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 very
much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma.' Lady Carbury just allowed
herself to be kissed, and then was left alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VI - ROGER CARBURY AND PAUL MONTAGUE


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

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

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

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

But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her
opinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor after
a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-fact
offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that time
thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool;--some
might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making. Henrietta
declared to her mother that she had not in the least expected it. But
he was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady Carbury was eager on his
side. Though the Carbury Manor House did not exactly suit her, it
would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking, she
being then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young enough for any
girl. 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,--so
that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her
refusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming,
but she had not meant charming in that way. She did refuse the offer
very plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency. When
Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it, and
her mother supported Roger's suggestion, she could say nothing
stronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do
any good. Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. In
the following February she went there again,--much against the grain as
far as her own wishes were concerned; and when there had been cold,
constrained, almost dumb in the presence of her cousin. Before they
left the offer was renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not
do as they would have her. She could give no reason, only she did not
love her cousin in that way. But Roger declared that he by no means
intended to abandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, and
love with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year
before the beginning of our present story.

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

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

'Anything serious?'

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

'Miss Carbury?'

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

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

Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking
between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of them
declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by the other,
each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable.
Montague at once asserted that he also loved Henrietta Carbury. He
blurted 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 a
word to her. He had intended to consult Roger Carbury himself,--should
have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on that very day had not Roger
spoken to him. 'You have neither of you a shilling in the world,' said
Roger; '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 had
not the least reason to think that she did. It was altogether
impossible. But he had a right to his chance. That chance was all the
world 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. Had
Carbury told him that the young lady had shown the slightest intention
to receive his, Carbury's, addresses, he, Paul, would at once have
disappeared from the scene. But as it was not so, he would not say
that he would abandon his hope.

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

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

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

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

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

He came up to London at various times in search of certain employment
which had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the
three months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from
time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that he
would 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,--so
fast that Montague spent by far the greater part of his time as his
friend's guest,--and all this was done with the understanding that Roger
Carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever receive
the privilege to call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but
that everything was to be smooth between them should Henrietta be
persuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall. So things went on up
to the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's
ball. The reader should also be informed that there had been already a
former 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 been
desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California;--
but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger
Carbury.



CHAPTER VII - MENTOR


Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was
greatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. Since
Roger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad to
worse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment. If
her daughter could but be settled in the world, Lady Carbury said to
herself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her son.
She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she did
know that she had paid so much money for him, and would have so much
more extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that she
would be unable to keep a home for her daughter. In all these troubles
she 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 he
would consent to follow her. Should he not so consent, then let the
young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings. Doubtless, when he
could no longer get bread in London he would find her out. Roger was
always severe when he spoke of the baronet,--or seemed to Lady Carbury
to be severe.

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

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

'I think he's out with the Baron.' Being 'out with the Baron.' meant
that the young man was hunting with the staghounds some forty miles
away 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 he
continues in such courses.'

'My own son!'

'Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed to
ruin 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 thoroughly
dishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on from
day 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 him
with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by
giving him money.' This was very plain speaking, and Lady Carbury
winced under it. 'The kind of life that he is leading requires a large
income of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with all I
have 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 he
should not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you give
him?'

Then Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun to
entertain 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 would
sooner 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 I
have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at his
command. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of hours
and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and did not
wake 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 your
own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! Why
does he not repay you what he has borrowed?'

'Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were papers
there;--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 feel
about one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A groom came
here 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 is
very bad whether he wins or loses,--though I am sure that Felix would do
nothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money, it
would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for to
tell the truth. I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can say
that I spend it on myself.'

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

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

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

The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was
up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger was
coming to lecture him. 'What the devil's the use of it?' said Felix
from 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 to
say just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons to
good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain't
good.'

'Why shouldn't you be good?'

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

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

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

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

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

'And another up here in town?'

'Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying at
some 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 asking
your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to other
friends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of your
own, 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 any
right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can
pay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe a
lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, and
you needn't frighten yourself.'

'Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when you
have 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 been
gambling.'

'I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I won't do
it. 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 walked
towards the door, but Roger was before him, and now leaned his back
against 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 wish
to 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 spending
all 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 the
notes out of the pocket-book. 'When I asked, her for it, I did not
think she would make such a row about such a trifle.' Roger took up
the notes and thrust them into his pocket. 'Now, have you done?' said
Felix.

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

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

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

'Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't all
think 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 hardly
knew how to get it said. And of what use could it be to talk to a young
man who was altogether callous and without feeling? The remedy for the
evil 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 divide
herself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and to leave
him to suffer utter penury. That would bring him round. And then when
the agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread and
meat from her hand and would be humble. At present he had money in his
pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free from
inconvenience for the moment. While this prosperity remained it would
be impossible to touch him. 'You will ruin your sister, and break your
mother's heart.' said Roger, firing a last harmless shot after the
young reprobate.

When Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the
front door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a
great success had been achieved because the £20 had been recovered. 'I
knew 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 got
it by--playing?'

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

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

'Everybody visits them now, Roger.'

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

'Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is
handsome; isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? They
say 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 other
about 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 his
cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the
expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that they
should ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect of a
union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy and
triumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should be
rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penal
settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealth even
in that case would certainly carry the day, against the disgrace, and
Lady Carbury would find reasons why poor Marie should not be punished
for her father's sins even while enjoying the money which those sins
had produced. But how different were the existing facts? Mr Melmotte
was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor
Square. People said that Mr Melmotte had a reputation throughout
Europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in the dishonest and
successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. People said of
him that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and
deeply-laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he
had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him,
that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;--but what was all
this to Lady Carbury? If the duchesses condoned it all, did it become
her to be prudish? People also said that Melmotte would yet get a
fall,--that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could long
keep his head up. But he might keep his head up long enough to give
Marie her fortune. And then Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so
exactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury
there 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, is
often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces
people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside
the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever the
world shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashioned idea
that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him. He
was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter the
house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchesses in the
peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions or
induce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would be useless
for him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however, that one
of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between
honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn
of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil. As
for 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 cleanse
him.

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 your
mother 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 fact
is 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 in
town? 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 such
importance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence over
your mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has not
the slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; but
I 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 been
taken 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 done
to 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; not
because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply because
there is a rich daughter.'

'Everybody goes there, Mr Carbury.'

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

'I don't know.'

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

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

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

'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 is
so. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you can
change us, now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were
hardly fit for each other.'

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

'Oh,--as for me. I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses to
go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that is
contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm
to 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 altered
your 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 perceive
the working of her mind. He was so true to himself that he did not
understand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured
tinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm.
Could she really have thought that he was attending to his own
possible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new
acquaintances?

'For myself.' he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain
effort to get hold of hers, 'I have only one wish in the world; and
that is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you ought
to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When I spoke
of 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 an
elder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you
other to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even were you
in truth disgraced could disgrace touch one so pure as you it would be
the same. I love you so well that I have already taken you for better
or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn for such
changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me?' She turned away her
head, but did not answer him at once. 'Do you understand how much I am
in 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. As
it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody, and
ill 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 is
it. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic
joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other.
I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to
some 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. I
don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I
like 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 you
promise 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. I
don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else
could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so
much. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any
one.'

'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 all
that happens.'

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

'There is no chance.'

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

The man had no poetry about him. He did not even care for romance. All
the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men and
which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they really
relish, were nothing to him. There are both men and women to whom even
the delays and disappointments of love are charming, even when they
exist to the detriment of hope. It is sweet to such persons to be
melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretched
after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and heroines of
whose sufferings they have read in poetry. But there was nothing of
this with Roger Carbury. He had, as he believed, found the woman that
he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixed
his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing. He had
spoken the simple truth when he declared that life had become
indifferent to him without her. No man in England could be less likely
to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his brains. But he
felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow. He could not
make one thing bear upon another, so as to console himself after any
fashion. 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, as
he 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 that
other younger man. That she had never owned to such love he was quite
sure. The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured him on this
point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone to
believe. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her, and that
it was Paul's intention to cling to his love. Sorrowfully looking
forward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw that
Henrietta would become Paul's wife. Were it so, what should he do?
Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world was
concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity, and
their joys? Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though the
agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him? Should
he do this and be blessed by them,--or should he let Paul Montague know
what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce? When had a father
been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had been to
Paul? His home had been the young man's home, and his purse the young
man's purse. What right could the young man have to come upon him just
as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of all that he had in the
world? He was conscious all the while that there was a something wrong
in his argument,--that Paul when he commenced to love the girl knew
nothing of his friend's love,--that the girl, though Paul had never come
in the way, might probably have been as obdurate as she was now to his
entreaties. He knew all this because his mind was clear. But yet the
injustice,--at any rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it and
to reward it would be weak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury did
not quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries. If you pardon all
the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil! If you give
your cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be, before
your shirt and trousers will go also? Roger Carbury, returned that
afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the
journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul
Montague should become his cousin's husband.



CHAPTER IX - THE GREAT RAILWAY TO VERA CRUZ


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

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

'In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you in
introducing 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 no
borrowing then. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because
he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars out of it.
If he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in San
Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him
at once, because they know that he understands the game and has got
the pluck. A man who has done what he has by financing in Europe,--by
George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger
people 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 Melmotte
pretty nigh beats the best among us. Anyway he should come and try his
luck, 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 I
ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr
Melmotte'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,' he
said, 'when a man is successful.'

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

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

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

'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 thing
as 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 you
weren'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't
matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand
dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States
Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with
the President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an office
open 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 in
all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come
in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock
ourselves.'

'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 up
even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll
do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had
better write a letter now.'

'I don't know the man.'

'Never mind. Look here I'll write it, and you can sign it.' Whereupon
Mr 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,' said
Montague.

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

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

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

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

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

'I dare say not, Mr Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco, I
make acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't remember
afterwards. My partner I think told me that he went to your house with
his 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 I
had thought this would not have sufficed.' Mr Melmotte bowed. 'Our
account 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 to
London is to see you, and as I met my partner, Mr Montague, in
Liverpool, I took a note from him and came on straight.'

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

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

'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 teach
you, Mr Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like
competition. When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that the thing is
alive 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 line
from the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing,
of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the
stations to be twenty-five miles apart.'

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

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

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

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

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

'We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr Paul Montague should be
one, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. We
could get probably one of the Directors of the City and West End. But
we would leave it all to you,--as also the amount of stock you would
like to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, Mr
Melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out for a
long time. 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 by
old-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, by
having our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across the
continent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at--'

'Never mind that, Mr Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to San
Francisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to Vera Cruz. But
I 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 at
least to think of it, he would not have given ten minutes to the
subject. After all, what was wanted from Mr Melmotte was little more
than his name, for the use of which Mr Fisker proposed that he should
receive from the speculative public two or three hundred thousand
pounds.

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



CHAPTER X - MR FISKER'S SUCCESS


Mr Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but he
never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the whole
transaction. Mr Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact in
the commercial world of London, that it was no longer possible for
such a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte
had the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as close
inquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake City had been suburbs
of London. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and
had had shares allocated to him,--or, as he said, to the house,--to the
extent of two millions of dollars. But still there was a feeling of
doubt, and a consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength,
was thought by many to have been built upon the sands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone on
with very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix Carbury
kept his luck. There had of course been vicissitudes, but his star had
been in the ascendant. For some nights together this had been so
continual that Mr Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend Lord
Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, who had not
many good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and repudiated the
idea. 'We'll keep an eye on him,' Miles Grendall had said. 'You may do
as you like, but I'm not going to watch any one,' Grasslough had
replied. Miles 'had watched,' and had watched in vain, and it may as
well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not as
yet a blackleg. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of
money, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present on this
occasion. Latterly very little ready money had passed hands,--very
little in proportion to the sums which had been written down on paper,--
though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to feel himself
justified 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 as
that now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very
disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for San
Francisco on the following morning. If it could be arranged that the
stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be regarded as
a godsend. Such strangers have ready money in their pockets, a portion
of which would be felt to descend like a soft shower in a time of
drought. When these dealings in unsecured paper have been going on for
a considerable time real bank notes come to have a loveliness which
they never possessed before. But should the stranger win, then there
may arise complications incapable of any comfortable solution. In such
a state of things some Herr Vossner must be called in, whose terms are
apt to be ruinous. On this occasion things did not arrange themselves
comfortably. From the very commencement Fisker won, and quite a budget
of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed
to him from the hands of Sir Felix,--bearing, however, a 'G' intended to
stand for Grasslough, or an 'N' for Nidderdale, or a wonderful
hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D. L.,--or Dolly
Longestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion.

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

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

'This won't do, you know,' said Nidderdale. 'Mr Fisker must have his
money 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. 'I
suppose we can muster £600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. I
think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't
expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way.'

'Lord Nidderdale,' said Sir Felix, 'I have already said that I have
not 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 meet
anything 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 be
sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord.' And so he got up to take
his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.

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

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

'Just so. My partner, Montague, will tell you the address.' Then
bustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of Paul, shaking hands with
them all round, and looking as though he cared nothing for the money,
he took his leave. 'One cheer for the South Central Pacific and
Mexican Railway,' he, said as he went out of the room. Not one there
had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat
not as their waistcoats. He smoked his cigar after a fashion different
from theirs, and spat upon the carpet. He said 'my lord' too often,
and grated their prejudices equally whether he treated them with
familiarity or deference. But he had behaved well about the money, and
they felt that they were behaving badly. Sir Felix was the immediate
offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay
a stranger with documents which, by tacit contract, were held to be
good among themselves. 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 up
again.'

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

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

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

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

'It's no good jawing,' said Nidderdale. 'let's get the money.' Then
Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were
money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be
allowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing
in I.O.U.'s, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made
responsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He, the
impecunious one,--the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute
want 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 which
Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner £450 at the end of
three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir Felix,
and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German produced £322
10s. in notes and gold. This had taken some considerable time. Then a
cup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which Nidderdale, with
Montague, started off to meet Fisker at the railway station. 'It'll
only 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 the
duke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right
for you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make
it square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!'

They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and
greatcoats with silk linings. 'We've brought you the tin,' said
Nidderdale, accosting him on the platform.

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

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

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

'You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up when we
can. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant.' Fresh adieus
were made between the two partners, and between the American and the
lord,--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 mixed
depression and elevation. Her great work had come out,--the 'Criminal
Queens,'--and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had been
by no means all pleasure, inasmuch as many very hard words had been
said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr
Alf, one of Mr Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon
her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. One
would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been
worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid bare
with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must have
had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the various
mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been
misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all their
bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of the
criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully
provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of
finding in them what he wanted at a moment's notice, had, as he went
on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent
knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts
so many sacks into the coal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one
wicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with
an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these
details abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast and
varied erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, but
his erudition was always there at the command of Mr Alf,--and his
cruelty. The greatness of Mr Alf consisted in this, that he always had
a Mr Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a great
business, this of Mr Alf's, for he had his Jones also for philology,
for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one
special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his
references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.

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

Lady Carbury had been crushed by the 'Evening Pulpit.' We may fancy
that it was easy work, and that Mr Alf's historical Mr Jones was not
forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference.
The errors did lie a little near the surface; and the whole scheme of
the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of
frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in Mr Jones's very best
manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly crushed, and reduced to
little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed.
On the following morning she went to her publishers, and was closeted
for half an hour with the senior partner, Mr Leadham. 'I've got it all
in black and white,' she said, full of the wrong which had been done
her, 'and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first
came to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. I got
it all out of the "Biographie Universelle." I'll write to Mr Alf
myself,--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 opinion
of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knew
very well that the 'Evening Pulpit' would surely get the better of any
mere author in such a contention. 'Never fight the newspapers, Lady
Carbury. 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 Lady
Carbury, 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, you
know. The "Breakfast Table" gave it an excellent lift, and came just
at the right time. I rather like the notice in the "Pulpit," myself.'

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

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

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

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

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

And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much,
though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She had
discovered that her son had become a Director of the South Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known,--she certainly
did know,--that Felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by his
work to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. She was
aware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from the
world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. A ruined baronet
of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left to
go alone had been loaded with vice and folly,--whose egregious
misconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable of
knowing what principle is,--of what service could he be, that he should
be made a Director? But Lady Carbury, though she knew that he could be
of no service, was not at all shocked. She was now able to speak up a
little for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to
Roger Carbury. 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 the
morning of Saturday 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at about
seven 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 when
she 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.' Hitherto
she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening parties
by his presence.

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

'Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here.'

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

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

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

'There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of this
girl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they are
going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet Lord
Nidderdale 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 in
love with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once on
Tuesday?'

'If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm not
going to be driven.'

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

'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 cruel
that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own
way and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about
ten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here to
receive 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 get
his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar
smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present
himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten.
Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there,--and many others,
of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among them Mr Alf was
in the room, and was at this very moment discussing Lady Carbury's
book with Mr Booker. He had been quite graciously received, as though
he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carbury had given him her
hand with that energy of affection with which she was wont to welcome
her literary friends, and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into
his eyes as she looked into his face,--as though asking him how he had
found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected,
so innocent as herself. 'I cannot stand this kind of thing,' said Mr
Alf, 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'm
not afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our
friend here,--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an
unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established
reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to
misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me
and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I
could.'

Mr Alf knew very well what Mr Booker had done, and Mr Booker was aware
of 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 our
friend 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, as
far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or
violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want
to 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,' she
replied. 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 enduring
gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at this
moment she did feel that Mr Broune had done much for her, and that she
would willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling of
another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any
idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he
were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that
little absurd episode in their joint lives. She was at any rate too
much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it was
otherwise with Mr Broune. He could not quite make up his mind whether
the lady was or was not in love with him,--or whether, if she were, it
was incumbent on him to indulge her;--and if so, in what manner. Then as
he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very
beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income was
certain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr Broune knew of
himself that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind that
marriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as he
reflected how impossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury should
turn him from his resolution.

'I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr Alf,' Lady Carbury said
to 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 to
welcome 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 endeavour
to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case,
it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should
be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own,
I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have
spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr Alf who has
the misfortune to edit a newspaper.'

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

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

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

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

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

'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 thus
that the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any day
if people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny.



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 nightly
attendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he
might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of his
fortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the cool
effrontery with which Felix had spoken,--for without hearing the words
she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking,--and had
seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the ground, and the
nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a woman,
understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had at
least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner.
But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up with
love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would accept
in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, how
glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference!

'I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went,' said
Henrietta, 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 be
odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about
her.'

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

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

'Do not say that, mamma.'

'Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this
girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage.
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. I
could 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 be
happy.'

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

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

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

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

'Is anything the matter, Felix?'

'Matter,--what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among the
fellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit of my
mind, 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 somebody
may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. You
must 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 he
answered her.

'And what did you say to her?'

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

'If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word
to me,' she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking
into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had been
drinking. 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 to
settle 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's
hold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling
against the stairs.

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

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

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

'To Carbury Manor!' said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which the
cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. 'I thought
you 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 give
way to her.'

'Has Roger asked you?'

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

'Not me, mother!'

'Yes; you especially.'

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

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

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

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

'They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's
affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in
Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to have
that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anything
for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmottes
are 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. What
can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; and
why 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 and
night,' said Felix.

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



CHAPTER XIII - THE LONGESTAFFES


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

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

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

'There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I
reside 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 I
wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my
life.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But what's the use of having them?' urged Sophia. 'I can understand
going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One
doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to the
girl, 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 Lady
Pomona.

'Dolly will never marry anybody,' said Georgiana. 'The idea of his
taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't
come down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to
be 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't
know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any
money for anything, I don't spend it.'

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

'It's always been like this ever since I can remember,' said
Georgiana, 'and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose
it'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 these
Melmottes!'

'As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan't
trouble 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 did
hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down
there?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Give him some tea,' said his mother. Lady Pomona was always having
tea 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't
want it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the
governor?' They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be
something going on more than they had dreamed of, when Dolly asked to
see his father.

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

'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 some
fellow.'

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

'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 I
want 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 we
particularly 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 to
Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte.'

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

'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 the
same house with half the fellows in London,' suggested Georgiana. 'If
you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can
have just at present.'

'But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn't
at 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 them
straight. 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.' The
father nodded his head at his son but said nothing. 'We want him to
stay 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 so
long, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and
see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore,
because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't
anything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know.'

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

'Our ball is fixed,' said Lady Pomona.

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

The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their
opinions 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 said
something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did he
bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has
begun?'

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

'Dolly can take care of himself,' said Georgiana, 'and always does do
so. 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 at
all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he
promises to bring us back. I won't stir;--unless he has me carried out
of 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 year
with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr Carbury, who is
rustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things that
one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the
Primeros. Mrs Primero would have me I know. It wouldn't be nice of
course. I don't like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;--it's
quite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but
not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte.'

'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 what
made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how
hard 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 trouble
of getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. I
never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to
become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham
up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is
spent 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 the
ladies 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. Lady
Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. To her
had been imparted upstairs the purport of the conversation between
Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of
Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him
at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would be
desirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed from
debt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he replied
that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged and
would be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickering
could not be sold;--and, as a consequence of that, Mr Longestaffe had
determined 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 his
head, as was their custom. There was very little show of affection in
the kiss. 'You had better remember that what you have to do in town
must be done this week,' he said. They heard the words, but marched in
stately 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 have
made up your mind to go, I must go with you.'

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

'You know what I mean, mamma.'

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


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

And there was another trouble. He had asked Paul Montague to come to
Carbury for this special week, and Paul had accepted the invitation.
With the constancy, which was perhaps his strongest characteristic, he
clung to his old affection for the man. He could not bear the idea of
a permanent quarrel, though he knew that there must be a quarrel if
the man interfered with his dearest hopes. He had asked him down to
Carbury intending that the name of Henrietta Carbury should not be
mentioned between them;--and now it was proposed to him that Henrietta
Carbury 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,--and
would be very glad should it suit Felix to come also. He did not say a
word about the Board, or the young man's probable usefulness in his
new sphere of life. To Montague his letter was longer. 'It is always
best to be open and true,' he said. 'Since you were kind enough to say
that you would come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me just
at the same time and to bring her daughter. After what has passed
between us I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome
here together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone
your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want of
hospitality towards you.' Paul wrote back to say that he was sure that
there was no want of hospitality, and that he would remain in town.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms which
the two ladies were to occupy. As their host, a host without a wife or
mother or sister, it was his duty to see that things were comfortable,
but it may be doubted whether he would have been so careful had the
mother been coming alone. In the smaller room of the two the hangings
were all white, and the room was sweet with May flowers; and he
brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass on
the dressing table. Surely she would know who put it there. Then he
stood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantly
for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before the
front door. During that half-hour he resolved that he would try again
as 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's
hand 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 so
long 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 the
old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull.'

'Oh no,' said Hetta smiling. 'You ought to remember that I am never
dull in the country.'

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

'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, good
fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman
coming whom you have never seen.'

'A new neighbour?'

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

'He is a gentleman then?'

'Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then
became 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 a
priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day
labourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to
buy 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 be
quite friends.'

'Will the bishop like to meet him?'

'Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all
about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't
hurt 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 at
the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down on Saturday, with
the intention of returning on Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped that
some visiting might be arranged between Caversham and the Manor House,
so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness to
Marie Melmotte.

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

'They are down here then?'

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

'Why not?'

'They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and they
know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us on
Tuesday 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 the
announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession
were failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she
would any matter that was indifferent to her.

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

'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 been
induced to ask them here.'

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

'And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no
difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't as
they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all for
the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that such a
man as Mr Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr Melmotte
out of his wife's drawing-room.' Henrietta became redder than ever.
Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger Carbury
knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. He
thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and then
tried 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, and
Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he
understood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in order
that she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in this
which he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of him
that she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have been
brought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her
presence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, even
while he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with the
object of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object would
be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, though
he could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been gratified.
But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in order
that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might be
furthered!

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

'What people?'

'The Melmottes.'

'I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? I
dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the
reputation 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. I
was thinking of the Longestaffes then.'

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

'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? The
only chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a
girl 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, and
was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune.
He might have done better; but how many young men placed in such
temptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left.'

'I fear not.'

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

'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 want
to make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to reason
that 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 because
she has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should she
not have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathise with my
anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name
and 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 be
benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr Melmotte. I look upon
him as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all his
money, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a question
of marriage, people at any rate should know something of each other.
Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is his
daughter?'

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

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

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

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

'If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it hard
to 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 of
Felix as though he were all bad.' She looked at him hoping to get from
him some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly word;
but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. She could
bear much. She was not delicate as to censure implied, or even
expressed. She had endured rough usage before, and was prepared to
endure more. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she
would have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,--would have
forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have been
deserved. But for her son she was prepared to fight. If she did not
defend him, who would? 'I am grieved, Roger, that we should have
troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You
are 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 be
brought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that? At
any rate, you should remember that I am his mother.'

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

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

'You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You
cannot think that I meant to offend you.' They walked on in silence
till 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 beg
your pardon,' She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one of
forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house. 'Pray do
not speak of going, Lady Carbury.'

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

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

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

'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 can
tell you.'

'She knows how good you are.'

'No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me
that 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 wretched
indeed 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 wish
that 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 something
in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the
work will be of service to him.' Roger could express no hope in this
direction or even look as though he approved of the directorship. 'I
don'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 made
his apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at last
it was accepted. 'I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix,' he
said,--'and I beg your pardon.'

'You were energetic, that was all.'

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

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

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

'I certainly shall not go,' he replied; 'but there will be no
difficulty 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 accept
their invitation.'

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

'That will be best,' said Lady Carbury after a moment's thought. 'It
is 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 there
was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A quarter
of an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home with two
letters,--the one from Roger expressing his regret that he could not
accept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the other from Lady Carbury
declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasure
in dining at Caversham on the Monday.



CHAPTER XVI - THE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST


The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house had
been very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury had
suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended to
suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he had
been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to
London, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad
feminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had done
so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of
meeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for
speaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm,
immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could
have the waggonette when they pleased. 'I'm afraid you'll find it
tiresome driving about our lanes,' he said. Lady Carbury assured him
that she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was
starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought
to 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 till
Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remain
with him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine at
Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose and
thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and honour,
and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as
her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love!
She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her
mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she
could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not
love?

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

'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 the
gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a
comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!'

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

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

'Mamma, I think that is unkind.'

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

'What word?'

'What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you
should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is
willing 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 Roger
could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place,
and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't
think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte.'

'How could he do that, mamma?'

'If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your brother
would 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 of
my 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 of
Carbury.'

'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 I
did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal
older 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 old
misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You are
my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wish
that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the property and
title and name of the place will all go together. It will be so, and
why should not Felix have the advantage?'

'Who is to say it?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one looking
at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was sore with
many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was
skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She had
known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to him of her
soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of her
error, and she never repeated it. To Mr Alf she commonly talked of her
mind; to Mr Broune, of her heart; to Mr Booker of her body--and its
wants. 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. Now
she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood. 'Yes,
indeed,' said the bishop, 'I think Suffolk is a very nice county; and
as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for
Norfolk too. "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 and
Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost all local
distinctions.'

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

'But that was never deserved.'

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

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

'Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery. We
shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can't
increase 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 her
voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine
arrangement. 'The world must be peopled; but for myself I like the
country better than the town.'

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

'That is so nice,' said Lady Carbury.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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 Mr
Hepworth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his
lights; 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 his
company.'

'I am sure he would repeat nothing.'

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

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

'You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't
have 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 I
don'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 in
my 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 to
be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and
Roger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to the
station for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was
still another train by which he might come so as to be just in time
for dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carbury
with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her
cousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did,
involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage had
to be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous
at Carbury. The squire kept a waggonette and a pair of horses which,
when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. He
himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be
brought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the carriage
once on this day,--and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said a
word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he did
it with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was Sir Felix, the
baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position and
rank,--because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the
day. To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly
antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due.
Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonette was sent. But
the 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 the
baronet. Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, he
had contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himself
deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carbury.
Roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and Lady Carbury
also left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been a
very fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a very
different opinion, and spoke little or nothing. 'Oh, Felix,' said the
mother, 'you have so terrified us!'

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

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

'All right, old fellow,' said Sir Felix. 'I'm awfully sorry to disturb
you all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy and soda
before 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, I
don't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you will
come with me.' He pronounced the word 'brandy' in a tone which implied
that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. It was a wretched work to
Roger. He was forced to go upstairs and fetch a key in order that he
might wait upon this cub,--this cur! He did it, however, and the cub
drank his brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his host's
ill-humour. As he went to bed he suggested the probability of his not
showing himself till lunch on the following day, and expressed a wish
that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. 'He is born to be
hung,' said Roger to himself as he went to his room,--'and he'll deserve
it.'

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

'Felix,' said his cousin, 'take your cigar a little farther. You are
filling 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 cigar
out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up to
the spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the first
greeting of the day between the two men.

After lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating him
to 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 I
am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with
insolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard and
ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course.'

'Roger has not a great establishment.'

'I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. I
don'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 little
grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because
you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him
for a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, he
may lump it.' About half an hour after this he found his cousin. 'Can
I have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?' he said.

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

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

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

'Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was offence in this;--as though the Carbury property and the
Carbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and the
Longestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, the
Longestaffes were great people. 'For a small place,' said Lady Pomona,
'I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it is
not extensive.'

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

Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,--as far as such
willingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the comfort
of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It
was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and induced him
to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. For the girl
herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care
for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given to
disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they
offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portion
of Mr Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard to
feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. He was
by no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, from
that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to
her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy
demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of
something in the world which should be her own. There was, too,
arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an
idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own,
if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though
still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her
shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open
confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone--and she
was much alone--she would build castles in the air, which were bright
with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read,
poor though they generally were, left something bright on her
imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which
she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly
talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew,
had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that
she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come
the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to
be built of real materials.

'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 a
methodical 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 tell
you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the
Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are
glad to see me?'

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

'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 paused
as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a
cherry. '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 fellow
more in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it
again.'

'To say what?'

'Whether you'll accept me?'

'I don't know whether you love me well enough.' She longed to be told
by 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 of
thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he
would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her
father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy
jaws of Mr Melmotte which he almost feared. 'Do you really love me
well enough?' she whispered.

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

'Do you?'

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

It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. 'Then I will love
you,' 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 now
mayn't I?'

'Rather.'

'Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You know
a 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 the
least.'

'You do care for me?'

'Oh yes.' She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he
saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the moment
that she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only he
would have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe. There was indeed a
certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in
Marie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether
upon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the
house, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm
round her waist and kissed her. 'Oh, Felix,' she said, giving her face
up to him; 'no one ever did it before.' He did not in the least
believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to
him. 'Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to
you.'

'Of course I will be good to you.'

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

'I suppose he can be cross?'

'Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll say
when 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 I
hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again
now. 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 kill
me. I hate him,--and I do so love you.' Then she leaned with all her
weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. 'You
will 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 than
anybody;--more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always
did that.'

'Of course I'll do it,' said Sir Felix. 'I'm not afraid of him. Why
should 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 it
isn't wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me.' Then she
put her face up towards his again.

'Of course I love you,' he said, not thinking it worth his while to
kiss her. 'It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better
go 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 down
here.'

'Wouldn't it?'

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

'Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma
does 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 to
tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you.' Then he
left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. Mr
Melmotte was still sitting in the summerhouse, and Lord Alfred was
still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felix
passed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much
better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in
London. 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; he
hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister
on the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not coming. He
believed that his cousin Roger never did go anywhere like any one
else. No; he had not seen Mr Longestaffe. He hoped to have the
pleasure of seeing him to-morrow. Then he escaped, and got on his
horse, and rode away.

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

'In what way lucky?'

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

'I don't think it would have suited Dolly,' said Lady Pomona. 'After
all, 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's
Acre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received the
following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier on
that Sunday morning;--'A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone
Birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon.' There was
not another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well from
whom it came.

Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerable
wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood as
being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;--he had
quarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and had
banished him from his home;--his daughters were married and away; and
the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter
Ruby. And this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. She
was twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a prosperous young
man at Bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had
promised to give £500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into
her foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now
she had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writer
had not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from Sir
Felix Carbury,--the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes
upon. 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 beyond
her ken. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen
which she would never see were she in these her early years to become
the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay.
Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she got
her letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o'clock on that Sunday
she was ensconced among the Sheepstone Birches, so that she might see
without much danger of being seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to
be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she
most required the kindness of a controlling hand!

Mr Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is called
a bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the property which
did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was still set apart
for its sustentation;--but he also held a small extent of outlying
meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of the
tenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix
made his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, when
the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now
existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the old
man, and had then first seen Ruby;--and had heard from Roger something
of Ruby's history up to that date. It had then been just made known
that she was to marry John Crumb. Since that time not a word had been
spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr Carbury had heard, with
sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned,--but his
growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there
should be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix,
however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her
grandfather's landlord.

There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the
ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that
of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wife
live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their
aspirations, whether for good or evil,--whether for food and drink to be
honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to be
come by either honestly or dishonestly,--are, if looked at at all, fairly
visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can generally find
out what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are at
work. But the Ruggles woman,--especially the Ruggles young woman,--is
better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination,
and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-looking
and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world
which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which
her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for
heaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. She
can read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write a
letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on a
paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper. But her
ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. By
such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the
towns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns something
unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen,--and, as to
that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the woman
builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the young farmer
the squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. To
the farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look at
is a pleasure,--by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the
most part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind, and then
husband and children put the matter at rest for ever.

A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to
the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find.
But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as
they were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and all
her cleverness,--with all her fortune to boot,--marry that dustiest of all
men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the
things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? John
Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too,--slow of
speech 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 at
his work. But though she had known him all her life she had never
known him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so gotten within his
hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even on
Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through which
indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible,
but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and
waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young
man. Nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man in
Bungay, and carry two hundredweight of flour upon his back. And Ruby
also knew this of him,--that he worshipped the very ground on which she
trod.

But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such
worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his
beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair
and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for
love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she
thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John
Crumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was
not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she
did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to
avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly
into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was
pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week
days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and
a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly
beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall,--
and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel
Ruggles, her grandfather.

Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he
might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant
not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle of
the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading
into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his
appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at
all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached
the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He
had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree
standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the
ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode
him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail
which ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till he
stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. 'I
like 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 be
back 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 anything
anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't
call 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's
all just folly like.'

'Because I love you;--that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come
because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?' Then he threw
himself 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 doubt
complete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every
word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love,
and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probably
did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on
the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young
man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was
unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard,
before the half-hour was over. She felt that she could be content to
sit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation of
those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old
novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at
Bungay.

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 her
to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and an
amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he had
learned to be aware. Before the half-hour was over I think that he
wished himself away;--but when he did go, he made a promise to see her
again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestone
market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the
kitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise he
resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again, and
bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the
journey.

'I suppose I am to be his wedded wife,' said Ruby to herself, as she
crept away down from the road, away also from her own home;--so that on
her return her presence should not be associated with that of the
young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road.
'I'll never be nothing unless I'm that,' she said to herself. Then she
allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference
between 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 mother
that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking
round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.

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

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

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

'You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate
friend 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 in
their London house.'

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

'Settled!'

'As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old
fellow 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 unwilling
son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not
only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her
son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all
mothers in England! '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 fond
of you.'

'I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to
it.'

'If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers
always 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 he
wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be
perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or
so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the
Directors 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, you
know.'

'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 let
any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be able
to do just what you please when once the question of her money is
settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have
a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this
time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an
established income.'

'I quite understand that.'

'If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that
kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you
live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to
you, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand
how well I think you have done it all.' 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 and
her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the
world as a baronet with £20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She
must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature he was.
But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated the
sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed
her. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she
nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the
burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But his
magnificence would be established. He was her son, and the prospect of
his fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very
heaven of beautiful dreams. 'But, Felix,' she continued, 'you really
must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one
day. 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 an
affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You
should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should.'

'Oh, bother!' said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to
be persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and he
consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending
another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight,
did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so
stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the
world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. Though
he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted to herself, had
been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the sake of the
family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would have
received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta would not
be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have delighted to
expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. It
should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr Melmotte
at the dinner party at Caversham.

During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his
cousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quite
late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at
Bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury on
the way. 'What did you think of our bishop?' Roger asked him, rather
imprudently.

'Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice
lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average
lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any
one sufficient to make him a bishop.'

'Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in
any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him.'

'Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and would
not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops that
has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far your clergy
consent to his teaching!' Roger turned round and took up his book. He
was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always
abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religion
in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any means return
the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he to take up the
cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the combat, as in such
combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth.
Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere,--wondering
whether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of
dulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at
meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carbury was quite
willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the
dissemination of religion outside his own Church must be naught.

'I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs,' she said with
her sweetest smile.

'I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the
two or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I
have 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 find
no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are
controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select
guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite
labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the
House of Commons?'

'Indeed, no,' said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understand
the nature of the question put to her.

'And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be
able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to
decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?'

'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, though
there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a
Church.'

'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 you
make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit
yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters.'

'That, I thought, was for children,' said Lady Carbury. 'The
clergyman, in the catechism, says, "My good child."'

'It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession
of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when
you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter,
as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended only
for 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 not
be 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 a
shudder.

'I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief,' said
the priest with energy;--'than a creed which sits so easily on a man
that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as
he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible.'

'That is very bad,' said Lady Carbury.

'We're getting too deep, I think,' said Roger, putting down the book
which he had in vain been trying to read.

'I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on
Sunday evening,' said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back into
his chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that
Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be
aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be
all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond
of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into
conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to
hear arguments.

'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, rising
from his chair. Upon this Father Barham look his departure and walked
away to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be
that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to
plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.

The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for
repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be
so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that
Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had
determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain
increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All that
pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when
she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted her
morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the
flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the
slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it.
There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become
punctual 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 its
effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and
observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her
heart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood the
working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her
brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her
grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who
were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in pity,--she was kind to him. It
was 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 had
been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as she
found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated
again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardly
made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not
take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved
the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but
she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this
there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness
towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to
herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted
it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost
seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she
had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes. Her
mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr Melmotte's money, till her
very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, as
contrasted with that, Roger's conduct and bearing were those of a fine
gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed
to pine for ever because a girl could not love him,--a man born to be
loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!

'Hetta,' he said, 'put your arm here.' She gave him her arm. 'I was a
little 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 those
things which we have been brought up to revere.' So, thought
Henrietta, 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 of
believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I
didn't quite like your hearing it.'

'I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I
suppose they all do it. It's their business.'

'Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity
that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside
of a comfortable house.'

'I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the
bishop.'

'And I like him.' Then there was a pause. 'I suppose your brother does
not talk to you much about his own affairs.'

'His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me
about 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 about
this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does the
necessity of money.'

'Felix is so disposed to be extravagant.'

'Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself
to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognise
her unselfish devotion to his interests.'

'Mamma thinks more of him than of anything,' said Hetta, not in the
least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.

'I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child
would better repay her devotion,'--this he said, looking up to Hetta
and 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 and
cross, or I should not mind such things.'

'I think you are so good and so kind.' As she said this she leaned
upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved
him.

'I have been angry with myself,' he said, 'and so I am making you my
father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and
I 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't
congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know
nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about
things in general.'

'Will that be a penance?'

'If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of
fretful 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 Sunday
instead 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 the
offence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the
head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had a
right 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 wish
him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend,--as
a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making love
to her, how happy could she be! But his determination still held good.
'And now,' said he, altering his tone altogether, 'I must speak about
myself.' 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. I
will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you must
think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I love
you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, so
constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to
single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am
thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so
much. For, after all, let a woman be ever so good,--and you to me are
all that is good,--a man should not allow his love to dominate his
intellect.'

'Oh, no!'

'I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man
might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me
just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by
a 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 house
during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do, and to
care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your
husband.'

'Pray,--pray do not say that.'

'Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expect that
you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not
love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that you should
not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am your
friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to
love 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 Montague
has 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 older
than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he should
place his hopes elsewhere.'

'What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think it
almost 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 way
of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about Paul
Montague,--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 even
me, if you loved no one else.' The tone of his voice was manly, and at
the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her were
bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to the tale
which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether. She knew
that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it
for comfort and protection in life. In that moment she all but yielded
to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she
would have yielded. She did all but love him. She so regarded him that
had it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used every
art she knew to have backed his suit, and would have been ready to
swear that any woman was a fool who refused him. She almost hated
herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved
kindness. As it was, she made him no answer, but continued to walk
beside him trembling. 'I thought I would tell it you all, because I
wish you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if I
could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass
case. 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, so
that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or
to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think you will be above
keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple.'

'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 never
change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it
will 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 strong
enough 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 the
bridges, 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 while
Lady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to the
ground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hetta's yielding
to his prayer. But he had in fact not made a prayer, and Hetta had
certainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady Carbury started
with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone. In the ordinary
course of his life he was used to solitude. During the greater part of
the year he would eat and drink and live without companionship; so
that there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in this desertion. But on
the present occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the
loneliness of his lot in life. These cousins of his who were his
guests cared nothing for him. Lady Carbury had come to his house
simply that it might be useful to her; Sir Felix did not pretend to
treat him with even ordinary courtesy; and Hetta herself, though she
was soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious through pity
rather than love. On this day he had, in truth, asked her for nothing;
but he had almost brought himself to think that she might give all
that he wanted without asking. And yet, when he told her of the
greatness of his love, and of its endurance, she was simply silent.
When the carriage taking them to dinner went away down the road, he
sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house listening to
the sound of the horses' feet, and telling himself that there was
nothing left for him in life.

If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul
Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he
valued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his mind
exact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inward
condemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to any one the
services he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hetta he
had alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. But
he felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed it
to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought that
if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should have
retired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring himself to
forgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that his friend
had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and it was Paul
Montague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at Carbury when
Hetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of the house. He
sat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on the
table. Then he crept in and ate,--so that the man might not see his
sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in his hand seeming to
read. But he read not a word, for his mind was fixed altogether on
his 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 like
this.'

At Caversham there was a very grand party,--as grand almost as a dinner
party can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess of
Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the bishop and his
wife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and the parson's
family, and the people staying in the house, made twenty-four at the
dinner table. As there were fourteen ladies and only ten men, the
banquet can hardly be said to have been very well arranged. But those
things cannot be done in the country with the exactness which the
appliances of London make easy; and then the Longestaffes, though they
were decidedly people of fashion, were not famous for their excellence
in arranging such matters. If aught, however, was lacking in
exactness, it was made up in grandeur. There were three powdered
footmen, and in that part of the country Lady Pomona alone was served
after this fashion; and there was a very heavy butler, whose
appearance of itself was sufficient to give éclat to a family. The
grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas and
chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. It was not above once
in the year that this kind of thing vas done at Caversham; but when it
was done, nothing was spared which could contribute to the
magnificence of the fête. Lady Pomona and her two tall daughters
standing up to receive the little Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane
Pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat smaller scale,
while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though ashamed of
themselves, was a sight to see. Then the Carburys came, and then Mrs
Yeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly full; but nobody
had a word to say. The bishop was generally a man of much
conversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were well pleased with her
listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on this
occasion nobody could utter a word. Lord Loddon pottered about, making
a feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. Lord Alfred
stood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand. That
much greater man, Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the arm-holes
of his waistcoat, and was impassible. The bishop saw at a glance the
hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. The master of the
house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and then devoted his
mind to expectation of the next corner. Lady Pomona and her two
daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb. In accordance
with the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been entertained civilly for four
entire days. It could not be expected that the ladies of Caversham
should 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 their
part of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this arrangement
would be desirable to the Melmottes, and they made it. The great
Augustus himself went in with Lady Carbury, much to her satisfaction.
She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now, if ever, it would
be 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 fresh
air.'

'Yes;--that's just it, Mr Melmotte. When the summer comes one does long
so 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 at
large. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a London
street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor
Square.'

'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 you
live in London, ma'am?' He had quite forgotten Lady Carbury even if he
had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common to
men, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to dinner.
'Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being entertained
by 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 Lady
Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will
remember.'

'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 in
that 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 not
ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but
she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as
to the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she saw
the names in a catalogue. 'I trust that he is diligent there,' she
said; 'and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in
having the advantage of your counsel and guidance.'

'He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much.' After
this Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's position in the city.
She endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation; but
she found Mr Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while she had
to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in favour
of Protestantism at the bidding of the Caversham parson, who sat on
the other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm by some
mention of Father Barham's name.

Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. 'I have told
mamma,' Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. She
was now full of the idea so common to girls who are engaged,--and as
natural 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 and
arrange her dress before she could reply to him. 'As to her, I suppose
it does not matter what she says, does it?'

'She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not
rich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear.' So
much she had been able to say during the bustle.

Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the
subject 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 home
quietly. I go to town to-morrow.'

'And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long.' This
she said bringing her voice down to a whisper.

'Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the
city. Does he go every day?'

'Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's
good-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. Lord
Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they
play 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 ever
turn me. I think papa knows that.' Felix looked at her as she said
this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had ever
read 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, and
then find that she were not forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to
starve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? Looking
at the matter in all its bearings, considering among other things the
trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could
not afford to run away with her.

After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the same
big room in which they had been assembled before the feast,--seemed to
be ill-adapted for conversation. Again nobody talked to anybody, and
the minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there to
take 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 it
unless 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 behaved
beautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together. Good
night, Felix, and God bless you!' she said again, as they were parting
for the night. 'I shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in
England 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 the
return to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have
been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this was
so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed without
anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of
Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, but
she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and
sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she thought, would
not dare to propose it. On each of these days,--three or four times
daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr
Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed till he had received
some particular letter, and would not even listen to the suggestion of
a day. 'I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday,' Georgiana said on
the Friday evening. 'I don't know why you should suppose anything of
the kind,' the father replied. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her
daughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less
audacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at the
same time less anxious for its completion. On the Sunday morning
before they went to church there was a great discussion upstairs. The
Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the
three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. They were in
their mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of their
church-going toilet. It was supposed that the expected letter had
arrived. Mr Longestaffe had certainly received a despatch from his
lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents.
He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so Sophia
asserted,--more disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen
especially in reference to their bonnets. 'You might as well wear
them,' said Lady Pomona, 'for I am sure you will not be in London
again this year.'

'You don't mean it, mamma,' said Sophia.

'I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into
his pocket. I know what his face means so well.'

'It is not possible,' said Sophia. 'He promised, and he got us to have
those horrid people because he promised.'

'Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose
we must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he
meant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could.'

'Mamma!' shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on the
part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had
bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own
camp!

'My dear, what can we do?' said Lady Pomona.

'Do!' Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. 'Make him
understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do
something, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like
that I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be who
it 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 least
whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about the
family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll
marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here.' The younger Miss
Longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before her.

'Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that,' pleaded her
sister.

'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 he
pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no
difference to you, mamma, where you are.'

'You are very unjust,' said Lady Pomona, wailing, 'and you say horrid
things.'

'I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the
same as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody
down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his
word.'

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 the
carriage waiting all day?' Of course they were all going to church.
They always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and would
more especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of the
bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, Lady
Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her father at
the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was
spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During the service Mr
Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated the
responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he had been an
example to the parish all his life. The three ladies knelt on their
hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the sermon
without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. They
did not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. It
was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not a meaning.
Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop preached for
forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would not have
complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana
to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort.
She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of
obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept at
Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach
for ever! After the service they came back to lunch, and that meal
also was eaten in silence. When it was over the head of the family put
himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently meaning to be left
alone there. In that case he would have meditated upon his troubles
till he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoon
with comfort. But this was denied to him. The two daughters remained
steadfast while the things were being removed; and Lady Pomona, though
she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that
her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister
that she meant to 'have it out' with her father, and Sophia had of
course remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. When
the last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began. 'Papa, don't you
think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of course
we want to know about engagements and all that. There is Lady
Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long
ago.'

'You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your
engagement.'

'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 Lady
Pomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state
of 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, in
a 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 in
silence, 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 say
that that is settled,' said Mr Longestaffe. Was there ever treachery
like this! The indignation in Georgiana's mind approached almost to
virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have
left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated
herself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now she was told
that the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer
possible that she could get back to London,--even to the house of the
hated Primeros,--without absolutely running away from her father's
residence! 'Then, papa,' she said, with affected calmness, 'you have
simply 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, you
shall 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 and
entertain 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. It
should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have
to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be
sullen where I shan't see you.' Georgiana looked round on her mother
and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still
meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her
father's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into
the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting
with 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 and
have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved well
to 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 little
trouble of that kind. 'I have never got myself talked about with
anybody. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have
written his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you were
ill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two
at the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my
bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us
back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?'

'I understood so, my dear.'

'You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the
blame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of
the 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,' said
Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair to an ancient flirtation, in
the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a futile
attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortune
was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was
never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness.

'I've kept myself as straight as you have,' said Sophia. 'It's easy
enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and
nobody 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 me
to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is not
much; 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 to
that 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 suppose
he'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 the
whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the
Melmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but to
have them here was terrible!'

During that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passed
between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities
of 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 almost
reconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a
fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr Whitstable at
a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a difference
to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which was always an
excuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr Longestaffe went to sleep.
Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the next
morning the head of the family found the following letter on his
dressing-table:--


   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 had
rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to some
extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his
authority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the
less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He
thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. If
not, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly
hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not
read much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating
and drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. To
stand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which he
belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he
liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willing
to give this up for the good of his family. He would be contented to
drag through long listless days at Caversham, and endeavour to nurse
his property, if only his daughter would allow it. By assuming a
certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether unserviceable to
himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads, and bewigging
his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving, the grand ways of
grander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. His own
ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way
to get it. A separate property had come to his son from his wife's
mother,--some £2,000 or £3,000 a year, magnified by the world into
double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciled
him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been sure
that Adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the Sussex
property in order that the Suffolk property might be relieved. But
Dolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the most
careless of men, was always on his guard in any dealings with his
father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless
half of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. The father
could not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it,
found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. Melmotte had done
something for him,--but in doing this Melmotte was very hard and
tyrannical. Melmotte, when at Caversham, had looked into his affairs,
and had told him very plainly that with such an establishment in the
country he was not entitled to keep a house in town. Mr Longestaffe
had then said something about his daughters,--something especially about
Georgiana,--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 than
another, it was his neighbour Mr Primero; and if one woman, it was Mrs
Primero. Primero, whom Mr Longestaffe regarded as quite an upstart,
and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He paid his
tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham without
seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. He had spent
many thousands for his party in county elections and borough
elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. He
was a radical, of course, or, according to Mr Longestaffe's view of
his political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side because
there was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. And now
there had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr Primero was to have a
peerage. To others the rumour was incredible, but Mr Longestaffe
believed it, and to Mr Longestaffe that belief was an agony. A Baron
Bundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron Bundlesham, would be
more than Mr Longestaffe could endure. It was quite impossible that
his daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros.

But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been laid
on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following morning,
when there could have been no intercourse with London by letter, Lady
Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed her a note to
read. 'Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course you must judge
for 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 note
paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. It
was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her father's
hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both
her father and mother had heard her speak of these Melmottes, and knew
what she thought of them. There was an insolence in the very
suggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of that. 'Why
shouldn'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, but
they 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 awfully
disagreeable,--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 if
I'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 see
it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of
herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite
horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful to
look at as he is?'

'Everybody goes to them,' said Lady Pomona. 'The Duchess of Stevenage
has 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 sit
down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that
woman!'

'Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast upstairs.'

'But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! Only
think 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, oh
dear, 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 of
it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shall
almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose it,
who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so much
of 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 like
that. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman
compared with Mr Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with
Madame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such
people it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self
after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would
propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be
surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa
has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine.'

Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona
informed Mr Longestaffe that Mr Melmotte's invitation was to be
accepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, and
Georgiana would go up on the Friday following. 'I hope she'll like
it,' said Mr Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. It
was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor
Lady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like to
live in a house with Mr and Madame Melmotte!

On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two
sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station,
which was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head as
usual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her
even in the presence of her sister. 'Sophy, I do so envy you staying
here.'

'But it was you who were so determined to be in London.'

'Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself
settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not
going 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 I
believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their
pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and
housemaids would be much better.'

'Then don't go, Georgey.'

'I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain
down here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going
to 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 of
fellow.'

'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 man
that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him,
though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it
has been papa's doing.'

And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the
Melmottes.



CHAPTER XXII - LORD NIDDERDALE'S MORALITY


It was very generally said in the city about this time that the Great
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best thing out.
It was known that Mr Melmotte had gone into it with heart and hand.
There were many who declared,--with gross injustice to the Great
Fisker,--that the railway was Melmotte's own child, that he had
invented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it; but it was not
the less popular on that account. A railway from Salt Lake City to
Mexico no doubt had much of the flavour of a castle in Spain. Our
far-western American brethren are supposed to be imaginative. Mexico has
not a reputation among us for commercial security, or that stability
which produces its four, five, or six per cent, with the regularity of
clockwork. But there was the Panama railway, a small affair which had
paid twenty-five per cent.; and there was the great line across the
continent to San Francisco, in which enormous fortunes had been made.
It came to be believed that men with their eyes open might do as well
with the Great South Central as had ever been done before with other
speculations, and this belief was no doubt founded on Mr Melmotte's
partiality for the enterprise. Mr Fisker had 'struck 'ile' when he
induced his partner, Montague, to give him a note to the great man.

Paul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man having
his eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn how the
thing was progressing. At the regular meetings of the Board, which
never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read by
Miles Grendall. Melmotte himself would speak a few slow words,
intended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph, and then
everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something,
and the 'Board' for that day would be over. To Paul Montague this was
very unsatisfactory. More than once or twice he endeavoured to stay
the proceedings, not as disapproving, but simply as desirous of being
made to understand; but the silent scorn of his chairman put him out
of countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was a barrier
which he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred Grendall would
declare that he 'did not think all that was at all necessary.' Lord
Nidderdale, with whom Montague had now become intimate at the
Beargarden, 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 the
approved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, was
never there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdened
conscience, was carried along as one of the Directors of the Great
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company.

I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier, by
the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly very
comfortable. The Company had not yet been in existence quite six
weeks,--or at any rate Melmotte had not been connected with it above
that time,--and it had already been suggested to him twice that he
should sell fifty shares at £112 10s. He did not even yet know how many
shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to the
proposal, and on the following day received a cheque for £625,--that
sum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price
of £100 a share. The suggestion was made to him by Miles Grendall, and
when he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares had
been allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged in
accordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final
disposition of the Californian property. 'But from what we see, old
fellow,' said Miles, 'I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem
to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you to
sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain
income as far as you are concerned.'

Paul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was
standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any
moment. The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty,
of the whole thing, made him often very miserable. In those wretched
moments his conscience was asserting itself. But again there were
times in which he also was almost triumphant, and in which he felt the
delight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the Board when he
wanted explanations, he received very great attention outside the
board-room from those connected with the enterprise. Melmotte had
asked him to dine two or three times. Mr Cohenlupe had begged him to
go down to his little place at Rickmansworth,--an entreaty with which
Montague had not as yet complied. Lord Alfred was always gracious to
him, and Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him one
of their set at the club. Many other houses became open to him from
the same source. Though Melmotte was supposed to be the inventor of
the railway, it was known that Fisker, Montague, and Montague were
largely concerned in it, and it was known also that Paul Montague was
one of the Montagues named in that firm. People, both in the City and
the West End, seemed to think that he knew all about it, and treated
him as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at his
disposition. There were results from this which were not unpleasing to
the young man. He only partially resisted the temptation; and though
determined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so
determined only at times. The money was very pleasant to him. The
period would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be
pledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carbury; and when
that period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to
know that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to
give a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations, and in all his
fears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre of his
hopes. Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, it may be feared that
she would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him from her heart.

There was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the
Directors, and a disposition to complain against the Grand Director,
arising from a grievance altogether different from that which
afflicted Montague. Neither had Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord Nidderdale
been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them had
received any remuneration for the use of their names. They knew well
that Montague had sold shares. He was quite open on the subject, and
had told Felix, whom he hoped some day to regard as his
brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how much;--and
the two men had endeavoured to make the matter intelligible between
themselves. The original price of the shares being £100 each, and £12
10s. a share having been paid to Montague as the premium, it was to be
supposed that the original capital was re-invested in other shares.
But each owned to the other that the matter was very complicated to
him, and Montague could only write to Hamilton K. Fisker at San
Francisco asking for explanation. As yet he had received no answer.
But it was not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands which
embittered Nidderdale and Carbury. They understood that he had really
brought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to take
money out of it. Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmotte his more
noble pickings, for they knew how great a man was Melmotte. Of
Cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he was a regular city man,
and had probably supplied funds. Cohenlupe was too deep for their
inquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had sold shares, and had
received the profit; and they knew also how utterly impossible it was
that Lord Alfred should have produced capital. If Lord Alfred Grendall
was entitled to plunder, why were not they? And if their day for
plunder had not yet come, why Lord Alfred's? And if there was so much
cause to fear Lord Alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone,
why should not they also make themselves feared? Lord Alfred passed
all his time with Melmotte,--had, as these young men said, become
Melmotte's head valet,--and therefore had to be paid. But that reason
did not satisfy the young men.

'You haven't sold any shares;--have you?' This question Sir Felix asked
Lord Nidderdale at the club. Nidderdale was constant in his attendance
at the Board, and Felix was not a little afraid that he might be
jockied also by him.

'Not a share.'

'Nor got any profits?'

'Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my only
transaction 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 up
some day.'

'In the meantime, you know, there are our names. And Grendall is
making a fortune out of it.'

'Poor old duffer,' said his lordship. 'If he's doing so well, I think
Miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think we
ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready
when that bill of Vossner's comes round.'

'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 to
him to pay anything.'

'Fellows used to pay their gambling debts,' said Sir Felix, who was
still in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of
I.O.U.'s.

'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 heard
of any more. It was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. I
believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!'

'I shouldn't,' said Lord Nidderdale. 'What's the use of being beastly
ill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think
there's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course
cheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play
when he knows he can't pay; but I don't know that it's worse than
getting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody as
Grasslough does,--or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely
because she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but I
don'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 and
pitch it at that woman. Live and let;--live that's my motto.'

'But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?' said
Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carried
too far.

'Oh, certainly. I'll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but then
he 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, who
had some understanding in the matter, 'nor yet to young Grendall. The
one would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every
lie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our
great master, Augustus Melmotte.'

This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's return
from Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great
duty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his marriage
with Marie Melmotte. In doing that he would have to put one bell on
the cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. In
his heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte. But, then, as he knew
very well, Nidderdale was intent on the same object. Nidderdale, he
thought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible, and
the forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to the
marrying of heiresses very queer indeed. He knew that Nidderdale
wanted to marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that he
wanted to marry her. And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk
about it! And now the man asked who should bell the cat! 'You go there
oftener 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, because
I'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think I was the bigger
fool 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 you
and me if he could make money off our carcases. But as he can't skin
me, 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 on
him, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow.'

'Would you?' Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend's
assertion, 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 all
there?' Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a
deep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which
his lordship had suggested. Where the mischief would he, Sir Felix
Carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the
money was not all there?

On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went to
the great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that he
walked with the great man to the Board meeting. Melmotte was always
very gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never, up to
this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about
business. 'I wanted just to ask you something,' said the lord, hanging
on the chairman's arm.

'Anything you please, my lord.'

'Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to
sell?'

'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 Lord
Alfred put into it?'

'I have taken shares for Lord Alfred,' said Melmotte, putting very
heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. 'If it suits me to advance
money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without asking
your lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury.'

'Oh, certainly. I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with
your money.'

'I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about
it. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come all
right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put them
into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are
up, can sell at a profit. It's presumed just at present that, at some
early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till
that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be
transferred to you.'

'That's it, is it?' said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand all
about it.

'If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you can
have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, if
your 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 to
Marie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood. 'My
dear Felix,' she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon,
'pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may be
between the cup and the lip.'

'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 him
about 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 the
ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to
do 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, and
the income insured to me,--say £7,000 or £8,000 a year. I wouldn't do it
for 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 be
efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have
been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow
out his own brains.

'Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way.'

'It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You
want 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 one
wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one
means 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 be
very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he
can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an
heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little
hampered you know.'

'Of course he'd pay the money first.'

'It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be
rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been
arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that
he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been
paid or not. You can't carry £10,000 a year about in your pocket, you
know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up.'

Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side
in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square,
the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general
acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man.
And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her
baronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must
surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord
Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and the
marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming
to Felix in the future.

All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now;--position, a
title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something!
Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor
Square 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 be
probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his
daughter's position? She visited her son again on the next morning,
which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. 'I
think 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 a
humour 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. I
shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to
meddle with me.'

'You ungrateful boy!'

'I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't do
everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set me
against it all.'

'How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me
and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger is
right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own
wretchedness.'

'That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of
that sort.'

'He is the best friend I have.' What would Roger have thought had he
heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?

'He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he
meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him.
Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't
very pleasant. Of course it's your house; but if you do allow me a
room, I think you might let me have it to myself.' It was impossible
for Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to
explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she
ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he
escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till
some unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever
allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed
of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her
blood,--some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all as
long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the
mother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her
moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet she
knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. She
almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love,--but she
acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. In
spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself,
his wickedness, and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling
to him to the last. 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 make
much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual with
her; but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that Miss
Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the young
lady was 'fatigante.' Upon this Marie had declared that she intended
to like the young lady very much. 'Pooh!' said Madame Melmotte. 'You
never like no person at all.' At this Marie had looked over to her
lover and smiled. 'Ah, yes; that is all very well,--while it lasts; but
you care for no friend.' From which Felix had judged that Madame
Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely
disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his club
from Marie. 'Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after
lunch.' This was in his possession when his mother visited him in his
bedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest. But he would not
tell her of his intention, because he had drunk too much wine, and was
sulky.

At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Square
and asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking,--even after
he had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the door,--he
intended to ask for Mr Melmotte; but at the last his courage failed
him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. There he found Madame
Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and--Lord Nidderdale. Marie
looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been with
her father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, and
endeavoured to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale continued his
flirtation with Miss Longestaffe,--a flirtation which she carried on in
a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of
the 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 a
great 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 talk
of going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn't pass. That fellow
there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because you're
here. 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 of
the 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 was
evident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for him. 'You go
down,' she continued, 'and ask the man to show you into the
book-room.'

'Shall I come up again?'

'No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon.' Now
Sir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that Madame
Didon was Madame Melmotte's own woman, commonly called Didon by the
ladies of the family. 'Or send it by post,--under cover to her. That
will be better. Go at once, now.' It certainly did seem to Sir Felix
that the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, just
shaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.

In a few moments he found himself with Mr Melmotte in the chamber
which had been dignified with the name of the book-room. The great
financier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here,
generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall. It may be supposed
that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices of money
and funds for the New York, Paris, and London Exchanges. But on this
occasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been
enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. 'How do you do, Sir Felix?' he
said. 'I suppose you want the ladies.'

'I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on you
as I came down.' It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronet
had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at
once resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. He
believed that he should thrive best by resenting any interference with
him in his capacity as financier. He thought that he had risen high
enough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him that
men who were themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed by a
savage assumption of superiority. And he, too, had generally the
advantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was
concerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it. He
could thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his
colleagues. When neither of these sufficed to give him undisputed
mastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. He liked
young associates because they were more timid and less greedy than
their elders. Lord Nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest,
and Mr Melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir Felix. Lord
Alfred he had been obliged to buy.

'I'm very glad to see you, and all that,' said Melmotte, assuming a
certain exaltation of the eyebrows which they who had many dealings
with him often found to be very disagreeable; 'but this is hardly a
day for business, Sir Felix, nor,--yet a place for business.'

Sir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden. He certainly had come
about business,--business of a particular sort; but Marie had told him
that of all days Sunday would be the best, and had also told him that
her father was more likely to be in a good humour on Sunday than on
any other day. Sir Felix felt that he had not been received with good
humour. 'I didn't mean to intrude, Mr Melmotte,' he said.

'I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been
going to speak about that railway.'

'Oh dear no.'

'Your mother was saying to me down in the county that she hoped you
attended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend
to.'

'My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it,' said Sir
Felix.

'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 to
propose 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. 'I
have indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind of
thing goes on.'

'I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that when
large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man should
speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if he
don't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given you a
promise?'

'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 that
he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. 'Of course, I should
be 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 depends
on you.'

'Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you she can marry
you. 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 wait
for your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent about
money.'

This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound to
dispel, 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 my
daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. How
much 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 fashion
and have a title of your own,--and no doubt a property. If you'll show
me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it at
any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?'

What could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six, matter
to a man like Melmotte? It was thus that Sir Felix looked at it. When
a man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questions
about trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked, and the
asking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of a
proposed father-in-law. At any rate, it must be answered. For a moment
it occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. It
would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come
after. Were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower and lower
into the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end of all his
hopes, 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, you
know,' 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, putting
off the evil day.

'Where's your family seat?'

'Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old
family 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 another
to be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the system
under which titles and property descend together, or in various lines.
The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is complex, and so is the
business of Parliament. But the rules regulating them, though
anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies of
the peerage and primogeniture. They who are brought up among it, learn
it as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study in
advanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. It was everything
to Melmotte that he should understand the ways of the country which he
had adopted; and when he did not understand, he was clever at hiding
his ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir Felix was a
baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He
knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury, and he judged by
the name it must be an old family property. And now the baronet
declared 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 of
the family?'

'Yes, I am the head of the family, of course,' said Sir Felix, lying
directly. 'But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a
long 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 truth
with discretion. 'I don't quite know how it would be. I have always
understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will
marry.'

'And in the meantime what is your own property?'

'My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then I
am my mother's heir.'

'You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my
daughter.'

'Certainly.'

'Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the
income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married
man? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on my
part.' The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly
taking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth.
It was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not a
baronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of the
world who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of
speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that
for his daughter why could he not say so without asking disgusting
questions such as these,--questions which it was quite impossible that a
gentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently plain that any
gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte,
must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? Would it not
be an understood bargain that, as he provided the rank and position,
she would provide the money? And yet the vulgar wretch took advantage
of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions! Sir Felix
stood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing;--wishing
that he was well out of the house, and at the Beargarden. 'You don't
seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps
you 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 have
money; but money expects money.' At this moment Lord Alfred entered
the room. 'You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as you
said 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. Good
morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little
soda and brandy.' Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with his
fellow Director Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting Melmotte
to shake hands with him before he went. 'Do you know anything about
that 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 leave
it,' 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 in
Suffolk;--eh?'

'Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr Carbury
has a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. I
wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow has
nothing to do with it whatever.'

'Hasn't he now!' Mr Melmotte, as he speculated upon it, almost admired
the young man's impudence.



CHAPTER XXIV - MILES GRENDALL'S TRIUMPH


Sir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been
checkmated,--and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence of
the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far as he
could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte.
The father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly believed the
truth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not doubt but that
she'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with him, which was
natural; and was a fool,--which was perhaps also natural. But romance
was not the game which he was playing. People told him that when girls
succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were
always constrained to forgive them at last. That might be the case
with ordinary fathers. But Melmotte was decidedly not an ordinary
father. He was,--so Sir Felix declared to himself,--perhaps the greatest
brute ever created. Sir Felix could not but remember that elevation of
the eyebrows, and the brazen forehead, and the hard mouth. He had
found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now he
cursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the Beargarden
in a cab.

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 for
shares. '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 my
governor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to get
the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference.' On that
Sunday 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. As
far as Sir Felix could understand, directly the one operation had been
perfected the thousand pounds would be available for another. As he
looked into it with all his intelligence he thought that he began to
perceive that that was the way in which the Melmottes of the world
made their money. There was but one objection. He had not got the
entire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the whole very good to
him. He had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank in
the city at which he had opened an account. And he had very much more
than the remainder in I.O.U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles
Grendall. In fact if every man had his own,--and his bosom glowed with
indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was kept
out of his own,--he could go into the city and take up his shares
to-morrow, and still have ready money at his command. If he could do
this, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation of
that charge of not having any fortune which Melmotte had brought
against him? He would endeavour to work the money out of Dolly
Longestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that though it would be
impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claim
against Miles in the city. Miles was Secretary to the Board, and might
perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be
all ready money. Sir Felix was not very clear about it, but thought
that he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of Miles
Grendall. 'How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up,' he said to
himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come
in. And he formed in his head Draconic laws which he would fain have
executed upon men who lost money at play and did not pay. 'How the
deuce 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 as
a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he
wrote 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,--Grosvenor
Square, and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in the
letter which would commit him.

There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight
o'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and would always gamble
afterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about
seven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the opportunity
a good one to speak of his money. 'You couldn't cash your I.O.U.'s
for me to-morrow;--could you?'

'To-morrow! oh, lord!'

'I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we
are 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 you
know 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's
friend, that was here one night and won all our money.'

'The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to
California. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always
wondered whether he got there alive.'

'Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those
kinds 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. But
it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the
city to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay for
them, 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 girl
of his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how important it may
be?'

'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 I
was 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 Nidderdale
when 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 of
playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendall
himself, 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 sell
something. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. You
may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've
proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know
any 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 any
letters, 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 the
smoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the
Secretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing
that the man must have some influence with the great distributor of
shares.

'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 and
he has explained it, I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on
Wednesday.'

'Oh;--ah.'

'It will be the proper thing to do--won't it?'

'Very good--thing to do!' Miles Grendall smoked harder and harder as
the suggestions were made to him.

'Is it always ready money?'

'Always ready money,' said Miles shaking his head, as though in
reprobation 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 same
thing.'

Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he
would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. 'You know I
should 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;--I
have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't
you 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 own
payments to me.' This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicate
mode 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 buy
the 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 was
driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of
his debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who
did not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet had
the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of
business! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles Grendall smoked
on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, and
he therefore made no answer. 'Do you know how much you owe me?'
continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced
the attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the
conversation about the shares had been commenced in an undertone.
These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but his
countenance 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?' said
Miles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of the
room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a moment
Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the whole
room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more
popular man than himself.

It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in
the card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with
him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, I
regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir
Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What
was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be
liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play with
him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with
whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. The
least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was
in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up
the nobler game. 'Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out,' said
Grasslough. 'It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then;
one can always bet,' said Dolly shortly afterwards. 'I hate loo,' said
Sir Felix in answer to a third application. 'I like whist best,' said
Nidderdale, 'but I'll play anything anybody likes,--pitch and toss if
you 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 not
been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large
pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The men
opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto
been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which
was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even Dolly
Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not so
furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was
allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see
ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances
could it be got back from him. 'Montague,' he said, 'just change these
for the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we've
done.' And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. The
result of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money,
and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To
Montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked,--or
rather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On what
principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man?
'I don't understand this kind of thing,' he said. 'When I win from
you, 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 on
the 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 have
such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash
for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off
with it.'

'Who is walking off?' said Miles.

'And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of
us?' asked Grasslough.

The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be allowed
that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner
that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr Grendall pledged his
honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that
he might have won to the redemption of his I.O.U.'s, paying a regular
percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very
cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning
would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy,--which indeed would
require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if
still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money.

For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in
his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a
minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and
he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther
and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who was
next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which
Grendall still won,--and won heavily from Paul Montague. 'I never saw a
fellow have such a run of luck in my life,' said Grasslough. 'You've
had 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 looed
every 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 his
own making, supposed to represent considerably above £1,000, and had
also,--which was of infinitely greater concern to him,--received an amount
of ready money which was quite a godsend to him.

'What's the good of talking about it?' said Nidderdale. 'I hate all
this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed.' The
idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however,
hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall
without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a
card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the
winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted
to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. But
he feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there
should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there would
certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around him
would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was
Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would
infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of
cheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he should
accuse, and also the unpassive good humour of the others. He let that
opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted.
Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should
not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix
watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had
an 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 the
others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been
all in paper. 'There's something the matter with that fellow,' said
Grasslough.

'There's always something the matter with him, I think,' said Miles.
'He is so awfully greedy about his money.' Miles had become somewhat
triumphant in his success.

'The less said about that, Grendall, the better,' said Nidderdale. 'We
have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much
as anybody.' Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without
manoeuvring a card on that hand.



CHAPTER XXV - IN GROSVENOR SQUARE


Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received
from Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of French
eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house if
either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie told
her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. 'Well, perhaps not
Madame,' said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to be dismissed;
'but Monsieur!' Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsieur
know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything to
Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole
household was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behind
rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for a master of a
house; but in this house the master at any rate knew how he was
placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of course his
daughter might run away. But who would run away with her without
money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew himself
and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl, and then
bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him. His daughter
was valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of a
Marquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose without such
assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfred
was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had whispered into his
ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he
himself might be made a baronet. 'But if they should say that I'm not
an Englishman?' suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had explained that it
was not necessary that he should have been born in England, or even
that he should have an English name. No questions would be asked. Let
him first get into Parliament, and then spend a little money on the
proper side,--by which Lord Alfred meant the Conservative side,--and be
munificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost a
matter of course. Indeed, there was no knowing what honours might not
be achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberal
hand. In these conversations, Melmotte would speak of his money and
power of making money as though they were unlimited,--and Lord Alfred
believed him.

Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her
father as 'cutting up rough.' To her who had known her father all her
life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in the
note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would be
delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did love
the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of
others whom she did not love,--but this she had done at the moment
almost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which she
was now living. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her
courage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of her
own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which
accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand
names and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the
Nidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. It might be that
she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father,
though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation.
Had her mind been as it was now when Lord Nidderdale first came to
her, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely
better than Sir Felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary,
would have put some grace into his lovemaking. But at that time she
had been childish. He, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to
her. And she, child though she was, had resented such usage. But a few
months in London had changed all this, and now she was a child no
longer. She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her love.
Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. If
necessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she
abandoned herself to its worship. But she desired that her idol should
be of flesh and blood, and not of wood. She was at first half-inclined
to be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she
remembered that he did not know Didon as well as she did, and that he
might be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. She could write
to 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 the
Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if there
were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on with
it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure. 'What
an infernal little ass!' he said to himself as he crumpled the letter
up.

Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little
present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was
the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when
she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of
the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her
own room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she
had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to
those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London
season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to the
companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very much apart
from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often. Madame
Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understand
that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.

But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances were
changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friend
Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, and
whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid preferment,
telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time of her
friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to return
to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped her friend would
not throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate,
with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. Georgiana Longestaffe
had never been humble before; but the Monograms were people so much
thought of and in such an excellent set! She would do anything rather
then lose the Monograms. But it was of no use. She had been humble in
vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note. 'She never
really cared for anybody but herself,' Georgiana said in her wretched
solitude. Then, too, she had found that Lord Nidderdale's manner to
her had been quite changed. She was not a fool, and could read these
signs with sufficient accuracy. There had been little flirtations
between her and Nidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that
Nidderdale must marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her
as he spoke when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She
could 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 herself
with a certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All
that was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as
yet but a few days old she understood that others understood that she
had degraded herself. 'What's all this about?' Lord Grasslough had
said to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She
had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.

'Impudent scoundrel!' she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight
ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.

A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of
commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must
have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such
uncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after
noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He
declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame
Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He was
therefore 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, I
wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment.'

'My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much
harm. 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 because
they are none of them coming up?'

'Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for
guessing!'

'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. Everybody
doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody
doing 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 able
to 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 of
course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself
is 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 so
different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. And
if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you can
live by yourself and all that sort of thing. How should you like to be
shut 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 as
explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and
mother, 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 short
of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but
when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to the
governor, 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 devil
without saying a word. Good-bye.'

As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open,--not
the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden hours,--and
actually did write a letter to his father.


'MY DEAR FATHER,

I have seen Georgiana at Mr Melmotte's house. She ought not to be
there. I suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's a
swindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her home
again. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for the
girls at this time of the year.

Your affectionate son,

ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.'


This letter fell upon old Mr Longestaffe at Caversham like a
thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have been
instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed,--
worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not have brought
about such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most was
that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to
town. This had come from his son, who had refused to do anything to
help him in his difficulties.



CHAPTER XXVI - MRS HURTLE


Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville
Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had
many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and
Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the reader.
He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to
expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope
that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at
any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He
was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that
in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it
from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet
another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not
long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the
Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a
certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--
at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and
asked for Mrs Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown
into the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter
of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and
then Mrs Hurtle entered the room. Mrs Hurtle was a widow whom he had
once promised to marry. 'Paul,' she said, with a quick, sharp voice,
but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased,--taking
him by the hand as she spoke, 'Paul, say that that letter of yours
must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive
everything.'

'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 that
your promises to me are to go for nothing?'

'Things are changed,' said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her
bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, but
the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had
sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but the
justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly
knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life which,
had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present
difficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion;
and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his
sympathies.

'How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that.' As she
said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether she
was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's
wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom see
now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's
face and figure more than either the colour or the expression, and
women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hair
without limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions.
The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and
milliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of noble
dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with
classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes
very dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptor's hands. Colours
indeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. The taste
for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for
horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs Hurtle was not a beauty after the
present fashion. She was very dark,--a dark brunette,--with large round
blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe.
Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round her
head and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood
would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost
every word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of the
pug. But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would
swear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her
teeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down
to her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and
beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she were
oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as
Montague had seen her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's
garment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always
new, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially always
simple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She
looked as though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a
woman 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 as
thirty. 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 it
can 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 chair
which she gave him.

'I told you in my letter.'

'You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off. Why
is it to be--off? Do you not love me?' Then she threw herself upon her
knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. 'Paul,' she
said, 'I have come across the Atlantic on purpose to see you,--after so
many months,--and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should
leave me for ever, give me one kiss.' Of course he kissed her, not
once, but with a long, warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise?
With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but
while she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her?
'Now tell me everything,' she said, seating herself on a footstool at
his feet.

She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill-treat or
scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her
caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him
before he left her. He had known something of her temper before,
though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had
travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been
very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for he
had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool
they 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 his
second 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 she
was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on business. When he
left her at the London railway station, from which she started for
Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had offered to go with
her, but that she had declined. But when he remembered that he must
certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also
how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became
embarrassed. What were her means he did not know. He did know that she
was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a
word to him of her own family. She had indeed said that her husband
had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken
of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she
had met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all this
after she had left him,--only when he reflected how bald was the story
which he must tell Roger Carbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had
been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of
adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still
progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had
been missing.

He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it was
impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railway
train without knowing something about her. Roger did all he could to
persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially succeeded. It is
so pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the company
of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so natural that during
the journey he should allow himself to think that she may during her
whole life be all in all to him as she is at that moment;--and so
natural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted from
her! But Montague, though he was half false to his widow, was half
true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he said ought to bind
him. Then he returned to California, and learned, through the
instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San Francisco Mrs
Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not quite believe
that there ever had been a Mr Hurtle. Others said that there certainly
had been a Mr Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still
existed. The fact, however, best known of her was that she had shot a
man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried for
it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances
justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very clever and very
beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. 'She
always had money when she was here,' Hamilton Fisker said, 'but no one
knew where it came from.' Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. 'I
don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life
partnership, if you mean that,' said Hamilton K. Fisker.

Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second
journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite
of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he
could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader will
remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had promised
to follow him. Since that, they had never met till this day. She had
not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate before he
had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England, and these he
had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that
their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to
London! 'Tell me everything,' she said, leaning upon him and looking
up into his face.

'But you,--when did you arrive here?'

'Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I
reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, and
so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you
should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long
ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not
tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was
penniless. 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 in
claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her own. 'I could not
get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was there
you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. I
at any rate have been faithful.' As she said this his arm was again
thrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. 'And now,' she
said, 'tell me about yourself?'

His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done
his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have
sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have
been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her
understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was
either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as
that. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she
sat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his
wife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did
not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet
with properly apologetic courtesy. 'I am engaged here about this
railway,' he said. 'You have heard, I suppose, of our projected
scheme?'

'Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the
great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a
villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the
best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are
very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did.'

'It's doing very well, I believe,' said Paul, with some feeling of
shame, 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; but
the 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, of
course?'

'Yes,--I know him. I see him once a week.'

'I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or
lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right
hand. 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 general
rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation.
Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pigmy man is
stopped 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 live
in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine
at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pen
can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that he
is not honest?'

'As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing
against him.'

'Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon
was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shall
see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not
condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors.'

'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 about
coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but
they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand,
praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a
little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in
the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such
law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a
man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler be can
be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the
wooden bogies that he meets.'

Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connected
with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a
scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and
there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it was
shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. 'Personally, I do not
like 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 things
in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he
is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no
alternative.'

'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 back
into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have
talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our
engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?'

He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited
for an answer. 'You know I did,' he said.

'I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my love
to 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 from
a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! You owe
me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have never
lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not taken your
heart. I have given you all that I can give.' Then she leaped to her
feet 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 Paul
from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there
another 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 could
be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tell
her the truth which he now spoke. 'There is another,' he said.

She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would
commence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standing
quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the
left. 'Oh,' she said, in a whisper 'that is the reason why I am told
that 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 also
you have learned to--hate me.'

'Listen to me, Winifred.'

'No, sir; no Winifred now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that
it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you
love--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too
little like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other
reasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that they
are lies.'

The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by
Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little about
Winifred Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr Hurtle. His
reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. 'We know too
little of each other,' he said.

'What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I
ever 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 want
to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You
knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have
ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you
wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with
stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have
cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once.'

He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have
been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have
remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must
have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very
base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is
damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the
sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and
might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath
could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no
further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he
was 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 of
it, 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--this
lady?'

He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta
Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and
certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. 'I cannot name
her.'

'And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return
satisfied 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 shake
hands 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 Augustus
Melmotte 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 to
explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise
and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his
engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could
not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought to
his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to
his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr Hurtle were alive, certainly
then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs Hurtle. He
did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with
his defence. 'Oh, Paul,' she said, changing at once into softness,--'I
am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that I
am 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 against
me,--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 woman
love you as I do,--live for you as I do? Think what I have done in
coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are
a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engaged
to marry you.'

'You have told the woman of the house?'

'Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? Am
I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be
told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I
am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being
here? I am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and,
as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised
in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promised
wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr Melmotte in managing
the new great American railway, and that Mr Paul Montague would be
with me this morning. She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she
doubted, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that
what I have said is false,--if you dare.' The woman was not there, and
it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order
that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The
position was one which required thought. After a while he took up his
hat 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 all
your promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me.' Then she let
him go without another word.



CHAPTER XXVII - MRS HURTLE GOES TO THE PLAY


On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received the
following 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 careful
so 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, with
one or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have been
done hurriedly. There had been much art in it. She had at any rate
suppressed any show of anger. In calling him to her she had so written
as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear the claws
of an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as a lioness who had lost
her cub. She had almost ignored that other lady whose name she had not
yet heard. She had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that other
lady as a light thing which might easily be put aside. She had said
much of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the wickedness of the
wrong-doer. Invited as she had invited him, surely he could not but
come to her! And then, in her reference to money, not descending to
the details of dollars and cents, she had studied how to make him feel
that he might marry her without imprudence. As she read it over to
herself she thought that there was a tone through it of natural
feminine uncautious eagerness. She put her letter up in an envelope,
stuck a stamp on it and addressed it,--and then threw herself back in
her chair to think of her position.

He should marry her,--or there should be something done which should
make the name of Winifred Hurtle known to the world! She had no plan
of revenge yet formed. She would not talk of revenge,--she told herself
that she would not even think of revenge till she was quite sure that
revenge would be necessary. But she did think of it, and could not
keep her thoughts from it for a moment. Could it be possible that she,
with all her intellectual gifts as well as those of her outward
person, should be thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him,--and
she did love him with all her heart,--she regarded as greatly inferior
to herself! He had promised to marry her; and he should marry her, or
the world should hear the story of his perjury!

Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon as
he read the letter. That his heart was all the other way he was quite
sure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from his
troubles open to him. There was not a single word in this woman's
letter that he could contradict. He had loved her and had promised to
make her his wife,--and had determined to break his word to her because
he found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery. He had so
resolved before he had ever seen Hetta Carbury, having been made to
believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknown American
woman,--of whom he only did know that she was handsome and clever would
be a step to ruin. The woman, as Roger said, was an adventuress,--might
never have had a husband,--might at this moment have two or three,--might
be overwhelmed with debt,--might be anything bad, dangerous, and
abominable. All that he had heard at San Francisco had substantiated
Roger's views. 'Any scrape is better than that scrape,' Roger had said
to him. Paul had believed his Mentor, and had believed with a double
faith as soon as he had seen Hetta Carbury.

But what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passed
between them, that he should leave Mrs Hurtle at her lodgings at
Islington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that she
would not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal,--though it
seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition of
their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort. To take
her 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 certainly
much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to abstain from
talking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happy evenings,
delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were first
together at New York. There could be no better companion for such a
festival. She could talk,--and she could listen as well as talk. And she
could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense of her feminine
charms by her simple proximity. He had been very happy when so placed.
Had it been possible he would have escaped the danger now, but the
reminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to the
performance of this perilous duty.

But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? When
the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her back
to her door, what should he say to her then? He must make some
arrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a great
peril, and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could not
now go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury his
rival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the
widow. Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow
himself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling,
but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to
Roger Carbury. He could not say all that he would have to say without
speaking of Hetta,--and of his love for Hetta he could not speak to his
rival.

He had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no other
human being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself. He thought
for a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to the woman,
telling her that as it was impossible that there should ever be
marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from her
society. But then he remembered her solitude, her picture of herself
in London without even an acquaintance except himself, and he
convinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave her
without seeing her. 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 safer
signature than Paul Montague. Then came a long train of thoughts as to
the perils of the whole proceeding. She had told him that she had
announced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged to
him, and he had in a manner authorized the statement by declining to
contradict it at once. And now, after that announcement, he was
assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse themselves
together. 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 read
correctly the inner character of a woman whose experience of the world
had been much wider than his own. His mind misgave him that it might
be 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 was
carrying on a plot against him? The note, however, was sent, and he
prepared for the evening of the play, leaving the dangers of the
occasion to adjust themselves. He ordered the dinner and he took the
box, and at the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings.

The woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs Hurtle's
sitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended to
welcome him as an accepted lover. It was a smile half of
congratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as a
woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast. Who
does 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 of
his own captivity? It has, however, generally mattered but little to
us. If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, because
we have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we also
have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the whole we
have gained more than we have lost. But with Paul Montague at the
present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,--only a feeling of
danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger, with less chance
of escape. He was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman,
and tell her the truth,--and bear the immediate consequences. But there
would 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 woman
had shut the door, Mrs Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with her
hat on her head. Nothing could be more simple than her dress, and
nothing prettier. It was now June, and the weather was warm, and the
lady wore a light gauzy black dress,--there is a fabric which the
milliners I think call grenadine,--coming close up round her throat. It
was very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress. And she had
on a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty. There are
times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to be
bright in her apparel,--almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly be
contented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and her
gloves of some bright hue,--unless she wear roses or jewels in her hair.
It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go intending
that all the world shall know who they are. But there are times again
in which a man would prefer that his companion should be very quiet in
her dress,--but still pretty; in which he would choose that she should
dress herself for him only. All this Mrs Hurtle had understood
accurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing of it, was
gratified. 'You told me to have a hat, and here I am,--hat and all.' She
gave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantly at him, as
though there was no cause of unhappiness between them. The
lodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some little
word as they went off. Paul did not hear the word, but was sure that
it bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage.

Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during the
performance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to her
engagement. It was with them, as in former days it had been at New
York. She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now and
again with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclined to
listen than to speak. Now and again she referred, after some slightest
fashion, to little circumstances that had occurred between them, to
some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; but it was
done as one man might do it to another,--if any man could have done it
so pleasantly. There was a scent which he had once approved, and now
she bore it on her handkerchief. There was a ring which he had once
given her, and she wore it on the finger with which she touched his
sleeve. With his own hands he had once adjusted her curls, and each
curl was as he had placed it. She had a way of shaking her head, that
was very pretty,--a way that might, one would think, have been dangerous
at her age, as likely to betray those first grey hairs which will come
to disturb the last days of youth. He had once told her in sport to be
more careful. She now shook her head again, and, as he smiled, she
told him that she could still dare to be careless. There are a
thousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearing
between acknowledged lovers, with which no woman would like to
dispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes with
delight; but which in other circumstances would be vulgar,--and to the
woman distasteful. There are closenesses and sweet approaches, smiles
and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendoes and hints, little
mutual admirations and assurances that there are things known to those
two happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether ignorant. Much
of 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. No
allusion was made to their engagement,--not an unpleasant word was
spoken; but the art was practised with all its pleasant adjuncts. Paul
was flattered to the top of his bent; and, though the sword was
hanging over his head, though he knew that the sword must fall,--must
partly fall that very night,--still he enjoyed it.

There are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even though
they may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded by
things feminine in all the affairs of their lives. Others again have
their strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarely
altogether happy when removed from their influence. Paul Montague was
of the latter sort. At this time he was thoroughly in love with Hetta
Carbury, and was not in love with Mrs Hurtle. He would have given much
of his golden prospects in the American railway to have had Mrs Hurtle
reconveyed suddenly to San Francisco. And yet he had a delight in her
presence. 'The acting isn't very good,' he said when the piece was
nearly over.

'What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon
the humour. The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened and
laughed and cried, because I have been happy.'

He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and was
bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. 'It has been
very jolly,' he said.

'And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. I wonder
whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover
talked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writers
and 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.' The
position described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothing to
this. She had so spoken on purpose,--fighting her own battle after her
own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. 'A woman
hides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unable to
hide 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 quite
ready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall. And I have
had no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. Are
you going to see me home?'

'Certainly.'

'You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself.' But of
course he accompanied her to Islington. He owed her at any rate as
much as that. She continued to talk during the whole journey. What a
wonderful place London was,--so immense, but so dirty! New York of
course was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter. But Paris was
the gem of gems among towns. She did not like Frenchmen, and she liked
Englishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that she could
never like English women. 'I do so hate all kinds of buckram. I like
good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one's
throat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose what we
have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite sure that it
has not been in the least wicked.'

'I don't think it has,' said Paul Montague very tamely. It is a long
way from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last the cab reached the
lodging-house door. 'Yes, this is it,' she said. 'Even about the
houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me.'
She was getting out as she spoke, and he had already knocked at the
door. 'Come in for one moment,' she said as he paid the cabman. The
woman the while was standing with the door in her hand. It was near
midnight,--but, when people are engaged, hours do not matter. The woman
of the house, who was respectability herself,--a nice kind widow, with
five children, named Pipkin,--understood that and smiled again as he
followed the lady into the sitting-room. She had already taken off her
hat and was flinging it on to the sofa as he entered. 'Shut the door
for one moment,' she said; and he shut it. Then she threw herself into
his arms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. 'Oh Paul,' she
exclaimed, 'my darling! Oh Paul, my love! I will not bear to be
separated 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.' Then
she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her hands
together. 'But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night. It was
to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard
school-time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see me
again soon,--will you not?' He nodded assent, then took her in his arms
and 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 Sunday
night. On the following Monday Sir Felix did not go to the club. He
had watched Miles Grendall at play, and was sure that on more than one
or two occasions the man had cheated. Sir Felix did not quite know
what in such circumstances it would be best for him to do. Reprobate
as he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and seemed to
be very terrible. What steps ought he to take? He was quite sure of
his facts, and yet he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough and
Longestaffe would not believe him. He would have told Montague, but
Montague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be of
any use to him. On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club. He
felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been
accustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred over.
He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated him
without saying anything about it. On the Wednesday afternoon life was
becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into the building at about
five in the afternoon. There, as a matter of course, he found Dolly
Longestaffe drinking sherry and bitters. 'Where the blessed angels
have you been?' said Dolly. Dolly was at that moment alert with the
sense of a duty performed. He had just called on his sister and
written a sharp letter to his father, and felt himself to be almost a
man of business.

'I've had fish of my own to fry,' said Felix, who had passed the last
two days in unendurable idleness. Then he referred again to the money
which Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking for
immediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance that if a
commercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this moment, be
very serviceable to him. 'I'm particularly anxious to take up those
shares,' 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 all
right. You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall.'

'Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I suppose
I 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 of
course. 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 had
opened and read indeed the last hour, but which had been duly
delivered at his lodgings early in the morning. 'My governor wants to
sell Pickering, and Melmotte wants to buy the place. My governor can't
sell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what's
what. My interest in the property is greater than his. It isn't much
of a place, and they are talking of £50,000, over and above the debt
upon it. £25,000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and make
me very square. From what this fellow says I suppose they're going to
give 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'm
not much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself to
go in for things as I ought to do; but I've a sort of feeling that I
don't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't to
let 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. on
the money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per cent., and
I'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it than
you'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 to
the city to-morrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'll
advance me £1,000, and then you can get the shares. Are you going to
dine here?'

Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, with
considerable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and play
whist afterwards. He acceded willingly to Dolly's plans of visiting
Abchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty in
inducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for city
purposes. 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. They
then dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at the next table to
them. Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other frequently, but in that
conversation the young baronet would not join. Nor did Grendall ever
address himself to Sir Felix. 'Is there anything up between you and
Miles?' 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 to
speak, and you've played with him all through.'

'Played with him! I should think I have. Though he did get such a haul
last 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 you
all about it in the cab to-morrow.' Then he left the club, declaring
that he would go up to Grosvenor Square and see Marie Melmotte. He did
go 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 old
Melmotte's consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as by
showing that he had got money wherewith to buy shares in the railway.
What he did with himself during the remainder of the evening the
reader need not know, but on his return home at some comparatively
early hour, he found this note from Marie.


   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 in
life, she was determined to make the most of it. All this was
delightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply 'a bother.' Sir
Felix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow,--on condition of
course that the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing to
go through much work in the way of love-making with Marie Melmotte. In
such 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 and
struggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix told
his dreadful story about Miles Grendall. 'By George!' said Dolly. 'And
you think you saw him do it!'

'It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I
believe he always had an ace somewhere about him.' Dolly sat quite
silent 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, should
take 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 did
you 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 out
for this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me
such 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 twitter
already.'

'You mean to go on playing just the same?'

'Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to think
about it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the man
of money.'

The man of money received them much more graciously than Felix had
expected. Of course nothing was said about Marie and no further
allusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's 'property.'
Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which the
great financier understood their views and the readiness with which he
undertook to comply with them. No disagreeable questions were asked as
to the nature of the debt between the young men. Dolly was called upon
to sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to sign one,--and then they
were assured that the thing was done. Mr Adolphus Longestaffe had paid
Sir Felix Carbury a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carbury's
commission had been accepted by Mr Melmotte for the purchase of
railway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted to say a word. He
endeavoured to explain that his object in this commercial transaction
was to make money immediately by reselling the shares,--and to go on
continually making money by buying at a low price and selling at a
high price. He no doubt did believe that, being a Director, if he
could once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on with
it for an unlimited period;--buy and sell, buy and sell;--so that he
would have an almost regular income. This, as far as he could
understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do,--simply because
he had become a Director with a little money. Mr Melmotte was
cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into particulars. It
was all right. 'You will wish to sell again, of course,--of course. I'll
watch the market for you.' When the young men left the room all they
knew, or thought that they knew, was, that Dolly Longestaffe had
authorized Melmotte to pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to Sir Felix,
and that Sir Felix had instructed the same great man to buy shares with
the amount. 'But why didn't he give you the scrip?' said Dolly on his
way 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 like
half-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 be
unhappy about his thousand pounds.



CHAPTER XXIX - MISS MELMOTTE'S COURAGE


Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution
of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he was
persecuted. '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 me
alone 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's
done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the
girl. You could do it now because I know you've got money. From all I
can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you.' The son
sat silent, listening to these maternal councils. He did believe that
Marie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. Her
own father had almost alluded to such a proceeding,--had certainly
hinted that it was feasible,--but at the same time had very clearly
stated that in such case the ardent lover would have to content
himself with the lady alone. In any such event as that there would be
no fortune. But then, might not that only be a threat? Rich fathers
generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one
child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she would
do in this instance, graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all
this as he sat there silent. His mother read his thoughts as she
continued. 'Of course, Felix, there must be some risk.'

'Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!' he exclaimed. 'I
couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her.'

'Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be
some risk I mean that there would be very little. There would be
nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody else
to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter,
Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world.'

'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 her
parents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of
them 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 starve
unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away
at once. They say she is of age.'

'I shouldn't know where to take her,' said Sir Felix, almost stunned
into 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 money
was settled.'

'Oh no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a
spirited 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 come
round, if--'

'The mother is nothing.'

'He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr
Alf and Mr Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would. Ten
thousand a year is not to be had every year.'

Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to
relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But the
prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money
sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter
now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so
circumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought
to take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would then
make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the man to
tell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things.
But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but
Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would be sure to
tell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that,
perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him. There would be no
difficulty 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 Nidderdale
was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of Auld
Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was a
fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey
hair,--almost white. He was standing up supporting himself on two sticks
when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present Madame
Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hail
one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then there
had been for a moment a whispering behind a door,--in which he
afterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a part;--and upon that
a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him
up to the drawing-room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook
hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice
of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He had not had time to place
himself, when the Marquis arranged things. 'Suppose we go downstairs,'
said the Marquis.

'Certainly, my lord,' said Melmotte. 'I'll show your lordship the
way.' The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his
stick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated, Nidderdale
followed the financier, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.

Madame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. 'You should not
have been made to come up at all,' she said. 'Il faut que vous vous
retiriez.'

'I am very sorry,' said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast. 'I think that
I had at any rate better retire,' said Miss Longestaffe, raising
herself to her full height and stalking out of the room.

'Qu'elle est méchante,' said Madame Melmotte. 'Oh, she is so bad. Sir
Felix, you had better go too. Yes indeed.'

'No,' said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. 'Why
should 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 never
marry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do
it. 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 in
his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.

'Oh, love! It is a beastliness,' said Madame Melmotte. 'Sir Felix, you
had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?'

'Don't go,' said Marie. 'No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to be
afraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that
I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will
you come?'

Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage
ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavy
sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the
invitation. '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't
marry Lord Nidderdale.'

'Was he angry with you?'

'He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody
must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do
it. 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 everybody
that 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 listening
to 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 out
of 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 the
others?' 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 is
engaged 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't
do it.'

'She will marry Lord Nidderdale,' continued Mr Melmotte, addressing
himself to Sir Felix. 'As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it
better to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you
as soon as the fact is recognized;--or happy to see you in the city at
any time.'

'Papa, he is my lover,' said Marie.

'Pooh!'

'It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord
Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look
at 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 she
clung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix did
not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out
in 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 that
other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going.' He took her by
the 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 in
causing this disturbance.'

'Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't both
marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to
give 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-operate
with 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 door
opened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he went
through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand which
he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was dated
that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which had
just 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 become
engaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she did
not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover,
and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason
why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's
name, if he could lay his bands on it. He did not know much of such
transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and could
understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure a
portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his
daughter. Whether, having so settled it, he could again resume it
without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who had
no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the
thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might
possibly derive from it. 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, for
his own purposes, he has settled upon me.' He had looked upon the lady
of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character of
her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that
she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before his
eyes as something bigger than that. She had had a will of her own when
the mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when
he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten,
and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could
be no doubt about her running away if she were asked.

It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great deal
of experience, and that things which heretofore had been troublesome
to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now coming easily
within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards,
whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in which
he had before indulged. He had been set to marry this heiress, having
at first no great liking for the attempt, because of its difficulties
and the small amount of hope which it offered him. The girl was
already willing and anxious to jump into his arms. Then he had
detected a man cheating at cards,--an extent of iniquity that was awful
to him before he had seen it,--and was already beginning to think that
there was not very much in that. If there was not much in it, if such
a man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no
punishment, why should not he try it? It was a rapid way of winning,
no doubt. He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked his
adversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he had
observed that there was no honour at the bottom. No feeling of honesty
had interfered with him. The little trick had hardly been
premeditated, but when successful without detection had not troubled
his conscience. Now it seemed to him that much more than that might be
done without detection. But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of
the world so widely as the sweet lover-like proposition made by Miss
Melmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl to
him. She had been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of a
very secluded life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples of
honesty, those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great
enterprises in the minds of men.

What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so
easily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while of
such 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 this
money as man and wife, there could then be no hope of further
liberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr Melmotte would
forgive even an only child such an offence as that. Even if it were
obtained, £50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte might probably
have means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the
possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters
into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel
himself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deep
waters.



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 Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great
deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing
more remarkable than in this,--that it left on the mind of its reader no
impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor would
at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride
whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, or
whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of
swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious,
suggestive, amusing, well-informed,--that in the 'Evening Pulpit' was a
matter of course,--and, above all things, ironical. Next to its
omniscience 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, but
accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe
thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there was
something said of the universality of Mr Melmotte's commercial genius,
but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and
disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercial
splendour, no one could tell.

It was generally said at the clubs that Mr Alf had written this
article himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men possessing
an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides Pallados,
and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last forty
years, professed that he saw through the article. The 'Evening Pulpit'
had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could in
denouncing Mr Melmotte without incurring the danger of an action for
libel. Mr Splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. These
new publications generally were mean. Mr Splinter was constant in that
opinion; but, putting the meanness aside, he thought that the article
was well done. According to his view it was intended to expose Mr
Melmotte and the railway. But the Paides Pallados generally did not
agree with him. Under such an interpretation, what had been the
meaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the
work of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest
approach to divinity that had been granted to men? Old Splinter
chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was not
wit enough left now even among the Paides Pallados to understand a
shaft of irony. There could be no doubt, however, at the time, that
the world did not go with old Splinter, and that the article served to
enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise.

Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the
railway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a
somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the
right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own
advantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might
become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life. He
was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was a
Director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the
great commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. And
he was a baronet. Very wild Ideas occurred to her. Should she take Mr
Alf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be brought
together what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte, and
Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come and
be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she could
flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage about
the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she could
construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands?
And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with Marie, could
not forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind ranged still
farther. Mr Broune might help, and even Mr Booker. To such a one as
Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the confidence
placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken support of the
Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway as to
which Mr Broune and Mr Alf would combine in saying that it was managed
by 'divinity'? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but from day to day she
worked hard to make them clear to herself.

On the Sunday afternoon Mr Booker called on her and talked to her
about the article. She did not say much to Mr Booker as to her own
connection with Mr Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was
essential in the present emergency. But she listened with all her
ears. It was Mr Booker's idea that the man was going 'to make a spoon
or spoil a horn.' 'You think him honest;--don't you?' asked Lady
Carbury. Mr Booker smiled and hesitated. 'Of course, I mean honest as
men 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 benefactor
to his race by creating that belief?'

'At the expense of veracity?' suggested Mr Booker.

'At the expense of anything?' rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. 'One
cannot 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 living
creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think
of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without
endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly.
You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may
create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy.'

'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 satisfied
with herself as she picked them. 'Did I hold your place, Mr Booker, in
the literature of my country--'

'I hold no place, Lady Carbury.'

'Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are I
should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my
periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a
man and so great an object as this.'

'I should be dismissed to-morrow,' said Mr Booker, getting up and
laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as regarded
Mr Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any
harm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr Booker's
instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular Tuesday as she
called it,--all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there
came also a greater man than either of them. She had taken the bull by
the horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to Mr
Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his
presence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of
their meeting at Caversham, telling him that on a former occasion
Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her,
and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth
he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest
satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did for him,--a very plain
note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation.

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate wing
with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dear
friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements
did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity
rushed off to the article in the 'Pulpit.' Her friend, Mr Alf, the
editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr Melmotte's
character, and the magnificence of Mr Melmotte's undertakings. Mr
Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. 'Now I must
introduce you to Mr Alf,' said the lady. The introduction was
effected, and Mr Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had
already been entertained as one of Mr Melmotte's guests.

'There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall
see,' 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 room
you 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 so
effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expected
from this last introduction, tried another. 'Mr Melmotte,' she said,
whispering to him, 'I do so want to make you known to Mr Broune. Mr
Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much
heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr
Broune, as of course you know, manages the "Breakfast Table." There is
hardly a more influential man in London than Mr Broune. And they
declare, you know,' she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she
communicated the fact, 'that his commercial articles are gospel,--
absolutely gospel.' Then the two men were named to each other, and
Lady 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 was
over. Mr Broune sidled away, and Mr Melmotte was left standing in the
middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome
was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly
if 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 the
house he said it. 'It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--
very good.' Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was
all on the other side. 'And I came,' continued Mr Melmotte, 'because I
had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to
evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter.' Lady Carbury
looked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her hands
together; 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 our
Board.'

'I did;--I did.'

'I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him
in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from
this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does
uncommon well in the city. 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 that
he would be the 'making of Felix,' if Felix would only obey him,--
accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if
Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his
son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this.
She did not doubt that Felix might be 'made' by Mr Melmotte's city
influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on
qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess.
The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute
ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was an
appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the
position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie
Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but
what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young people
there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. As
she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. Her
beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she
thought him, for all the graces of the grand world! Though the
ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and
disinterested.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of
Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father
would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference,
would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to
disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to
be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he
should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? His
daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower
degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carbury
felt that the great financier had been very rude. He had taken
advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and
threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that over
altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might
consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most
natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she could
not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes. His
advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have
nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was
old-fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in
a 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 Mr
Broune. She was afraid of Mr Alf. She had almost begun to think that
Mr Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But Mr
Broune was softer. Mr Booker was serviceable for an article, but would
not be sympathetic as a friend.

Mr Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one
occasion she had almost feared that the 'susceptible old goose' was
going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might
make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility
would produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word
aside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes
after the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others
were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. 'Hetta,' she said, 'I
have something of business to communicate to Mr Broune.' And so they
were left alone.

'I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr Melmotte,' she said smiling. He
had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which
she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. 'I saw how
it 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 no
reason why he should not say the same of me,--for if he said little, I
said less.'

'It didn't just come off,' Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest
smile. 'But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified
in 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,--finding
that 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's
daughter.'

'Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?' Then Lady Carbury nodded her head.
'Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever
produced. 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 no
advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but
lying had become her nature. 'Melmotte naturally wants her to marry
the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix
she 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 object
of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we
get it.'

'He would be sure to make some such threat.'

'Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are
often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell
you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he would
enable 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 give
me 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 of
deceiving.'

'You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American
Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young
man who was altogether unconnected with him.'

'Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a
title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be
likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a
few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he
has no capital to go into such a business.'

'No;--he has no capital.'

'Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a
promise 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 to
this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply. She
wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an
elopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time.

'Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared
to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do
you think he would be wrong?'

'That is a question very hard to answer.'

'People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day
with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them.'

'Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the
gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady
Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as
offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord
didn'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 a
man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that
Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--I
think he would.'

'I am so glad to hear you say that.'

'And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed
on that promise of assistance.'

'I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you,' said Lady
Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the
girl. '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 spoke
to Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There was
an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady,
and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she
understood. 'The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly
ridiculous and very disagreeable.' It was thus that she spoke to
herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she did
not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the
'old goose' would declare itself. 'Lady Carbury,' said Mr Broune,
standing up a second time, 'we are neither of us so young as we used
to be.'

'No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the
luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know
each other intimately.'

This speech was a great impediment to Mr Broune's progress. It was
evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of
life at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as a
fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walk
his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park with
as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work through
four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothing
but sound health could produce. Mr Broune, thinking of himself and his
own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love.
'I hope we know each other intimately at any rate,' he said somewhat
lamely.

'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 nothing
to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us
so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a
foolish truism.'

'I do not think so,' said Lady Carbury smiling.

'Or would have been, only that I intended something further.' Mr
Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get
out of it. 'I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old
to--love.'

Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of
himself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome
and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve to
explain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it be
stated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor of
the 'Morning Breakfast Table' intended to make her an offer of
marriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fond
of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. The
falseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did not
shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to be in
love with some lady in the next street, she would have been quite
ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that she
might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr Broune. For herself
such make-believe of an improper passion would be inconvenient, and
therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed as Mr Broune was in
the world,--blessed with power, with a large income, with influence
throughout all the world around him, courted, fêted, feared and almost
worshipped,--that he should desire to share her fortunes, her
misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not
within the scope of her imagination. There was a homage in it, of
which she did not believe any man to be capable,--and which to her would
be the more wonderful as being paid to herself. She thought so badly
of men and women generally, and of Mr Broune and herself as a man and
a woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibility
of such a sacrifice. 'Mr Broune,' she said, 'I did not think that you
would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy
me in this way.'

'To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. After
much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should
be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of
course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But
you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily.'

The word 'wife' came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed
all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. She
felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the cards with
her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsome
spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone.
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 the
world as any other man. Mr Broune of the 'Daily Breakfast Table'
asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other feelings there was
a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and
almost made her weep. That a man,--such a man,--should offer to take half
her 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, alloyed
perhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and
now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a
heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely
small!

It was necessary that she should answer him;--and to her it was only
natural that she should think what answer would best assist her own
views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she could
love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her
difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and
such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the
wife of the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table!' And then it
passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was
paid £3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part of
it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife
of Mr Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that
minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was
made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to her
also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of
freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once she
had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure
to which she had been subjected. Then her husband's protection and his
tyranny had been restored to her.

After that the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopes
never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had been
always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the
remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minute
was over and she was bound to speak. 'Mr Broune,' she said, 'you have
quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind.'

And now Mr Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. 'Lady
Carbury,' he said, 'I have lived a long time without marrying, and I
have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on the
same way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was
young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mind
has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realized the want which
nevertheless I have felt. 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, you
also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty of
your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young
heart. 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 I
understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I am
prepared to entrust mine to your keeping.' Poor Mr Broune! Though
endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily
newspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's
character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young
mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, before
convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.

'You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment,' ejaculated
Lady Carbury.

'Well?'

'How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As
God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon
your position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity as
the uttermost that can be achieved.'

'That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share with
you.'

'You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to
know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr
Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded
in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly
endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have
looked 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 to
you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the
troubles which may attend your son's future career.'

'Mr Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than
anything in the world.' This was calculated to damp the lover's
ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful,
time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed.
'Mr Broune,' she said, 'I am now so agitated that you had better leave
me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder
that 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. I
will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I
feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so
surprised that I have none ready.' He took her hand in his, and
kissing it, left her without another word.

As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key from
the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from his
club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into Mr
Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. 'Halloo, old
fellow,' he said, 'you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?'
He was nearly drunk, and Mr Broune, perceiving his condition, passed
him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the
drawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just
passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son
tumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out to
him. 'Felix,' she said, 'why do you make so much noise as you come
in?'

'Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your
people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that
won'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, and
his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed
squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.

Mr Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those
pangs of doubt which a man feels when he has just done that which for
days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leave
undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his lady
love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse can
be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? The
evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to be
borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict
himself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted to
the cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How would
this new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; must
live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And what
was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked
her beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she
had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been long
enough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along the
streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every now
and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her
beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, though
it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to make the
best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the
appearance of that drunken young baronet.

Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing
was done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. All
his experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns which
consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always solve
their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept him;--and
of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his work he
endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom
of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his
prospects.

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. During
these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more oblivious
of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be for the
good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in the midst of
her many troubles try to think of the man's condition. Although in the
moments of her triumph,--and such moments were many,--she would buoy
herself up with assurances that her Felix would become a rich man,
brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose
society would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she
knew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee
the nature of the catastrophe which might come. He would go utterly to
the dogs and would take her with him. And whithersoever he might go,
to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well
enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with
him. Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her to
desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. He
was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other
matters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get the
better of her feelings and fight the world with a double face,
laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions and
preferences were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son
mastered her,--and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that she
should marry another man?

And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter
ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should
the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a
Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her,
she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after a
kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. A
repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her.
As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy
because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever presented itself
to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together,--and Mr
Broune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to the
dogs, then would Mr Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the stars
instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the
metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr Broune. It was thus that
she 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 only
condescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger
Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta must
live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's life
was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself
bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions.

But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to
marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better.
On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she
declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a
comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the
editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table' would be powerful for all
things, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince
herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still
vacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with
assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps
about to be her husband. 'Do you like Mr Broune, Hetta?'

'Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you
ask, mamma?'

'Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly
kind 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 with
people in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surface
politeness.'

'I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of London people? Why
should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr Broune
is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you
always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of
is Mr Montague.'

'Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr Montague's name
if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr Broune, had you
not asked me.'



CHAPTER XXXII - LADY MONOGRAM


Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for a
fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had not
much improved. Her brother had troubled her no further, and her family
at Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any notice of
Dolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold, dull letter
from her mother,--such letters as she had been accustomed to receive
when away from home; and these she had answered, always endeavouring
to fill her sheet with some customary description of fashionable
doings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have repeated for
her mother's amusement,--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 taken
to the houses in which it was her ambition to be seen. She would have
lied directly in saying so. But she did not announce her own
disappointment. She had chosen to come up to the Melmottes in
preference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare her
own failure. 'I hope they are kind to you,' Lady Pomona always said.
But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the Melmottes were kind
or unkind.

In truth, her 'season' was a very unpleasant season. Her mode of living
was altogether different to anything she had already known. The house
in Bruton Street had never been very bright, but the appendages of
life there had been of a sort which was not known in the gorgeous
mansion in Grosvenor Square. It had been full of books and little toys
and those thousand trifling household gods which are accumulated in
years, and which in their accumulation suit themselves to the taste of
their owners. In Grosvenor Square there were no Lares;--no toys, no
books, nothing but gold and grandeur, pomatum, powder and pride. The
Longestaffe life had not been an easy, natural, or intellectual life;
but the Melmotte life was hardly endurable even by a Longestaffe. She
had, however, come prepared to suffer much, and was endowed with
considerable power of endurance in pursuit of her own objects. Having
willed to come, even to the Melmottes, in preference to remaining at
Caversham, she fortified herself to suffer much. Could she have ridden
in the park at mid-day in desirable company, and found herself in
proper houses at midnight, she would have borne the rest, bad as it
might have been. But it was not so. She had her horse, but could with
difficulty get any proper companion. She had been in the habit of
riding with one of the Primero girls,--and old Primero would accompany
them, or perhaps a brother Primero, or occasionally her own father.
And then, when once out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young
men,--and though there was but little in it, a walking round and round
the same bit of ground with the same companions and with the smallest
attempt at conversation, still it had been the proper thing and had
satisfied her. Now it was with difficulty that she could get any
cavalier such as the laws of society demand. Even Penelope Primero
snubbed her,--whom she, Georgiana Longestaffe, had hitherto endured and
snubbed. She was just allowed to join them when old Primero rode, and
was obliged even to ask for that assistance.

But the nights were still worse. She could only go where Madame
Melmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive people at
home than to go out. And the people she did receive were antipathetic
to Miss Longestaffe. She did not even know who they were, whence they
came, or what was their nature. They seemed to be as little akin to
her as would have been the shopkeepers in the small town near
Caversham. 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 very
grand houses. The two duchesses and the Marchioness of Auld Reekie
received Madame Melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were open
to her. And some of the most elaborate fêtes of the season.--which
indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travelling
potentate,--were attained. On these occasions Miss Longestaffe was fully
aware of the struggle that was always made for invitations, often
unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. Even the bargains,
conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty sister, were not
altogether hidden from her. The Emperor of China was to be in London
and it was thought proper that some private person, some untitled
individual, should give the Emperor a dinner, so that the Emperor
might see how an English merchant lives. Mr Melmotte was chosen on
condition that he would spend £10,000 on the banquet;--and, as a part of
his payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted with his family,
to a grand entertainment given to the Emperor at Windsor Park. Of
these good things Georgiana Longestaffe would receive her share. But
she went to them as a Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe,--and when
amidst these gaieties, though she could see her old friends, she was
not with them. She was ever behind Madame Melmotte, till she hated the
make 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 behoved
her to be in London at this time of the year that she might--look for a
husband. She had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and that
purpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appeared
to them to be unreasonable. She wanted to be settled in life. She had
meant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;--but lords
are scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very highly
gifted, 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, but
that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must be a man with
a place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually to
London. He must be a gentleman,--and, probably, in parliament. And above
all things he must be in the right set. She would rather go on for
ever struggling than take some country Whitstable as her sister was
about 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 this
ignominy seemed to have vanished altogether in the distance. When by
chance she danced or exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales and
Grassloughs whom she used to know, they spoke to her with a want of
respect which she felt and tasted but could hardly analyse. Even Miles
Grendall, who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted to
patronize her in a manner that bewildered her. All this nearly broke
her heart.

And then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which made
her aware that, in the teeth of all Mr Melmotte's social successes, a
general opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was rather gaining
ground than otherwise. 'Your host is a wonderful fellow, by George!'
said Lord Nidderdale. 'No one seems to know which way he'll turn up at
last.' 'There's nothing like being a robber, if you can only rob
enough,' said Lord Grasslough,--not exactly naming Melmotte, but very
clearly alluding to him. There was a vacancy for a member of
parliament at Westminster, and Melmotte was about to come forward as a
candidate. 'If he can manage that I think he'll pull through,' she
heard 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 and
a scoundrel. This was the man whose house had been selected by her
father in order that she might make her search for a husband from
beneath his wing!

In her agony she wrote to her old friend Julia Triplex, now the wife
of Sir Damask Monogram. She had been really intimate with Julia
Triplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had been
achieved. Julia had been without fortune, but very pretty. Sir Damask
was a man of great wealth, whose father had been a contractor. But Sir
Damask himself was a sportsman, keeping many horses on which other men
often rode, a yacht in which other men sunned themselves, a deer
forest, a moor, a large machinery for making pheasants. He shot
pigeons at Hurlingham, drove four-in-hand in the park, had a box at
every race-course, and was the most good-natured fellow known. He had
really conquered the world, had got over the difficulty of being the
grandson of a butcher, and was now as good as though the Monograms had
gone to the crusades. Julia Triplex was equal to her position, and
made the very most of it. She dispensed champagne and smiles, and made
everybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with her
husband. Lady Monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and in that
position had been, of course, invaluable to her old friend. We must
give her her due and say that she had been fairly true to friendship
while Georgiana--behaved herself. She thought that Georgiana in going
to the Melmottes had not behaved herself, and therefore she had
determined to drop Georgiana. 'Heartless, false, purse-proud
creature,' Georgiana said to herself as she wrote the following letter
in 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 her
junior in age and had once been lower than herself in social position.
In the early days of their friendship she had sometimes domineered
over Julia Triplex, and had been entreated by Julia, in reference to
balls here and routes there. The great Monogram marriage had been
accomplished very suddenly, and had taken place,--exalting Julia very
high,--just as Georgiana was beginning to allow her aspirations to
descend. It was in that very season that she moved her castle in the
air from the Upper to the Lower House. And now she was absolutely
begging for notice, and praying that she might not be cut! She sent
her letter by post and on the following day received a reply, which
was 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's
house a little after noon. The two ladies kissed each other when they
met--of course, and then Miss Longestaffe at once began. 'Julia, I did
think 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 Bruton
Street. You know that as well as I do. It would have been a matter of
course.'

'What difference does a house make?'

'But the people in a house make a great deal of difference, my dear. I
don't want to quarrel with you, my dear; but I can't know the
Melmottes.'

'Who asks you?'

'You are with them.'

'Do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house without
asking 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 that
great affair was going on in February, we didn't know much about the
people. I was told that everybody was going and therefore I got Sir
Damask to let me go. He says now that he won't let me know them; and
after having been at their house I can't ask you out of it, without
asking them too.'

'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 cause
to the best of her ability. 'The Duchess of Stevenage has dined in
Grosvenor 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 party
which he is to give to the Emperor in July;--and even to the reception
afterwards.'

'To hear you talk, Georgiana, one would think that you didn't
understand anything,' said Lady Monogram. 'People are going to see the
Emperor, not to see the Melmottes. I dare say we might have gone only
I 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 of
China is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than going to the
play. Somebody chooses to get all London into his house, and all
London chooses to go. But it isn't understood that that means
acquaintance. I should meet Madame Melmotte in the park afterwards and
not think of bowing to her.'

'I should call that rude.'

'Very well. Then we differ. But really it does seem to me that you
ought to understand these things as well as anybody. I don't find any
fault with you for going to the Melmottes,--though I was very sorry to
hear it; but when you have done it, I don't think you should complain
of people because they won't have the Melmottes crammed down their
throats.'

'Nobody has wanted it,' said Georgiana sobbing. At this moment the
door was opened, and Sir Damask came in. 'I'm talking to your wife
about the Melmottes,' she continued, determined to take the bull by
the horns. 'I'm staying there, and--I think it--unkind that Julia--hasn't
been--to see me. That's all.'

'How'd you do, Miss Longestaffe? She doesn't know them.' And Sir
Damask, folding his hands together, raising his eyebrows, and standing
on 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 to
see you, Miss Longestaffe--I am, always. Wish we could have had you at
Ascot. But--.' Then he looked as though he had again explained
everything.

'I've told her that you don't want me to go to the Melmottes,' said
Lady Monogram.

'Well, no;--not just to go there. Stay and have lunch, Miss
Longestaffe.'

'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 you
understand me. I could not allow our very long friendship to be
dropped without a word.'

'Don't say--dropped,' exclaimed the baronet.

'I do say dropped, Sir Damask. I thought we should have understood
each other;--your wife and I. But we haven't. Wherever she might have
gone, I should have made it my business to see her; but she feels
differently. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, my dear. If you will quarrel, it isn't my doing.' Then Sir
Damask led Miss Longestaffe out, and put her into Madame Melmotte's
carriage. 'It's the most absurd thing I ever knew in my life,' said
the wife as soon as her husband had returned to her. 'She hasn't been
able to bear to remain down in the country for one season, when all
the world knows that her father can't afford to have a house for them
in town. Then she condescends to come and stay with these abominations
and pretends to feel surprised that her old friends don't run after
her. 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 twelve
years now since Georgiana Longestaffe came out. I remember being told
of the time when I was first entered myself. Yes, my dear, you know
all 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 she
can'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 with
the girl. Don't you remember the blowsy fat woman at the top of the
stairs;--a regular horror?'

'Didn't look at her. I was only thinking what a lot of money it all
cost.'

'I remember her, and if Georgiana Longestaffe thinks I'm going there
to make an acquaintance with Madame Melmotte she is very much
mistaken. And if she thinks that that is the way to get married, I
think she is mistaken again.' Nothing perhaps is so efficacious in
preventing men from marrying as the tone in which married women speak
of the struggles made in that direction by their unmarried friends.



CHAPTER XXXIII - JOHN CRUMB


Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a
second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's
Acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made
without any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and remained
hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from
Harlestone market. An early hour had been named; but hours may be
mistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was her
lover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well mistake
the afternoon for the morning. If he would come at all she could
easily forgive such a mistake. But he did not come, and late in the
afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he
called her into the house.

After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover, but
she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogether
avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible.
One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and told her that
her country lover was coming to see her. 'John Crumb be a coming over
by-and-by,' said the old man. 'See and have a bit o' supper ready for
him.'

'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 and
seated 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 well
understood 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 is
to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said.'

'The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his
saying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson
among '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 she
was well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him with a
cool 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's
wife 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 but
swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There never
was a chap for beer like John Crumb.'

'Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life.' And the old
farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon
the table.

'It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. You
can'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 I
shan'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 pretty
sharp,--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 along
wi' 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. You
don't know nothing ag'in me.'

'He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well
and good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and
dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he
ain'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'erd
pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent
for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let
alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you don't. If you
don'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 the
stoopidest place in all England.'

'Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John
Crumb'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's
Acre 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's
Acre, afore you've done.'

In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr Crumb, Miss Ruggles went
about her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing that
the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so
far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her
grandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave directions
to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's
house. But as she did this, she determined that she would make John
Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. Upon that she was
now fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham
and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the
fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons
between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see, as though present
to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair
stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark
well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was
ever longing to twine her fingers among them. And she remembered the
heavy, flat, broad honest face of the mealman, with his mouth slow in
motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and
his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always
extracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth,
the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion
of her London lover. Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, though
but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life
with the other! '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.' And
then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into
the 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 to
London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old
women's tales. She would know how to take care of herself, and could
always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out
of Sheep's Acre.

Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumb
knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did he come
alone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of
Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at his
marriage. John Crumb's character was not without any fine attributes.
He could earn money,--and having earned it could spend and keep it in
fair 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 he
did. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. He was
willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly
be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman
belonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he
was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all
forms of expression. He knew good meal from bad as well as any man,
and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair
profit at the selling. He knew the value of a clear conscience, and
without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in
truth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of
tongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a fool
would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been
a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which
Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a
source of gossip to all Bungay. His love was now an old affair; and,
though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about
that. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his
own status as her acknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light
under a bushel. Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in
prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once
accepted. Now when he came to settle the day,--having heard more than
once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,--he brought his
friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. 'If here
isn't Joe Mixet,' said Ruby to herself. 'Was there ever such a stoopid
as John Crumb? There's no end to his being stoopid.'

The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been
preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests.
'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 a
bit. Don't e' smell it?'--John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed
and grinned.

'John didn't like going home in the dark like,' said the baker, with
his little joke. 'So I just come along to drive away the bogies.'

'The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby'll have enough for
the 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 was
instigated to ask a question. 'Where be she, Muster Ruggles?' They
were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man and
his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the back
kitchen. As John Crumb asked this question she could be heard
distinctly among the pots and the plates. She now came out, and wiping
her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men. She had
enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was in
hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover.
'Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've
been 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 mother
says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do
you say, John?'

'I loiks to see her loik o' that,' said John rubbing his hands down
the back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyes
down to a level with those of his sweetheart.

'It looks homely; don't it John?' said Mixet.

'Bother!' said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other
kitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and
then grinned at the old man.

'You've got it all afore you,' said the farmer,--leaving the lover to
draw 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 his
house;--is there, John? It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest
of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when
she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed.' This
he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back
kitchen.

'That she do,' said John, grinning again. 'There's a hun'erd and fifty
poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her.'

After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with
the boiled fowl, and without her apron. She was followed by the girl
with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then
the old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of
which he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and
placed it on the table. And from a cupboard of which he also kept the
key, he brought out a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared,
the three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chair
again and again before he ventured to occupy it. 'If you'll sit
yourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat,' said Ruby at
last. Then he sank at once into has chair. Ruby cut up the fowl
standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a
chair 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?' she
said, when the other two men had helped themselves. He turned round
and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an
Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed his
head at the beer jug. Then she filled it to the brim, frothing it in
the manner in which he loved to have it frothed. He raised it to his
mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat. Then she
filled it again. He had been her lover, and she would be as kind to
him as she knew how,--short of love.

There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and
another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said. John
Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously picking
the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the second
dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage. He did
not ask for more beer, but took it as often as Ruby replenished his
glass. When the eating was done, Ruby retired into the back kitchen,
and there regaled herself with some bone or merry-thought of the fowl,
which she had with prudence reserved, sharing her spoils however with
the other maiden. 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 for
half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round
into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolution
of going to bed. She began her operations in fear and trembling, not
being 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 to
her to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of
beer. And, she declared to herself, that should he come he would be
sure to bring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him. So she
paused and listened.

When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his
granddaughter, but called of course in vain. 'Where the mischief is
the jade gone?' he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen.
The maid, as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the
yard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the back
door. 'The devil's in them. They're off some gates,' he said
aloud. '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 games
somewheres,' 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 quite
unmoved by the absence of his sweetheart.

It was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into the
garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as
he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still
anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He was
not 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 his
way back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of time
he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading
Ruby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half
undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make
herself fit to appear in public. She had acknowledged to herself that
she had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth. For she was
still determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife. 'You can
answer him as well as I, grandfather,' she had said. Then the farmer
had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. 'Oh, if it comes
to that,' said Ruby, 'I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody
else. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather.' 'I'll
knock 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 room
together.

'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 few
friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends a
deal 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 that
like, 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 Mr
Crumb'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;--not
by no means.'

'We've come for the smiles of beauty,' said Joe Mixet. Ruby chucked up
her head. 'Mr Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain't
no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to
you.'

'Except in the way of friendship,' said Mixet.

'I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be,' said Mr Ruggles, who
was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head
forward. 'I won't put up with it no more.'

'Who wants you to put up with it?' said Ruby. 'Who wants 'em to come
here with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what
business Mr Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere along
o' 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 full
height. '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 hands
down by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass which
was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would
strengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he
still 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 upon
old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him.
Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes
intent 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 only
necessary 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 the
grandfather. 'I don't think there was ever anything much more
straightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all about
John Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday nor yet the day
before. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr Ruggles.' Mr
Ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head. 'Five hundred
pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will make
things that snug that things never was snugger. But John Crumb isn't
after Miss Ruby along of her fortune.'

'Nohows,' said the lover, shaking his head and still standing upright
with his hands by his side.

'Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of
him. 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 to
Sheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me
make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and
now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to
say.'

'That's what I has to say,' repeated John Crumb, 'and I means it.'

'And now, miss,' continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, 'you've
heard 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's
your grandfather as is willing, and the-money as one may say counted
out,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there
isn'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, nor
yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much
before.'

'That was only in fun, loike.'

'Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal
of 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 the
nose on my face?' John as he asked these questions could hardly
refrain 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't
keep 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 and
hang 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, Mr
Mixet,' said Ruby. 'If you hadn't come here at all things might have
been different.'

'Hark at that now,' said John, looking at his friend almost with
indignation.

Mr Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the
absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement
were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this.
He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the
yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the
pigsty wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon as
Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his
eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as
a feeler. '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'll
have to be out on the roads this night.'

'She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it,' said
John, 'and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her
till she sends for me.'

'I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr Crumb.' Old Ruggles sat
grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and
putting 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 he
said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he would
have 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 her
grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again
afraid 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 of
anger 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 the
baronite.'

'Been along wi' Ruby?' The old man nodded at him. 'By the mortials
I'll baronite him;--I wull,' said John, seizing his hat and stalking off
through 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, which
communicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and even
affected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor. Ruby Ruggles had
gone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmer
became aware of the fact. She had started early, at about seven in the
morning; but Ruggles himself had been out long before that, and had
not condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house for his
breakfast. 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 tried
to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would not
go; and he had been frightened, when the maid came up crying and
screaming murder. 'You'll be out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name's
Dannel Ruggles,' said the farmer panting for breath. But for the gin
which he had taken he would hardly have struck her;--but he had
struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about;--and in
the morning she took him at his word and was away. About twelve he
heard from the servant girl that she had gone. She had packed a box
and had started up the road carrying the box herself. 'Grandfather
says I'm to go, and I'm gone,' she had said to the girl. At the first
cottage she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and to
Beccles she had walked. For an hour or two Ruggles sat, quiet, within
the house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased with
herself,--that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth he
would trouble himself no more about her. But by degrees there came
upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear, with perhaps
some mixture of love, instigating him to make search for her. She had
been the same to him as a child, and what would people say of him if
he allowed her to depart from him after this fashion? Then he
remembered his violence the night before, and the fact that the
servant girl had heard if she had not seen it. He could not drop his
responsibility in regard to Ruby, even if he would. So, as a first
step, he sent in a message to John Crumb, at Bungay, to tell him that
Ruby Ruggles had gone off with a box to Beccles. John Crumb went
open-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knew
that Ruby Ruggles had run away.

After sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking, and
at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. He held a
part of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury would tell him
what he ought to do. A great trouble had come upon him. He would fain
have been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his terrors all
were 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 Carbury
Hall.

It was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated on
the terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham, the
priest. The old man was shown at once round into the garden, and was
not long in telling his story. There had been words between him and
his granddaughter about her lover. Her lover had been accepted and had
come to the farm to claim his bride. Ruby had behaved very badly. The
old man made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little
as possible of his own violence. But he did explain that there had
been threats used when Ruby refused to take the man, and that Ruby
had, this day, taken herself off.

'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 pound
down;--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 old
Daniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of a
secret. The squire got up and walked round the garden with him,--and
then the secret was told. The farmer was of opinion that there was
something between the girl and Sir Felix. Sir Felix some weeks since
had been seen near the farm and on the same occasion Ruby had been
observed at some little distance from the house with her best clothes
on.

'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 gone
some'eres. May be it's Lowestoft. There's lots of quality at
Lowestoft a'washing theyselves in the sea.'

Then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be
cognizant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on
such an occasion as this. 'If she was one of our people,' said Father
Barham, 'we should have her back quick enough.'

'Would ye now?' said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and all
his family had been brought up as Roman Catholics.

'I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we
have,' 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 to
her friends.'

'With a flea in her lug,' suggested the farmer.

'Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last
thing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as a
friend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look for
sympathy.'

'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. It
never 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 was
waxing wroth with the priest. That a man should be fond of his own
religion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think that
Father Barham was too fond of his religion. 'What had we better do? I
suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. There are not
so many people leaving Beccles but that she may be remembered.' So the
waggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the station
together.

But before they started John Crumb rode up to the door. He had gone at
once to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had followed the
farmer from thence to Carbury. Now he found the squire and the priest
and the old man standing around as the horses were being put to the
carriage. 'Ye ain't a' found her, Mr Ruggles, ha' ye?' he asked as he
wiped 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 forgive
myself,--never,' said Crumb.

'As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend,' said
the squire.

'In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there last
night a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' been
left alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over to
Sheep's Acre. But,--oh!'

'What is it, Mr Crumb?'

'He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk, I've
never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronite
has been and done this! Oh, Mr Carbury! If I was to wring his neck
round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now?' Roger
could hardly answer the question. On general grounds the wringing of
Sir Felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a performance have
been what it might, would have seemed to him to be a good deed. The
world would be better, according to his thinking, with Sir Felix out
of it than in it. But still the young man was his cousin and a
Carbury, and to such a one as John Crumb he was bound to defend any
member of his family as far as he might be defensible. 'They says as
how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hiding
himself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all. They've gals enough
of their own,--them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? I'll do
him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;--if he's had a hand in this.' Poor
John Crumb! When he had his mistress to win he could find no words for
himself; but was obliged to take an eloquent baker with him to talk
for him. Now in his anger he could talk freely enough.

'But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do with
this, Mr Crumb.'

'In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as he
did it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned--!' And John Crumb
clenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for him
upon this occasion.

They all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the Beccles
Post-office,--so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as Bungay. At
the railway station Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken a
second-class ticket by the morning train for London, and had gone off
without any appearance of secrecy. She had been decently dressed, with
a hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have been
expected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going. So
much was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could be
learned there. Then a message was sent by telegraph to the station in
London, and they all waited, loitering about the Post-office, for a
reply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl as
was described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her box
for her to a cab had gone away for the day. It was believed that she
had left the station in a four-wheel cab. 'I'll be arter her. I'll be
arter her at once,' said John Crumb. But there was no train till
night, and Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do any
good. It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first step
towards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body
of Sir Felix Carbury. Now it was not at all apparent to the squire
that his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. It had been
made quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his
granddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not
because she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of her
refusing to marry John Crumb. John Crumb had gone over to the farm
expecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been no
fear about Felix Carbury. Nor was it possible that there should have
been communication between Ruby and Felix since the quarrel at the
farm. Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and the
baronet had been acquainted,--and such acquaintance could not but be
prejudicial to the girl,--not on that account would the baronet be
responsible for her abduction. John Crumb was thirsting for blood and
was not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter out
coolly, and Roger, little as he toyed his cousin, was not desirous
that all Suffolk should know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed
within an inch of his life by John Crumb of Bungay. 'I'll tell you
what I'll do,' said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's
shoulder. 'I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can trace
her 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 old
man.

'But you'll let us know the very truth,' said John Crumb. Roger
Carbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know the
truth. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover
returned 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 mere
lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. In truth
he 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 had
intended to play so high a game, but the game that he had intended to
play had become thus high of its own accord. A man cannot always
restrain his own doings and keep them within the limits which he had
himself planned for them. They will very often fall short of the
magnitude to which his ambition has aspired. They will sometimes soar
higher than his own imagination. So it had now been with Mr Melmotte.
He had contemplated great things; but the things which he was
achieving were beyond his contemplation.

The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in
England. Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. He had
never read a book. He had never written a line worth reading. He had
never said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had sprung out
of some Californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father and
mother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own
audacity. But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessary
impetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into almost
unprecedented commercial greatness. When Mr Melmotte took his offices
in Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so great
as when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had become not
only an established fact, but a fact established in Abchurch Lane. The
great company indeed had an office of its own, where the Board was
held; but everything was really managed in Mr Melmotte's own commercial
sanctum. Obeying, no doubt, some inscrutable law of commerce, the
grand enterprise,--'perhaps the grandest when you consider the amount
of territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyes
of a great commercial people,' as Mr Fisker with his peculiar
eloquence observed through his nose, about this time, to a meeting
of shareholders at San Francisco,--had swung itself across from
California to London, turning itself to the centre of the commercial
world as the needle turns to the pole, till Mr Fisker almost regretted
the deed which himself had done. And Melmotte was not only the head,
but the body also, and the feet of it all. The shares seemed to be all
in Melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would;
and it seemed also that when distributed and sold, and when bought
again and sold again, they came back to Melmotte's pocket. Men were
contented to buy their shares and to pay their money, simply on
Melmotte's word. Sir Felix had realized a large portion of his
winnings at cards,--with commendable prudence for one so young and
extravagant,--and had brought his savings to the great man. The great
man had swept the earnings of the Beargarden into his till, and had
told Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir Felix had been not only
contented, but supremely happy. He could now do as Paul Montague was
doing,--and Lord Alfred Grendall. He could realize a perennial income,
buying and selling. It was only after the reflection of a day or two
that he found that he had as yet got nothing to sell. It was not only
Sir Felix that was admitted into these good things after this fashion.
Sir Felix was but one among hundreds. In the meantime the bills in
Grosvenor Square were no doubt paid with punctuality,--and these
bills must have been stupendous. The very servants were as tall, as
gorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty,--and
remunerated by much higher wages. There were four coachmen with
egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference of
calf 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 that
Mr Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex property
of Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq., of Caversham. And it was so. The father
and son, who never had agreed before, and who now had come to no
agreement in the presence of each other, had each considered that
their affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as Mr
Melmotte, and had been brought to terms. The purchase-money, which was
large, was to be divided between them. The thing was done with the
greatest ease,--there being no longer any delay as is the case when
small people are at work. The magnificence of Mr Melmotte affected
even the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy a little property, some
humble cottage with a garden,--or you, O reader, unless you be
magnificent,--the money to the last farthing would be wanted, or
security for the money more than sufficient, before we should be able
to enter in upon our new home. But money was the very breath of
Melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for money.
Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London builder had
collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at Chichester, and
was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for Madame
Melmotte. There were rumours that it was to be made ready for the
Goodwood week, and that the Melmotte entertainment during that
festival would rival the duke's.

But there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood week
should come round, in all of which Mr Melmotte was concerned, and of
much of which Mr Melmotte was the very centre. A member for
Westminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated.
It was considered to be indispensable to the country that Mr Melmotte
should go into Parliament, and what constituency could such a man as
Melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as Westminster does all
the essences of the metropolis? There was the popular element, the
fashionable element, the legislative element, the legal element, and
the commercial element. Melmotte undoubtedly was the man for
Westminster. His thorough popularity was evinced by testimony which
perhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for any
county or borough. In Westminster there must of course be a contest. A
seat for Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by either
political party without a struggle. But, at the beginning of the
affair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate which
the country could supply, each party put its hand upon Melmotte. And
when the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested to
Melmotte, then for the first time was that great man forced to descend
from the altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decide
whether he would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal. He
was not long in convincing himself that the conservative element in
British Society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance which
it would be in his province to give; and on the next day every
hoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was the
conservative candidate for Westminster. It is needless to say that his
committee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all that
absence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous since
the ballot was introduced among us. Some unfortunate Liberal was to be
made to run against him, for the sake of the party; but the odds were
ten to one on Melmotte.

This no doubt was a great matter,--this affair of the seat; but the
dinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It was
the middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on Monday, 8th
July, now three weeks hence;--but all London was already talking of it.
The great purport proposed was to show to the Emperor by this banquet
what an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of course there
was a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the occasion.
Some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London, others that
he was not a merchant, others again that he was not an Englishman. But
no man could deny that he was both able and willing to spend the
necessary money; and as this combination of ability and will was the
chief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could only
storm and scold. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work,
throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generally
transmuting the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion that two
hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room
of a British merchant.

But who were to be the two hundred? It used to be the case that when
a gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;--but when affairs
become great, society can hardly be carried on after that simple
fashion. The Emperor of China could not be made to sit at table
without English royalty, and English royalty must know whom it has to
meet,--must select at any rate some of its comrades. The minister of the
day also had his candidates for the dinner,--in which arrangement there
was however no private patronage, as the list was confined to the
cabinet and their wives. The Prime Minister took some credit to
himself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a private
friend. But the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats.
Melmotte had elected to stand for Westminster on the conservative
interest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were a
conservative cabinet present, with its conservative wives. He was told
that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment of
the debt. But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. This
was to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential that
the Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants at the
merchant's board. No doubt the Emperor would see all the merchants at
the Guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair, paid for out of
the funds of a corporation. This was to be a private dinner. Now the
Lord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done?
Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant guests were
selected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen wives;--and
subsequently the Lord Mayor was made a baronet on the occasion of
receiving the Emperor in the city. The Emperor with his suite was
twenty. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife.
The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered at
about eleven only;--each one for self and wife. Five ambassadors and
five ambassadresses were to be asked. There were to be fifteen real
merchants out of the city. Ten great peers,--with their peeresses,--
were selected by the general committee of management. There were to be
three wise men, two poets, three independent members of the House of
Commons, two Royal Academicians, three editors of papers, an African
traveller who had just come home, and a novelist;--but all these latter
gentlemen were expected to come as bachelors. Three tickets were to be
kept over for presentation to bores endowed with a power of making
themselves absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment,--
and ten were left for the giver of the feast and his own family and
friends. It is often difficult to make things go smooth,--but almost all
roughnesses 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 were
to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fight
for these was more internecine than for seats at the dinner. The
dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a fashion that
there was not much visible fighting about them. Royalty manages its
affairs quietly. The existing Cabinet was existing, and though there
were two or three members of it who could not have got themselves
elected at a single unpolitical club in London, they had a right to
their seats at Melmotte's table. What disappointed ambition there might
be among conservative candidates was never known to the public. Those
gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public. The ambassadors of
course were quiet, but we may be sure that the Minister from the United
States was among the favoured five. The city bankers and bigwigs, as
has been already said, were at first unwilling to be present, and
therefore they who were not chosen could not afterwards express their
displeasure. No grumbling was heard among the peers, and that which
came from the peeresses floated down into the current of the great
fight about the evening entertainment. The poet laureate was of course
asked, and the second poet was as much a matter of course. Only two
Academicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was no
ground for jealousy there. There were three, and only three, specially
insolent and specially disagreeable independent members of Parliament
at that time in the House, and there was no difficulty in selecting
them. The wise men were chosen by their age. Among editors of
newspapers there was some ill-blood. That Mr Alf and Mr Broune should
be selected was almost a matter of course. They were hated accordingly,
but still this was expected. But why was Mr Booker there? Was it
because he had praised the Prime Minister's translation of Catullus?
The African traveller chose himself by living through all his perils
and coming home. A novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted another
ticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to come in
after dinner. His proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and he
joined amicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festival
altogether.

We should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story were
we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the feud as
it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right to
indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning passion,
and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not be
indulged. The value of the privilege was so great that Madame Melmotte
thought that she was doing almost more than friendship called for when
she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that unfortunately there
would be no seat for her at the dinner-table; but that, as payment
for her loss, she should receive an evening ticket for herself and a
joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. Georgiana was at first
indignant, but she accepted the compromise. What she did with her
tickets shall be hereafter told.

From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr Melmotte of
the present hour was a very different man from that Mr Melmotte who
was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle.
Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without his
being allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to catch a
simple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfred
when he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges.
He was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the
great man. It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that
very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the world
the great man was perched at that moment. Miss Longestaffe who was
staying 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 to
allow any one to come out of the house in Grosvenor Square to her
parties, was groping in outer darkness. Madame Melmotte did not know.
Marie Melmotte did not know. The great man did not quite know himself
where, from time to time, he was standing. But the world at large
knew. The world knew that Mr Melmotte was to be Member for
Westminster, that Mr Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China,
that Mr Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway
in his pocket;--and the world worshipped Mr Melmotte.

In the meantime Mr Melmotte was much troubled about his private
affairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he
rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this
marriage,--not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be
ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand a
year was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twenty
thousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six months
after the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum
at once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept
waiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish for
them a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the young
people were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a week
or so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papers
that Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides that
Nidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money was not
perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then, at that time,
Melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce,
the very navel of the commercial enterprise of the world,--as all men
now regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself, were,
in the present condition of things, content with a very much less
stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first to
exact.

But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented at
her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some
speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and her
father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father
scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no
concern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, and
himself 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 you
and 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 so
wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as to
be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to suffer
if married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any long
discussion. 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 you
suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a
petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what you
haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, not
you, you little fool!'

But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale
spoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off;--and now
the 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 thoroughly
good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give
pain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and
hardly any kindness which he would not do,--so that the labour upon
himself was not too great. 'Well, Miss Melmotte,' he said, 'governors
are stern beings: are they not?'

'Is yours stern, my lord?'

'What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think you
understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; I
was 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 I
can'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't
quite know where.' The hitch had been with himself, as he demanded
ready 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 to
blame me, my lord.'

'Oh dear no.'

'There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn't
it now?'

'The governors were off, I think.'

'The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think
any 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 about
it 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--like
me.'

'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 solemn
expression on her countenance, 'because you are good-natured and won't
get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody
else;--oh, so much.'

'I supposed that was it.'

'That is it.'

'It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we
should have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things
you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit,
there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think
of 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. I
shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket.' And so
Nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away,--not however without an
idea that the marriage would still come off. There was always,--so he
thought,--such a bother about things before they would get themselves
fixed. This happened some days after Mr Broune's proposal to Lady
Carbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as
Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she
might 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's
proposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her
promise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the
Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day
her letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and she
had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be much
guided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she was always
influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble.
There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only accept
it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself to
the family burden. She never said this even to herself,--but she felt
it, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this
occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect. She
had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very
bad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake,--having even up
to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life,
as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the
expense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. The
maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices;
but it might so probably be again secured,--by means of her son's
beauty! Hetta had said that Mr Broune liked his own way. Had not she
herself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her own
way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did
not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there
be between Felix and the man! And added to all this there was
something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her
that it was not right that she should burden any one with the
responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix.
What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself
from her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separate
herself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, she
wrote 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's
rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone,--full of
regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which would
certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment she
was in debt,--and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging
her 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 before
her, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and a
bit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle,
her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered the
unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and
all her doubts about the marriage. As regarded herself, Mr Broune
would have made her secure,--but that now was all over. Poor woman! This
at any rate may be said for her,--that had she accepted the man her
regrets would have been as deep.

Mr Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of the
lady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet from
the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That gently
sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described him to
herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of Mr Broune's
character which showed itself in this matter. He was a susceptible old
goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissing
might probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it,
there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that her
little manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt
himself constrained to reciprocate the passion. She was beautiful in
his eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes like a lady; and,--if it
was written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at the
top of his table,--Lady Carbury would look as well there as any other.
She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself bound
to 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 insulted
him. This perhaps helped to open his eyes. When he woke the next
morning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, he
was no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with
him. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that
first matutinal retrospection, and prospection, into things as they
have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of
hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done,
some word ill-spoken, some money misspent,--or perhaps a cigar too much,
or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left
untasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comforts
himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all
over, teres atque rotundus,--so to have managed his little affairs that
he 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 of
his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit of
thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon,--for
such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in the
morning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not balance his
sheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he feared that
he had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of tea with which
his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of
himself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things were
well with him. Everything was to be changed. As he lit a cigarette he
bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in her
bedroom. Then he remembered other things. 'I'll be d----- if he shall
live in my house,' he said to himself.

And there was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that his
offer could be refused. During the whole of that day he went about
among his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappish
uncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with about
fifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he did not speak a word to
any man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in Trafalgar
Square at which he did his nightly work. Here he was lapped in
comforts,--if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and of
reading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightly
thirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himself
responsible for their contents.

He seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw Lady
Carbury's letter on the table before him. It was his custom when he
did not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at his
office as had reached his home during his absence;--and here was Lady
Carbury's letter. He knew her writing well, and was aware that here
was the confirmation of his fate. It had not been expected, as she had
given herself another day for her answer,--but here it was, beneath his
hand. Surely this was almost unfeminine haste. He chucked the letter,
unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention on
some printed slip that was ready for him. For some ten minutes his
eyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did not
follow what he was reading. He struggled again, but still his thoughts
were on the letter. He did not wish to open it, having some vague idea
that, till the letter should have been read, there was a chance of
escape. 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 the
bargain that I shall never have to see him,' he said to himself, as he
opened 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 in
love with him! But that was a reading of the affair which he could
hardly bring himself to look upon as correct. The woman had shown her
love by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she now
had 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. Would
she publish her triumph? Mr Broune would not like to have it known
about among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he had
offered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady Carbury had refused him.
He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not in
proportion to the bitterness of his late fears.

He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! As
he reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed away
from him. Full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still stood
upon the rug, before he read the entire letter. '"Cut and scotched and
lopped!" I suppose she has been,' he said to himself. He had heard
much of Sir Patrick, and knew well that the old general had been no
lamb. 'I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her.' When
he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him gradually
a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever yet felt,--
and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his offer to
her. '"Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,"' he
repeated to himself. 'I should have done the best for her, taking the
showers and the melancholy if they were necessary.'

He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without
that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room.
Gradually, through the night, he realized the conviction that he had
escaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating his
offer. 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 his
lodgings 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, and
resolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that his
friendship could do for her.



CHAPTER XXXVII - THE BOARD-ROOM


On Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific and
Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was the
Board's custom every Friday. On this occasion all the members were
there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a
special statement. There was the great chairman as a matter of course.
In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw over
the railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands those cares
which the commercial world had intrusted to his own. Lord Alfred was
there, with Mr Cohenlupe, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague, and
Lord Nidderdale,--and even Sir Felix Carbury. Sir Felix had come, being
very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity
of realizing his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a
thousand pounds in hard money into Mr Melmotte's hands. The secretary,
Mr Miles Grendall, was also present as a matter of course. The Board
always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarter
past three. Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe sat at the chairman's right
and left hand. Paul Montague generally sat immediately below, with
Miles Grendall opposite to him;--but on this occasion the young lord and
the young baronet took the next places. It was a nice little family
party, the great chairman with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his two
particular friends,--the social friend, Lord Alfred, and the commercial
friend Mr Cohenlupe,--and Miles, who was Lord Alfred's son. It would
have been complete in its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who had
lately made himself disagreeable to Mr Melmotte;--and most ungratefully
so, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the shares
as the younger member of the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.

It was understood that Mr Melmotte was to make a statement. Lord
Nidderdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done as it
were out of the great man's heart, of his own wish, so that something
of the condition of the company might be made known to the directors
of the company. But this was not perhaps exactly the truth. Paul
Montague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the last
meeting but one, and, having made himself very disagreeable indeed,
had forced this trouble on the great chairman. On the intermediate
Friday the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to Paul, and this
had seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten the inimical
director out of his opposition, so that the promise of a statement
need not be fulfilled. What nuisance can be so great to a man busied
with immense affairs, as to have to explain,--or to attempt to
explain,--small details to men incapable of understanding them? But
Montague had stood to his guns. He had not intended, he said, to
dispute the commercial success of the company. But he felt very
strongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel as
strongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than they
did know. Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least agree
with his brother director. 'If anybody don't understand, it's his own
fault,' said Mr Cohenlupe. But Paul would not give way, and it was
understood that Mr Melmotte would make a statement.

The 'Boards' were always commenced by the reading of a certain record
of the last meeting out of a book. This was always done by Miles
Grendall; and the record was supposed to have been written by him. But
Montague had discovered that this statement in the book was always
prepared and written by a satellite of Melmotte's from Abchurch Lane
who was never present at the meeting. The adverse director had spoken
to the secretary,--it will be remembered that they were both members of
the Beargarden,--and Miles had given a somewhat evasive reply. 'A cussed
deal of trouble and all that, you know! He's used to it, and it's what
he's meant for. I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that
kind.' Montague after this had spoken on the subject both to
Nidderdale 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. He
gets £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 had
as little success. Sir Felix hated the secretary, had detected him
cheating at cards, had resolved to expose him,--and had then been afraid
to do so. He had told Dolly Longestaffe, and the reader will perhaps
remember with what effect. He had not mentioned the affair again, and
had gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club. Loo,
however, had given way to whist, and Sir Felix had satisfied himself
with the change. He still meditated some dreadful punishment for Miles
Grendall, but, in the meantime, felt himself unable to oppose him at
the Board. Since the day at which the aces had been manipulated at the
club he had not spoken to Miles Grendall except in reference to the
affairs of the whist table. The 'Board' was now commenced as usual.
Miles read the short record out of the book,--stumbling over every other
word, and going through the performance so badly that had there been
anything to understand no one could have understood it. 'Gentlemen,'
said Mr Melmotte, in his usual hurried way, 'is it your pleasure that
I shall sign the record?' Paul Montague rose to say that it was not
his pleasure that the record should be signed. But Melmotte had made
his scrawl, and was deep in conversation with Mr Cohenlupe before Paul
could get upon his legs.

Melmotte, however, had watched the little struggle. Melmotte, whatever
might be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to hear. He perceived
that Montague had made a little struggle and had been cowed; and he
knew how hard it is for one man to persevere against five or six, and
for a young man to persevere against his elders. Nidderdale was
filliping bits of paper across the table at Carbury. Miles Grendall
was poring over the book which was in his charge. Lord Alfred sat back
in his chair, the picture of a model director, with his right hand
within his waistcoat. He looked aristocratic, respectable, and almost
commercial. In that room he never by any chance opened his mouth,
except when called on to say that Mr Melmotte was right, and was
considered by the chairman really to earn his money. Melmotte for a
minute or two went on conversing with Cohenlupe, having perceived that
Montague for the moment was cowed. Then Paul put both his hands upon
the table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question.
Melmotte saw this also and was upon his legs before Montague had risen
from his chair. 'Gentlemen,' said Mr Melmotte, 'it may perhaps be as
well if I take this occasion of saying a few words to you about the
affairs of the company.' Then, instead of going on with his statement,
he sat down again, and began to turn over sundry voluminous papers
very slowly, whispering a word or two every now and then to Mr
Cohenlupe. Lord Alfred never changed his posture and never took his
hand from his breast. Nidderdale and Carbury filliped their paper
pellets backwards and forwards. Montague sat profoundly listening,--or
ready to listen when anything should be said. As the chairman had
risen from his chair to commence his statement, Paul felt that he was
bound to be silent. When a speaker is in possession of the floor, he
is in possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to his
references, and whispering to his neighbour. And, when that speaker is
a chairman, of course some additional latitude must be allowed to him.
Montague understood this, and sat silent. It seemed that Melmotte had
much to say to Cohenlupe, and Cohenlupe much to say to Melmotte. Since
Cohenlupe had sat at the Board he had never before developed such
powers of conversation.

Nidderdale didn't quite understand it. He had been there twenty
minutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to hit
Carbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the Beargarden would
now be open. He was no respecter of persons, and had got over any
little feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity of
the room may have first inspired him. 'I suppose that's about all,' he
said, looking up at Melmotte.

'Well;--perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here is
engaged elsewhere,--' turning round to Lord Alfred, who had not uttered
a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat, '--we had better
adjourn this meeting for another week.'

'I cannot allow that,' said Paul Montague.

'I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board,' said the
Chairman.

'I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and
Chairman,' said Cohenlupe, 'and I must say that it is not expedient
just at present to go into matters too freely.'

'My Lords and Gentlemen,' said Melmotte. 'I hope that you trust me.'

Lord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which was
intended to convey most absolute confidence. 'Hear, hear,' said Mr
Cohenlupe. 'All right,' said Lord Nidderdale; 'go on;' and he fired
another pellet with improved success.

'I trust,' said the Chairman, 'that my young friend, Sir Felix, doubts
neither my discretion nor my ability.'

'Oh dear, no;--not at all,' said the baronet, much tattered at being
addressed in this kindly tone. He had come there with objects of his
own, and was quite prepared to support the Chairman on any matter
whatever.

'My Lords and Gentlemen,' continued Melmotte, 'I am delighted to
receive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in the
world I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell you
that we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has ever
been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think our
friend here, Mr Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as any
gentleman.'

'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 the
Company are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt you
are in correspondence with Mr Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph wires are
open to you, sir. But, my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able to inform you
that in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. On
behalf of the shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands,
I think it expedient that any general statement should be postponed
for a short time, and I flatter myself that in that opinion I shall
carry the majority of this Board with me.' Mr Melmotte did not make
his speech very fluently; but, being accustomed to the place which he
occupied, he did manage to get the words spoken in such a way as to
make them intelligible to the company. 'I now move that this meeting
be adjourned to this day week,' he added.

'I second that motion,' said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand from
his 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 move
an amendment,' said Paul, determined that he would not be altogether
silenced.

'There is nobody to second it,' said Mr Cohenlupe.

'How do you know till I've made it?' asked the rebel. 'I shall ask
Lord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I think that
he will not refuse.'

'Oh, gracious me! why me? No;--don't ask me. I've got to go away. I have
indeed.'

'At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not say
whether every affair of this Company should or should not be published
to the world.'

'You'd break up everything if you did,' said Cohenlupe.

'Perhaps everything ought to be broken up. But I say nothing about
that. What I do say is this. That as we sit here as directors and will
be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know what
is being done. We ought to know where the shares really are. I for one
do not even know what scrip has been issued.'

'You've bought and sold enough to know something about it,' said
Melmotte.

Paul Montague became very red in the face. 'I, at any rate, began,' he
said, 'by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the
affair.'

'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. 'Nor
have I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares which
my capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my own
concerns.'

'It looks very like it,' said Cohenlupe.

'So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of
everything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is being
done with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large that
I, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth know anything
about it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from further
responsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right from this time
forward,--and that course I intend to take.'

'The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board,' said
Melmotte. 'There will be no difficulty about that.'

'Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear that
there will be difficulty.'

'Not in the least,' continued the Chairman. 'You need only gazette
your resignation and the thing is done. I had intended, gentlemen, to
propose an addition to our number. When I name to you a gentleman,
personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout
England as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of
fortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I mean
Mr Longestaffe of Caversham--'

'Young Dolly, or old,' asked Lord Nidderdale.

'I mean Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham. I am sure that
you will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought to
strengthen our number by this addition. But if Mr Montague is
determined to leave us,--and no one will regret the loss of his services
so much as I shall,--it will be my pleasing duty to move that Adolphus
Longestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be requested to take his
place. If on consideration Mr Montague shall determine to remain with
us,--and I for one most sincerely hope that such reconsideration may
lead to such determination,--then I shall move that an additional
director be added to our number, and that Mr Longestaffe be requested
to take the chair of that additional director.' The latter speech Mr
Melmotte got through very glibly, and then immediately left the chair,
so as to show that the business of the Board was closed for that day
without any possibility of re-opening it.

Paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he
wished to speak to him before they parted. 'Certainly,' said the great
man bowing. 'Carbury,' he said, looking round on the young baronet
with his blandest smile, 'if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment for
me. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr Montague, what
can I do for you?' Paul began his story, expressing again the opinion
which he had already very plainly expressed at the table. But Melmotte
stopped him very shortly, and with much less courtesy than he had
shown in the speech which he had made from the chair. 'The thing is
about this way, I take it, Mr Montague;--you think you know more of this
matter than I do.'

'Not at all, Mr Melmotte.'

'And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may be
right. But as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less we
speak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest in the
threat you made, because you would be making public things communicated
to you under the seal of privacy,--and no gentleman would do that. But
as long as you are hostile to me, I can't help you,--and so good
afternoon.' Then, without giving Montague the possibility of a
reply, he escaped into an inner room which had the word 'Private'
painted on the door, and which was supposed to belong to the chairman
individually. He shut the door behind him, and then, after a few
moments, put out his head and beckoned to Sir Felix Carbury.
Nidderdale was gone. Lord Alfred with his son were already on the
stairs. Cohenlupe was engaged with Melmotte's clerk on the
record-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 Chairman
that having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have a few
shares to go on with. He was, indeed, at the present moment very
nearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards, all the
I.O.U.'s which were in any degree serviceable. He still had a
pocketbook full of those issued by Miles Grendall; but it was now an
understood thing at the Beargarden that no one was to be called upon
to take them except Miles Grendall himself;--an arrangement which robbed
the card-table of much of its delight. Beyond this, also, he had
lately been forced to issue a little paper himself,--in doing which he
had talked largely of his shares in the railway. His case certainly
was hard. He had actually paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, a
commercial transaction which, as performed by himself, he regarded as
stupendous. It was almost incredible to himself that he should have
paid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it with much
difficulty,--having carried Dolly junior with him all the way into the
city,--in the belief that he would thus put himself in the way of making
a continual and unfailing income. He understood that as a director he
would be always entitled to buy shares at par, and, as a matter of
course, always able to sell them at the market price. This he
understood 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 told
that Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent; and that
Melmotte was doing it to an enormous extent. But before he could do it
he must get something,--he hardly knew what,--out of Melmotte's hands.
Melmotte certainly did not seem to shun him, and therefore there could
be no difficulty about the shares. As to danger,--who could think of
danger in reference to money intrusted to the hands of Augustus
Melmotte?

'I am delighted to see you here,' said Melmotte, shaking him cordially
by the hand. 'You come regularly, and you'll find that it will be
worth your while. There's nothing like attending to business. You
should be here every Friday.'

'I will,' said the baronet.

'And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I can
put 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 fellow
Montague. By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?'

'Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the women
know 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's
all. But never mind him at present. Was your mother speaking to you of
what 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 might
have 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 had
seen it. But there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look of
a determined purpose which all who knew the man were wont to mark. Sir
Felix had observed it a few minutes since in the Board-room, when the
chairman was putting down the rebellious director. 'You understand
that; 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'm
afraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I shall give
my girl to you?' Felix still looked at him but did not dare to
contradict a single statement made. Yet when the man told him that he
had not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand pounds which
were now in the man's pocket. 'You're a baronet, and that's about all,
you know,' continued Melmotte. 'The Carbury property, which is a very
small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me if he
pleases;--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 the
question, and you must drop it.' Then the look on his brow became a
little heavier. 'You hear what I say. She is going to marry Lord
Nidderdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What do
you expect to get by it?'

Sir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girl
he loved. But as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to say
something. 'I suppose it's the old story,' he said.

'Just so;--the old story. You want my money, and she wants you, just
because she has been told to take somebody else. You want something to
live on;--that's what you want. Come;--out with it. Is not that it? When
we 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 your
written promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie, and you
shan't want for money.'

'A written promise!'

'Yes;--a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you in
the way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able to
marry any other girl you please;--or to live without marrying, which
you'll find to be better.'

There was something worthy of consideration in Mr Melmotte's
proposition. Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution, had
not specially recommended itself to Sir Felix Carbury. A few horses at
Leighton, Ruby Ruggles or any other beauty, and life at the Beargarden
were much more to his taste. And then he was quite alive to the fact
that it was possible that he might find himself possessed of the wife
without the money. Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own, with
reference to that settled income; but then Marie might be mistaken,--or
she might be lying. If he were sure of making money in the way
Melmotte now suggested, the loss of Marie would not break his heart.
But then also Melmotte might be--lying. 'By-the-bye, Mr Melmotte,' said
he, '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 ten
shares.'

'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 very
blank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-first
of the month. 'But what does that signify? Do you want a little
money?'

'Well, I do,' said Sir Felix. 'A lot of fellows owe me money, but it's
so hard to get it.'

'That tells a story of gambling,' said Mr Melmotte. 'You think I'd
give 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 can
destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't
get 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. If
you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you
want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before
you leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour as
a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a
single shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my
property to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind about
that.'

'And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the
twentieth of next month?'

'I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At
any rate I won't see you short of money.'

The terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. Melmotte
himself 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 the
offices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.

'You'll give me that cheque for £200, Mr Melmotte?' The financier
hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque as
promised. 'And you'll see about letting me have those shares?'

'You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know.' Sir Felix said that
he would call in Abchurch Lane.

As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happy
in 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 ashamed
of himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew that he
was behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried to console
himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would not
prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration,
find it to be worth his while to do so.

That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a great
part 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 issued
paper.



CHAPTER XXXVIII - PAUL MONTAGUE'S TROUBLES


Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of
the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had
taken Mrs Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at
Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he
was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their
engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting
was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had
stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared
him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to
marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in
London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft,
and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. At
the moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a
marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless,
touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had
loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violence
of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a
stool 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. Then
there 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 had
promised to be with her again before two days should have passed.

On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was
at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool
on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he
explained that the business on which he was called was connected with
the great American railway, and, being important, demanded his
attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a
gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his
return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house
of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and had
consulted, and the gentleman, Mr Ramsbottom by name, had suggested
that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct
at the Board had been the result of the advice which he had received;
but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with
Mrs Hurtle had not added strength to Mr Ramsbottom's invitation.

In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle, though it can hardly
be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady after
landing from an American steamer had been at Mr Ramsbottom's office,
inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr Ramsbottom had thought that the
inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore had
spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs Hurtle, and the fellow-traveller
had opined that Mrs Hurtle was 'a queer card.' 'On board ship we all
gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever
seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her
breeding.' 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 from
his wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queer
story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols,
and then having separated.' This Mr Ramsbottom, who in an earlier
stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs Hurtle
together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice about
the railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest
man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter.
The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs Hurtle, could only be
given vivâ voce, and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool had
originated in Mr Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. 'As she was
asking after you here, perhaps it is well that you should know,' his
friend said to him. Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur
of the moment to speak of his own difficulties.

In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been
some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subject
to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence to
the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement.
When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise and
his former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given up
everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking into
his eyes;--then he would almost yield. But when, what the traveller
called the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, having
escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury and of her breeding,--he
was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should
not be that of being the husband of Mrs Hurtle. That he was in a mass
of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate
himself he was well aware;--but if it were true that Mr Hurtle was
alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be,--
not separated, or even divorced,--but dead. And if it were true also
that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a
reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband.
These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would
enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself
to be a false traitor.

But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be
made to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the
score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very
strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he
would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which
might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done what he
had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He must
tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and
that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write to
her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse
himself, even to himself, for not going. It was his misfortune,--and
also 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 of
information that might have the appearance of real evidence. He
returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on
which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he
did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr Melmotte. If he
could come across that traveller he might learn something. The
husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc Carson
Hurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years,
that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he felt
that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it might
be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to
withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though not
corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a
gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they
were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself.

But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having
had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as
these? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his
arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them with
her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything to
herself? To speak to her thus:--'I am told that your life with your last
husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought a
duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel,--
certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am told
also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be that
the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed
so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on that score also, I
must decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr Hurtle has been seen
alive quite lately. I had understood from you that he is dead. No
doubt you may have been deceived. But as I should not have engaged
myself to you had I known the truth, so now I consider myself
justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a
misconception.' It would no doubt be difficult to get through all
these details; but it might be accomplished gradually,--unless in the
process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in
Oregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the
ground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and would
bear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on his
journey up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when
he rose up to attack Mr Melmotte single-handed at the Board.

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 the
conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to
spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with this at the
Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the money
which had been invested in the company of Fisker, Montague, and
Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to the
railway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after a
loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, he
could hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible to
all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the
Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. On
this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the young
lord'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 ourselves
Directors we ought to know something about it.'

'I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've
been thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a
Director.'

'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 in
Parliament, 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 Governor
said that I was to do it, and so I've done it.'

'They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's
daughter.'

'But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And
why should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old
Grendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pink out
the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be
old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about
it, 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 a
question which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be
justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at
any rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? 'You can
speak out to me, you know,' said Nidderdale, nodding his head.

'I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest
man alive.'

'He lives as though he were.'

'I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows
very much about him.'

When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of it
all. It occurred to him that he would 'be coming a cropper rather,'
were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that
she had got none.

A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the
card-room. 'Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there
waiting,' he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles
for play. 'Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that,' said
Nidderdale.

'Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me,' said Montague.

'Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well
as anybody. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire
heaven 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 on
with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to
come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm
concerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or
not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I
like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things about
poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he were
to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a £10 note. But because he has
won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd better
come up.'

But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the
club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he
found himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there, and
certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left the
Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs Hurtle. As long as she was
present in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself
that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself to be an
unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he was still under
some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta's
company, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not
ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then
repented 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 almost
unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was not at home.
She was out somewhere with Mr Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paul
had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that
he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. 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 and
see Miss Carbury. 'Mamma is out with Roger,' said Hetta, endeavouring
to save herself from confusion. 'There is a soirée of learned people
somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for
her 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 brought
Roger up to town?'

'I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a
mystery 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 keep
himself from blushing as he heard this,--'and that Felix should not be
there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's
daughter.'

'She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think.'

'Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is
for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with
them.'

'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 greatest
friends. When I wanted to see Mr Melmotte he bolted himself into an
inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done
that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that
he 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 you
think so, Mr Montague?' Paul did think so, and was by no means
disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to
him; but still he found the subject difficult. 'Of course I will never
go against mamma,' continued Hetta, 'but I always feel that my cousin
Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one
would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that
of, 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 he
says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. If
he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to
spend; 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 seem
even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend
that 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. But
all my friends--'

'Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?'

'Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a
friend,--because you are his friend.'

'Look here, Hetta,' he said. 'It is no good going on like this. I love
Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all that you
say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks
of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He
never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love
his 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. If
you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I
will leave England at once, and never return to it.'

'There's mamma,' said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a double
knock at the door.



CHAPTER XXXIX - 'I DO LOVE HIM'


So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned
people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to
the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly
be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague
was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent
visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting
between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. The
reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable
to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious.
There would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why Paul should not
have been there,--but from the promise which had been given. There was,
indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in Welbeck
Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly
have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had
broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left
to decide.

Lady Carbury was the first to speak. 'This is quite an unexpected
pleasure, Mr Montague.' Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she
did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting
between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.

'Yes,' he said making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been
made,--'I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would
come up and see you.' Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but
Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had been
an 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 had
a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What
has brought you to London?'

'A little business,' said Roger.

Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly
knew whether she ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was
very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught,
though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her
mother'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 to
work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to
work. I was just going to bed when Mr Montague came in. What did you
think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?'

'I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked
it.'

'I was very glad indeed to meet Dr Palmoil. It seems that if we can
only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get
everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination
necessary for feeding the human race. 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 believe
that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to
labour.'

'But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr Palmoil will be able to put his
descendants back into Eden.'

'Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have
quite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled here
as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is
the garden of the world.'

This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate
difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get
out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed
behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. 'What brought him
here?'

'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 he
came of his own accord.'

'How long was he here?'

'Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like
this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be
shown 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 said
that 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 straightforward
simplicity. 'Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he
said; 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 no
time, 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. I
think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an
accident.'

'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 alone
together.'

'And you;--what did you say?'

'Nothing. You came.'

'I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must
ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?' Hetta was
again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her
brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a
right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother
everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word
spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her
mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she
had so little sympathy from her mother. 'How do you intend to answer
him?' 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 do
love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know
that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about
it. 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 which
he is involved will go to pieces.'

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt
that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did
doubt that her mother had believed the story. 'If so,' said she, 'Mr
Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry
Marie 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 fortune
out of the Railway!' Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity
of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of
an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to
recommend to the other child.

'I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying
him, 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 above
me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And
I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from
you now. Good night, mamma,' she said, coming up to her mother and
kissing her. 'Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me.' Lady
Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to
leave the room.

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul
Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel
he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had
declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--
and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked
as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. 'I do not wish it to
be talked of,' said Roger after a pause,--'and of course I could not
speak 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 John
Crumb.'

'Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame
of 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 down
there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been
taken to London by him.'

'That would be very bad.'

'He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I
first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been
friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means.
But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course
he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse
cost 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 be
able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as
I 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 I
was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed
on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew
nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since
that 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. I
cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has
now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his
granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and
he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his
money.'

After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in
regard to Melmotte and to Mrs Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger
could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool
friend. '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 sure
that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my
own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In
such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves
him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man
whom the world esteems and recognizes. You have to bind your character
to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be
good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr Ramsbottom's
character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he
tells you.'

But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in
the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do
about Mrs Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend
that Mrs Hurtle had come to London and that he had been with her three
or four times. There was this great difficulty in the matter, too,--that
it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs Hurtle without in
some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of
both 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 at
an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs Hurtle, he was to
do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta
Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no
such 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 Hetta
Carbury, but he said nothing. 'And what would she do, remaining here?'
continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. 'I am
determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have
been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a
fair 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 of
it honestly or--any other way.'

'Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much
as we do now?'

'I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be
dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you
could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were
you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were
strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll go and see her if you like it.'

But Paul would not submit to this. He felt he was bound himself to
incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his
place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved
between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington,
should tell Mrs Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should
end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he
marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be
allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was
that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time
should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as
circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws
or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was
admitted or denied,--that he would never make Mrs Hurtle his wife. 'I
wish 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 he
awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from
him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But
the 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 was
quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He
put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his
head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be as well that he
should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday?
Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington
quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten
point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend
Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool,
and ask a few more questions of Mr Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth
to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as
quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and
resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate
his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not
be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered
that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic
woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not
sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would
it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can
fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had
to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first
day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day
in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The
horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realized
something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered
the man to drive to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab
when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so
slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the
quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall--
whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham
Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to
be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that
direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet
that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to
arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had
given the Street and the number of the street. It was not till after
he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he
should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that
he might, as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced.
But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to
make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived
before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the
garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated
door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had
paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change
in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the
door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked
for Mrs Hurtle.

'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 in
Suffolk, and recognized him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to
her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger
Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course
learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen the baronet more
than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's
intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror
she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs
Hurtle.

'Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left
your 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 would
speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets
lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for
one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the
children 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 is
such a stranger. And Mrs Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for
two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs Pipkin said as
the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs Hurtle,--she's most as fond of
the 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 was
expected 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 Ruby
a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message
he would leave for Mrs Hurtle. 'I'm afraid they are very unhappy about
you 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 my
hair, Mr Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did
everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did
his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday,
'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only
me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do
anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of
my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr Montague;--nor yet
won'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 to
give 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'm
sure 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 in
London.'

'I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr Montague; I can tell you
that. 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 whole
story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger's
fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to
touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an
opinion of his own on that matter. 'But there's Betsy a-crying
upstairs, 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 for
her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from
Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When
should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend
to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself
made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half
believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and
civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs Hurtle
would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day
was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was
finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that
he was going. 'Mr Montague,' she said in a confidential whisper, as
she tripped clown the stairs, 'I don't see why you need be saying
anything about me, you know.'

'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. Why
should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about
him.'

'He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young
man 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 in
town?' Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her
forehead. 'You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come
of 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 as
you. 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 of
Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to
be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had
engaged himself to marry Mrs Hurtle, and who the evening before had
for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

In regard to Mrs Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two
days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked
back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have
had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta
Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that
declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able
for the hour to have forgotten Mrs Hurtle.



CHAPTER XL - 'UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS'


That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a
note from Mr Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger
from the city,--who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though
Montague 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 Square
at the hour appointed,--abandoning any intentions which he might have
had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only
letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings, he
found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs Hurtle had found the
means of sending to him after her return from Southend. 'I am sorry to
have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H.' The period of
the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.

On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to
Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say
to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the
Board-room,--especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had
understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was
to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as
would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of
financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to
his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character
and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be
guided altogether by Mr Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr Ramsbottom
to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to
publish. But it was manifest now that Mr Melmotte would make some
proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr Ramsbottom
at his elbow to help him.

He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had
contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of
the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the
crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with Hetta
Carbury. When he was shown into the hail he was astonished to find
that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders,
and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had
been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the
stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where
the servant told him that Mr Melmotte would come to him. Here he
waited 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 he
could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own
personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure,
when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a
magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. 'My dear sir, I am
so sorry. You are a punctual man, I see. So am I. A man of business
should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,--from the house
of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with me. We
had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter
late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch
a quarter of an hour? I never could do it.' Montague assured the great
man that the delay was of no consequence. 'And I am so sorry to ask
you 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 house
a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his
house 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 can
let you have. You know how they're run after.' Montague had heard of
the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man
frequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the least
want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any
extraordinary civility from Mr Melmotte's hands.

But he was very anxious to know why Mr Melmotte should offer it. He
excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big
dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people.
'Ah, indeed,' said Melmotte. 'There are ever so many people of title
would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons
who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the
Master of the Buckhounds, and on the other for the Bishop of--; I
forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They
say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the
missionaries for Tibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it.'
This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe
as one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it
might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe.
'You're the only man in London, then,' said Melmotte, somewhat
offended. 'But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have
one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you.' Paul not knowing how to
escape, said that he would come in the evening. 'I am particularly
anxious,' continued he, 'to be civil to those who are connected with
our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands
first,--next to my own.'

Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could
be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday
morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a
fortnight later. But that was impossible. 'Have you anything special
to say about the Railway?' he asked.

'Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course
there 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 quite
so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these
affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And
Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit
for.'

'He may easily do that.'

'Well, well. Perhaps you don't know quite as well as I do.' The scowl
began to appear on Mr Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been banished
as well as he knew how to banish it. 'What I wanted to say to you was
this. 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 of
such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything.' Mr
Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands
over his head. 'Without unanimity we can do--nothing.' And the two
hands fell. 'Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a
Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr Montague.'

'But suppose the directors are not unanimous.'

'They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God
bless 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 brow
became very heavy. 'Look here, Mr Montague. If you and I quarrel in
the Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to
every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility
on 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 a
mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr Montague, sent
straight to the dogs,--annihilated, sir;--so that it all vanished into
thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to
starve about the streets,--just because one director sat in another
director's chair. I did, by G--! What do you think of that, Mr
Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it
is,--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 they
themselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it you
want, Mr Montague?'

'What do I want?' Melmotte's description of the peculiar
susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given
without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself
almost drove that effect out of his mind. 'I only want justice.'

'But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the
expense of other people. Look here, Mr Montague. I suppose you are
like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of
it.'

'For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not
thinking of myself.'

'You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter,' and
here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he
was in mastering details,--'you had about £6,000 embarked in the
business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have
that still.'

'I don't know what I've got.'

'I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a
thousand 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, Mr
Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was
about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as
you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go
out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get
necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried,
and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course
you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal
interests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power of
attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should
anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as sound as
anything I know,--of course you, as absent, would not share the
responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful
trip;--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 devolve
nearly the whole management on you;--and I must do something of the
kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,--if it is to be that
way,--do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;--the
very 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 be
the very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest that you
should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly
distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you
have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the
payment of it,--some time before the end of the year.'

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole
matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. 'And
now, good-bye,' said Mr Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in
a hurry. 'I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank
Director, waiting downstairs.'



CHAPTER XLI - ALL PREPARED


During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her
lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his
sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in
the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be
chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling
how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and
how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and
mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that
she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a
little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But,
nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true
to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various
letters to Sir Felix and had received two or three very short notes in
reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was
told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord
Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be
married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the
end of June. 'You may buy what you like, mamma,' she said; 'and if
papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll
never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in
the things by main force, I wouldn't have him.' Madame Melmotte
groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that
she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad,
and a dog. And, ended, as she always did end, by swearing that
Melmotte must manage the matter himself. 'Nobody shall manage this
matter for me,' said Marie. 'I know what I'm about now, and I won't
marry anybody just because it will suit papa.' 'Que nous étions encore
à Frankfort, ou New-York,' said the elder lady, remembering the
humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not
care for Frankfort or New York; for Paris or for London;--but she did
care for Sir Felix Carbury.

While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own
house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the
city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman
Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was
mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there
at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close
alongside of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use;
and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much
frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover's
letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had
taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the
letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,--having
been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that
she would be there to close it after he had come in,--was of course
ready 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 you
clean 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 a
thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him
yet.' 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 anything
better 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 you
think 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 wonder
whether you're right about that money which you say is settled.'

'I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming
away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went
wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from
time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't,--if
I should have a husband of my own.' Felix walked along, pondering the
matter, with his hands in his trousers pockets. He entertained those
very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would
be no 'cropper' which a man could 'come' so bad as would be his
cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not
to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after
having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive
him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too
doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in that
case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor the shares. And if
he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with
ready money. But then there was the girl at his elbow, and he no more
dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he
dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement.
Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. 'What are
you 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 walking
round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale
about the end of August.'

'Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't
take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long
ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I
don't think you care much, Felix.'

'Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a
beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I
could 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 fellow
doesn'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 got
spliced last winter.'

'Yes;--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to
Switzerland, 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 to
prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the
tidal 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 be
my 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 should
make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to--New
York. 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 call
myself by her name,--any French name you know. I should go as a French
girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We
wouldn'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 £50
for herself, you know. The "Adriatic,"--that's a White Star boat, goes
on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us
down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take
no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a
month,--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 to
go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to
the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at
her fingers' ends,--even to the amount of the fee required by the female
counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was
taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if
he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool
enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told
that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release
it. And he had nothing to show;--no security that he could offer to
Vossner. And then,--this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's
daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the
girl, 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 came
home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which
he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. 'It's deuced
important,' 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, where
should we be then?'

'Nothing venture, nothing have,' said the heiress.

'That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get
nothing 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'll
venture it.'

'Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!'

'There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be
Thursday 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't
that 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,--on
Thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a
day or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get them sent out of
the house. Didon was to have £50 before she went on board; and as one
of the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks
smuggled out of the house, he was to have £10. All had been settled
beforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about
anything. 'And now,' said Marie, 'there's Didon. Nobody's looking and
she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out. The
gate 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, went
to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from
church. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made up
his mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would dine
early and be with Mrs Hurtle about seven o'clock. But it was necessary
that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. 'It's not so bad
as 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 want
her 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 go
and 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 such
a thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as well
as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why I
should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don't
suppose 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 see
your widow at the same time.' Paul sighed, but said nothing more about
his widow at that moment. 'I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now,' said
Roger, taking his hat. 'Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow.' Paul felt
that he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend.

He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that
journey to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposal
that had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clear
conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway,
such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had said
already more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and though
he was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought
that what he had said had been well received. At the moment they had
been disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming,
had at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into
breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period
of the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course he
would take care that she should know that he had gone in the
performance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs Hurtle, and
would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him.
It was possible that Mrs Hurtle should offer to go with him,--an
arrangement which would not at all suit him.

That at any rate must be avoided. But then how could he do this
without a belief in the railway generally? And how was it possible
that he should have such belief? Mr Ramsbottom did not believe in it,
nor did Roger Carbury. He himself did not in the least believe in
Fisker, and Fisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not be
best that he should take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If
he could get his £6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would
certainly think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he
could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted
whether he could put implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guarantee
for the amount. This at any rate was clear to him,--that Melmotte was
very 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 Ruby
Ruggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he had
to say. 'The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?'

'Oh yes, sir, and Mrs Hurtle is expecting you all the day.' Then she
put in a whisper on her own account. 'You didn't tell him as you'd
seen me, Mr Montague?'

'Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles.'

'Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been
ill-natured,--that's all,' said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs
Hurtle's room.

Mrs Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,--and her smile
could be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like most
witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm.
'Only fancy,' she said, 'that you should have come the only day I have
been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when you
took me to the play. 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 bright
idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to go
herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise.'

'A cockney Paradise.'

'Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and
fancy that that is the sea?'

'I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,--so that you know
more about it than I do.'

'How very English it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the
sea! 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 supposed
we're an island.'

'Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west of
Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does go
there for fear of being murdered.' Paul thought of the gentleman in
Oregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and
remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregon
or the west of Ireland. 'But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs Pipkin
and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid that
the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the best
of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must
acknowledge 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 of
these lodgings. People are just as poor with us;--and other people who
happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humble
to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as well
as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference.'

'He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as
agreeable as he can to him who can give.'

'But Mrs Pipkin was so humble. However, we got back all right
yesterday 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 very
satisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway.'

'I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks of
it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man that
I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate
little peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank in
the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the
largest railway. It would be better even than being President of a
Republic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is it
that 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 the
question 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 will
make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done
it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will never
come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico and
have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do
anything. 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 of
doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that
one 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 this
buying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money with
which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fisker
get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where does
Melmotte 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 and
spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have
ambition. 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 people
there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty
about the money.'

He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he
should have to discuss before he left her,--or rather the statement
which he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which he
allowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him farther
away from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should not be
made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she might
be one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied an
understanding that his former abnegation of the engagement had been
withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a
sideway fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship either
for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing
must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its own
basis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the introduction
of 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'll
ask them to let us have tea.' She rang the bell and Ruby came in, and
the tea was ordered. 'That young lady tells me that you are an old
friend of hers.'

'I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find
her here yesterday.'

'There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she does
not 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 the
girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. The
natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her,
because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,--just
as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is one of the evils of
the inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love without
having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. She
can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If all
men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the
work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an
end. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased
passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an
end.'

'If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would
wear 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 yet
in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who
looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in
that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that.'

Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions
of women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. But
having got on to these rocks,--having, as the reader may perceive, been
taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,--he did not know
how to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his own
subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws, and
the possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freely
on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in former
years. 'Thanks,' he said, changing his cup. 'How well you remember!'

'Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do
you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should
never wear blue?'

She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so that
he was obliged to speak. 'Of course I do. Black is your colour;--black
and 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 for
gospel. 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, an
effete 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 time
of the great painters; but Savonarola and Galileo were individuals.
You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexico
gives you the chance.'

'Are the Mexicans a new people?'

'They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say
have bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to
Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally
good. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine
workmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul.' He got
up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To
be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his
life in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up
to cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! And
yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,--even though he were willing
to devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that he
had pictured to himself,--could he immediately rush away from these
abstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery,
into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! It was the unfitness
that deterred him and not the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, through
it all, he was sure,--nearly sure,--that she was playing her game, and
playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he
wanted to play. Would it not be better that he should go away and
write another letter? In a letter he could at any rate say what he had
to say;--and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere
to it.

'What makes you so uneasy?' she asked; still speaking in her most
winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. 'Do you not
like me to say that I would have you be a hero?'

'Winifred,' he said, 'I came here with a purpose, and I had better
carry it out.'

'What purpose?' She still leaned forward, but now supported her face
on her two hands, with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him
intently. But one would have said that there was only love in her
eyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat,
if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with his
hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find
fitting words for the occasion. 'Stop, my dear,' she said. 'Must the
purpose 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 the
delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend
after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs Pipkin is not very
charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life.
I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, if
it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are
still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with
pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your purpose. But if it
be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--then
drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude must
have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort.'

Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that
solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. 'I will not
harass you, if you are ill,' he said.

'I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill
that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun
here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,--what Mrs Pipkin calls
muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would
do me good. Where had I better go?' Paul suggested Brighton. 'That is
full 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 that
any place can be very far from here.' Paul, in his John Bull
displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would
take twenty-four hours. 'Not Penzance then, which I know is your very
Ultima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place
except 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 perhaps
take 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 remember
much. There's Ramsgate.'

'Mrs Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should like
Ramsgate.'

'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 me
too.'

'Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a
railway all the distance.'

'And sea?'

'Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there are
waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other
day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand.'

'A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend
it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You
must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs Pipkin. You
would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the
ocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?'

'A small little place.'

'Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for
me.'

'They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it
would 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 the
Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft.' Then she rose up and came to
him, and took his arm. 'You will take me down, will you not? It is
desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask
you to stay. And I can return by myself.' She had put both hands on
one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. 'You will
do that for old acquaintance sake?' For a moment or two he made no
answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was
endeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and could
see no way through it. 'I don't think you will let me ask in vain for
such a favour as that,' she said.

'No;' he replied. 'I will take you down. When will you go?' He had
cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage
would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps
the sands at Lowestoft.

'When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and
shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with
nothing on hand but Mrs Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in ten
minutes?--because I could.' Paul shook his head and laughed. 'I've
named a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, and
I'll promise it shall suit.' Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He
must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before
the Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs Hurtle. Should she
meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and
fetch her.

Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her
cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds it
utterly impossible that he should be prudent,--as to which, when he
thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for
prudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took her
in 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 was
quite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died
leaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre
farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his
daughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled
himself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge of
Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no
intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken,
corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. When
therefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with
herself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs Pipkin was a poor woman, and
could 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 a
month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a
part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally.
Mrs Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. 'I'm all right,' said
Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and
see her? This was Mrs Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs Pipkin thought that
scandal 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 Mr
Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her
grandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. Mrs
Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring
respectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. She gave
Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was 'dead-set' against John
Crumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young woman
should 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 could
do very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to
be put off it. Mrs Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she
was not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her
lover she must. Mrs Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days
did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed
when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs Pipkin
knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to the
theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs Pipkin knew, but
probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till past
midnight, Mrs Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel
circumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had not
been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a
girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteen
years ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yet
told the name of her lover to Mrs Pipkin, having answered all
inquiries by saying that she was right. Sir Felix's name had never
even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it.
She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,--not
altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now
she knew that interference would come. Mr Montague had found her out,
and had told her grandfather's landlord. The Squire would be after
her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr
Mixet,--and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the
couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, 'the fat would be in
the fire.'

'Who do you think was at our place yesterday?' said Ruby one evening
to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half
music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of
the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on
those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself
called it, 'incognito,' with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk
cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix
entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this
attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a
glass 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 grand
thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young
man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and
walk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to be
given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without
seeing anything of the world? But yet, as she sat sipping her lover's
brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the
City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which
she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not like
to 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 of
him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she
expected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon--marriage, but the
word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist
was heaven to her. Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of
the same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even Mrs
Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with
Mrs Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear
music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the first
opportunity 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 that
perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps
Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of
his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him to
New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an
interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon had
heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and
had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though his
body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road
Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. 'Who was it, Ruby?'

'A friend of the Squire's, a Mr Montague. I used to see him about in
Bungay and Beccles.'

'Paul Montague!'

'Do you know him, Felix?'

'Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly in
the 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's
suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of
Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference
for Paul Montague. 'Who is she, Ruby?'

'Well;--she's a Mrs Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an
American. She's got lots of money.'

'Is Montague going to marry her?'

'Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr Montague comes quite regular to
see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed
as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder
whether 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 been
regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the
slowest clock out. But Mr Montague has been and told the Squire as he
saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. I
know 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't
send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can
talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind about
their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm with
you?'

'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 know
she 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, you
know,--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 be
doing 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 out
into tears. 'Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a
bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns
against me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last
night that--'

'Bother what she says!' Felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt
Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.

'She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't such
a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a
lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his
mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mind
herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man.'

Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and
water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped, for the waiter
and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making
any direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York
very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his
future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther
distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with
Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or
would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not
his fault that she had come up to London. She was an 'awfully jolly
girl,' and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better, perhaps, than
the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give
himself any 'd---d trouble.' The idea of John Crumb coming up to London
in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably have
hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he was
doing now. 'Let's go in, and have a dance,' he said.

Ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything in
the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room
with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and
her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the
motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never
lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and
feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better
worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost.
She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some
answer to her question before she left her lover on that night.

'And now I must go,' she said at last. 'You'll see me as far as the
Angel, won't you?' Of course he was ready to see her as far as the
Angel. '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 say
something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to
me, Felix?'

He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. 'If you
bother 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 to
go, 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 wife
to-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 saw
you 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 fingers
off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!'

As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that
would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would be
out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind
to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought,
didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that
they 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 his
wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to
lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. 'Marry,
Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I
know a trick worth two of that.'

She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of
things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a man
should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare
to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing
that she could not understand. What business had such a man to go
after any young woman? 'And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir
Felix?' 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 carrying
on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that
you don't mean to marry, never at all! 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 girls
to 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's
what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,--not to
do her any harm, I'm sure,' and Ruby began to, cry. 'You mustn't come
no further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're the
falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever
heard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Things
turn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or there
ain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young
woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is
the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one
in 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 a
feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself
understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would not
even make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour might
be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried
herself to sleep with a child on each side of her.

On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs Pipkin to attend the
door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for Ruby
Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs Pipkin had not refused to do
so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the cause
which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her
mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was equally
unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determined
that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. When
therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger
Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had
been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been able
on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that
she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the
loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when she could no longer
console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things
that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at
this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a
lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth
as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she almost regretted the
precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never see
him 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? A
baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could
bring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet,--that he should have
said never;--that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, she
was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cure
her misery.

Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her
sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was
comfortably settled with her aunt. '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 a
girl keep her word;--was it, Mr Carbury? That's what he did, then;--and
Sally 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 treated
me like that. No girl'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs
of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed.'

The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be a
violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise
him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had
not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard a
few words from Mrs Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard also that
there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also was
quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John Crumb was a
gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if
Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after
some slow fashion of his own, and 'see the matter out,' as he would say
himself, if she did not go back. 'As you found yourself obliged to run
away,' said Roger, 'I'm glad that you should be here; but you don't
mean to stay here always?'

'I don't know,' said Ruby.

'You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your
aunt's maid.'

'Oh dear, no.'

'It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a
man as Mr Crumb.'

'Oh, Mr Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr Crumb. I don't like Mr
Crumb, and I never will like him.'

'Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and
I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr Crumb, unless
you please.'

'Nobody can't, of course, sir.'

'But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly
won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you.'

'Nobody won't ruin me,' said Ruby. 'A girl has to look to herself, and
I mean to look to myself.'

'I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one
as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to
the 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 to
tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were
he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and
would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough to
be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a
young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a
pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none.' Ruby had now
given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in
one corner of the room. 'That's what Sir Felix Carbury is,' said the
Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and
talk her down more thoroughly. 'And if I understand it rightly,' he
continued, 'it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a
man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the
earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine
coat.'

'I don't care about any man's coat,' said Ruby; 'but John hasn't ever
a word to say, was it ever so.'

'Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after
that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to
make you a bye-word and a disgrace.' Ruby struggled hard to make some
opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of
speech at the moment. 'He thinks more of you than of himself, and
would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If
you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by
the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any
disgrace?'

'There ain't no disgrace, Mr Carbury.'

'No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix
Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If
you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that
man's pardon.'

'John Crumb's pardon! No!'

'Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I
think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and
regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change
your mind a little.'

Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though
the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon
her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. But
she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, and
he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and trouble
she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and also a
dumb nobility.

'I'll tell you what will take place,' continued Roger. 'Mr Crumb won't
put 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 press
you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd
injure 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 it
would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together and
nobody else by?'

'John's mortial strong, Mr Carbury.'

'If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a
brave 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 everything
again him.'

'You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do
myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who
loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and
beg his pardon.'

'I never will;--never.'

'I've spoken to Mrs Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that
you don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not
disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard
like that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But
I'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 you
have it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix Carbury
any more.' Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress her
with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been efficacious in
lessening that which she had entertained for Sir Felix.



CHAPTER XLIV - THE COMING ELECTION


The very greatness of Mr Melmotte's popularity, the extent of the
admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his commercial
enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar bitterness in
the opposition that was organized against him at Westminster. As the
high mountains are intersected by deep valleys, as puritanism in one
age begets infidelity in the next, as in many countries the thickness
of the winter's ice will be in proportion to the number of the summer
musquitoes, so was the keenness of the hostility displayed on this
occasion in proportion to the warmth of the support which was
manifested. As the great man was praised, so also was he abused. As he
was a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend to others. And indeed there
was hardly any other way in which it was possible to carry on the
contest against him. From the moment in which Mr Melmotte had declared
his purpose of standing for Westminster in the Conservative interest,
an attempt was made to drive him down the throats of the electors by
clamorous assertions of his unprecedented commercial greatness. It
seemed that there was but one virtue in the world, commercial
enterprise,--and that Melmotte was its prophet. It seemed, too, that the
orators and writers of the day intended all Westminster to believe
that Melmotte treated his great affairs in a spirit very different
from that which animates the bosoms of merchants in general. He had
risen above feeling of personal profit. His wealth was so immense that
there was no longer place for anxiety on that score. He already
possessed,--so it was said,--enough to found a dozen families, and he had
but one daughter! But by carrying on the enormous affairs which he
held in his hands, he would be able to open up new worlds, to afford
relief to the oppressed nationalities of the over-populated old
countries. He had seen how small was the good done by the Peabodys and
the Bairds, and, resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions,
was intent on projects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful
bread by the moderate sweat of their brows. He was the head and front
of the railway which was to regenerate Mexico. It was presumed that
the contemplated line from ocean to ocean across British America would
become a fact in his hands. It was he who was to enter into terms with
the Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast country.
He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from Moscow to
Khiva. He had a fleet,--or soon would have a fleet of emigrant ships,--
ready to carry every discontented Irishman out of Ireland to whatever
quarter of the globe the Milesian might choose for the exercise of his
political principles. It was known that he had already floated a
company for laying down a submarine wire from Penzance to Point de
Galle, round the Cape of Good Hope,--so that, in the event of general
wars, England need be dependent on no other country for its
communications with India. And then there was the philanthropic scheme
for buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs from the Khedive of
Egypt for thirty millions sterling,--the compensation to consist of the
concession of a territory about four times as big as Great Britain in
the lately annexed country on the great African lakes. It may have
been the case that some of these things were as yet only matters of
conversation,--speculations as to which Mr Melmotte's mind and
imagination had been at work, rather than his pocket or even his
credit; but they were all sufficiently matured to find their way into
the public press, and to be used as strong arguments why Melmotte
should become member of Parliament for Westminster.

All this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves
called upon by the demands of their political position to oppose Mr
Melmotte. You can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be a
demi-devil. These very persons, the leading Liberals of the leading
borough in England as they called themselves, would perhaps have cared
little about Melmotte's antecedents had it not become their duty to
fight him as a Conservative. Had the great man found at the last
moment that his own British politics had been liberal in their nature,
these very enemies would have been on his committee. It was their
business to secure the seat. And as Melmotte's supporters began the
battle with an attempt at what the Liberals called 'bounce,'--to carry
the borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of their
candidate's virtues,--the other party was driven to make some enquiries
as to that candidate's antecedents. They quickly warmed to the work,
and were not less loud in exposing the Satan of speculation, than had
been the Conservatives in declaring the commercial Jove. Emissaries
were sent to Paris and Frankfort, and the wires were used to Vienna
and New York. It was not difficult to collect stories,--true or false;
and some quiet men, who merely looked on at the game, expressed an
opinion that Melmotte might have wisely abstained from the glories of
Parliament.

Nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a proper
Liberal candidate to run against him. The nobleman who had been
elevated out of his seat by the death of his father had been a great
Whig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense wealth and of
popularity equal to its possessions. One of that family might have
contested the borough at a much less expense than any other person,--
and to them the expense would have mattered but little. But there was
no such member of it forthcoming. Lord This and Lord That,--and the
Honourable This and the Honourable That, sons of other cognate Lords,--
already had seats which they were unwilling to vacate in the present
state of affairs. There was but one other session for the existing
Parliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in Melmotte's
favour. Many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were either
afraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence. Lord Buntingford was
asked, and he and his family were good old Whigs. But he was nephew to
Lord Alfred Grendall, first cousin to Miles Grendall, and abstained on
behalf of his relatives. An overture was made to Sir Damask Monogram,
who certainly could afford the contest. But Sir Damask did not see his
way. Melmotte was a working bee, while he was a drone,--and he did not
wish 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 consent
to occupy the position created very great surprise in the London
world. 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 Broune
under the influence of Lady Carbury, and that Lady Carbury in this way
endeavoured to reconcile the great man to a marriage between his
daughter and Sir Felix. But it is more probable that Mr Broune saw,--or
thought that he saw,--which way the wind sat, and that he supported the
commercial hero because he felt that the hero would be supported by
the country at large. In praising a book, or putting foremost the
merits 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 a
lady whom he loved. But he knew his work too well to jeopardize his
paper by such influences in any matter which might probably become
interesting to the world of his readers. There was a strong belief in
Melmotte. The clubs thought that he would be returned for Westminster.
The dukes and duchesses fêted him. The city,--even the city was showing
a wavering disposition to come round. Bishops begged for his name on
the list of promoters of their pet schemes. Royalty without stint was
to dine at his table. Melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand of
the brother of the Sun and of the uncle of the Moon, and British
Royalty was to be arranged opposite, so that every one might seem to
have the place of most honour. How could a conscientious Editor of a
'Morning Breakfast Table,' seeing how things were going, do other than
support Mr Melmotte? In fair justice it may be well doubted whether
Lady Carbury had exercised any influence in the matter.

But the 'Evening Pulpit' took the other side. Now this was the more
remarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch as the
'Evening Pulpit' had never supported the Liberal interest. As was said
in the first chapter of this work, the motto of that newspaper implied
that it was to be conducted on principles of absolute independence.
Had the 'Evening Pulpit,' like some of its contemporaries, lived by
declaring from day to day that all Liberal elements were godlike, and
all their opposites satanic, as a matter of course the same line of
argument would have prevailed as to the Westminster election. But as
it had not been so, the vigour of the 'Evening Pulpit' on this
occasion was the more alarming and the more noticeable,--so that the
short articles which appeared almost daily in reference to Mr Melmotte
were read by everybody. Now they who are concerned in the manufacture
of newspapers are well aware that censure is infinitely more
attractive than eulogy,--but they are quite as well aware that it is
more dangerous. No proprietor or editor was ever brought before the
courts at the cost of ever so many hundred pounds,--which if things go
badly may rise to thousands,--because he had attributed all but divinity
to some very poor specimen of mortality. No man was ever called upon
for damages because he had attributed grand motives. It might be well
for politics and Literature and art,--and for truth in general, if it
was possible to do so, but a new law of libel must be enacted before
such salutary proceedings can take place. Censure on the other hand is
open to very grave perils. Let the Editor have been ever so
conscientious, ever so beneficent,--even ever so true,--let it be ever
so clear that what he has written has been written on behalf of virtue,
and that he has misstated no fact, exaggerated no fault, never for a
moment been allured from public to private matters,--and he may still be
in danger of ruin. A very long purse, or else a very high courage is
needed for the exposure of such conduct as the 'Evening Pulpit'
attributed to Mr Melmotte. The paper took up this line suddenly. After
the second article Mr Alf sent back to Mr Miles Grendall, who in the
matter was acting as Mr Melmotte's secretary, the ticket of invitation
for the dinner, with a note from Mr Alf stating that circumstances
connected with the forthcoming election for Westminster could not
permit him to have the great honour of dining at Mr Melmotte's table
in the presence of the Emperor of China. Miles Grendall showed the
note to the dinner committee, and, without consultation with Mr
Melmotte, it was decided that the ticket should be sent to the Editor
of a thorough-going Conservative journal. This conduct on the part of
the 'Evening Pulpit' astonished the world considerably; but the world
was more astonished when it was declared that Mr Ferdinand Alf himself
was going to stand for Westminster on the Liberal interest.

Various suggestions were made. Some said that as Mr Alf had a large
share in the newspaper, and as its success was now an established
fact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious position which
he filled, and was therefore free to go into Parliament. Others were
of opinion that this was the beginning of a new era in literature, of
a new order of things, and that from this time forward editors would
frequently be found in Parliament, if editors were employed of
sufficient influence in the world to find constituencies. Mr Broune
whispered confidentially to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool for
his pains, and that he was carried away by pride. 'Very clever,--and
dashing,' said Mr Broune, 'but he never had ballast.' Lady Carbury
shook her head. She did not want to give up Mr Alf if she could help
it. He had never said a civil word of her in his paper;--but still she
had an idea that it was well to be on good terms with so great a
power. She entertained a mysterious awe for Mr Alf,--much in excess of
any similar feeling excited by Mr Broune, in regard to whom her awe
had been much diminished since he had made her an offer of marriage.
Her sympathies as to the election of course were with Mr Melmotte. She
believed in him thoroughly. She still thought that his nod might be
the means of making Felix,--or if not his nod, then his money without
the nod.

'I suppose he is very rich,' she said, speaking to Mr Broune
respecting 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 allow
another £10,000 for action for libel. They've already declared that
they will indict the paper.'

'Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?' This was a
matter as to which Mr Melmotte was supposed to have retired from Paris
not with clean hands.

'I don't believe the "Evening Pulpit" can prove it,--and I'm sure that
they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or four
thousand pounds. That's a game in which nobody wins but the lawyers. I
wonder at Alf. I should have thought that he would have known how to
get all said that he wanted to have said without running with his head
into the lion's mouth. He has been so clever up to this! God knows he
has been bitter enough, but he has always sailed within the wind.'

Mr Alf had a powerful committee. By this time an animus in regard to
the election had been created strong enough to bring out the men on
both sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there might only have
been a warmth or, possibly, frigidity. The Whig Marquises and the Whig
Barons came forward, and with them the liberal professional men, and
the tradesmen who had found that party to answer best, and the
democratical mechanics. If Melmotte's money did not, at last, utterly
demoralise the lower class of voters, there would still be a good
fight. And there was a strong hope that, under the ballot, Melmotte's
money might be taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting.
It was found upon trial that Mr Alf was a good speaker. And though he
still conducted the 'Evening Pulpit', he made time for addressing
meetings of the constituency almost daily. And in his speeches he
never spared Melmotte. No one, he said, had a greater reverence for
mercantile grandeur than himself. But let them take care that the
grandeur was grand. How great would be the disgrace to such a borough
as that of Westminster if it should find that it had been taken in by
a false spirit of speculation and that it had surrendered itself to
gambling when it had thought to do honour to honest commerce. This,
connected, as of course it was, with the articles in the paper, was
regarded as very open speaking. And it had its effect. Some men began
to say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to deserve
confidence in his riches, and the Lord Mayor was already beginning to
think that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse.

Melmotte's committee was also very grand. If Alf was supported by
Marquises and Barons, he was supported by Dukes and Earls. But his
speaking in public did not of itself inspire much confidence. He had
very little to say when he attempted to explain the political
principles on which he intended to act. After a little he confined
himself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the other
side, and even in doing that was reiterative rather than diffusive.
Let them prove it. He defied them to prove it. Englishmen were too
great, too generous, too honest, too noble,--the men of Westminster
especially were a great deal too highminded to pay any attention to
such charges as these till they were proved. Then he began again. Let
them prove it. Such accusations as these were mere lies till they were
proved. He did not say much himself in public as to actions for
libel,--but assurances were made on his behalf to the electors,
especially by Lord Alfred Grendall and his son, that as soon as the
election was over all speakers and writers would be indicted for libel,
who should be declared by proper legal advice to have made themselves
liable to such action. The 'Evening Pulpit' and Mr Alf would of course
be the first victims.

The dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th. The election for the
borough was to be held on Tuesday the 9th. It was generally thought
that the proximity of the two days had been arranged with the view of
enhancing Melmotte's expected triumph. But such in truth, was not the
case. It had been an accident, and an accident that was distressing to
some of the Melmottites. There was much to be done about the dinner,--
which could not be omitted; and much also as to the election,--which
was imperative. The two Grendalls, father and son, found themselves to
be so driven that the world seemed for them to be turned topsy-turvy.
The elder had in old days been accustomed to electioneering in the
interest of his own family, and had declared himself willing to make
himself useful on behalf of Mr Melmotte. But he found Westminster to
be almost too much for him. He was called here and sent there, till he
was 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 four
or five times a week.'

'You've a regular salary.'

'Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. What's my salary to
the 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're
talking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burst
up. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell him
after this that he must make it easier. He wants to know who's to have
every 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 except
that fellow from the Herald's office. I don't know about people's
rank. Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a fellow
who writes books?' Miles suggested that the fellow from the Herald's
office would know all about that, and that his father need not trouble
himself with petty details.

'And you shall come to us for three days,--after it's over,' said Lady
Monogram to Miss Longestaffe; a proposition to which Miss Longestaffe
acceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as though a favour had
been conferred upon her. Now the reason why Lady Monogram had changed
her mind as to inviting her old friend, and thus threw open her
hospitality for three whole days to the poor young lady who had
disgraced herself by staying with the Melmottes, was as follows. Miss
Longestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for Madame
Melmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the Melmottes risen in
general appreciation that Lady Monogram had found that she was bound,
on behalf of her own position in society, to be present on that
occasion. It would not do that her name should not be in the printed
list of the guests. Therefore she had made a serviceable bargain with
her old friend Miss Longestaffe. She was to have her two tickets for
the reception, and Miss Longestaffe was to be received for three days
as a guest by Lady Monogram. It had also been conceded that at any
rate on one of these nights Lady Monogram should take Miss Longestaffe
out with her, and that she should herself receive company on another.
There was perhaps something slightly painful at the commencement of
the negotiation; but such feelings soon fade away, and Lady Monogram
was quite a woman of the world.



CHAPTER XLV - Mr MELMOTTE IS PRESSED FOR TIME


About this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election, Mr
Longestaffe came up to town and saw Mr Melmotte very frequently. He
could not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to the
great financier, nor had he any establishment in town; but he slept at
an hotel and lived at the Carlton. He was quite delighted to find that
his new friend was an honest Conservative, and he himself proposed the
honest Conservative at the club. There was some idea of electing Mr
Melmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club could not go
beyond its rule, and could only admit Mr Melmotte out of his regular
turn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the House of Commons. Mr
Melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was heard to declare
that if the club did not take him when he was willing to be taken, it
might do without him. If not elected at once, he should withdraw his
name. So great was his prestige at this moment with his own party that
there were some, Mr Longestaffe among the number, who pressed the
thing on the committee. Mr Melmotte was not like other men. It was a
great thing to have Mr Melmotte in the party. Mr Melmotte's financial
capabilities would in themselves be a tower of strength. Rules were
not made to control the club in a matter of such importance as this. A
noble lord, one among seven who had been named as a fit leader of the
Upper House on the Conservative side in the next session, was asked to
take the matter up; and men thought that the thing might have been
done had he complied. 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 become
one of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was rather
snubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to Mr Melmotte.
Like other great men, Mr Melmotte liked to choose his own time for
bestowing favours. Since that request was made the proper time had
come, and he had now intimated to Mr Longestaffe that in a somewhat
altered condition of things there would be a place for him at the
Board, and that he and his brother directors would be delighted to
avail themselves of his assistance. The alliance between Mr Melmotte
and Mr Longestaffe had become very close. The Melmottes had visited
the Longestaffes at Caversham. Georgiana Longestaffe was staying with
Madame Melmotte in London. The Melmottes were living in Mr
Longestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month at a very high
rent. Mr Longestaffe now had a seat at Mr Melmotte's board. And Mr
Melmotte had bought Mr Longestaffe's estate at Pickering on terms very
favourable to the Longestaffes. It had been suggested to Mr
Longestaffe by Mr Melmotte that he had better qualify for his seat at
the Board by taking shares in the Company to the amount of--perhaps two
or three thousand pounds, and Mr Longestaffe had of course consented.
There would be no need of any transaction in absolute cash. The shares
could of course be paid for out of Mr Longestaffe's half of the
purchase money for Pickering Park, and could remain for the present in
Mr Melmotte's hands. To this also Mr Longestaffe had consented, not
quite understanding why the scrip should not be made over to him at
once.

It was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that no
ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. Great purchases
were made and great transactions apparently completed without the
signing even of a cheque. Mr Longestaffe found himself to be afraid
even to give a hint to Mr Melmotte about ready money. In speaking of
all such matters Melmotte seemed to imply that everything necessary
had been done, when he had said that it was done. Pickering had been
purchased and the title-deeds made over to Mr Melmotte; but the
£80,000 had not been paid,--had not been absolutely paid, though of
course Mr Melmotte's note assenting to the terms was security
sufficient for any reasonable man. The property had been mortgaged,
though not heavily, and Mr Melmotte had no doubt satisfied the
mortgagee; but there was still a sum of £50,000 to come, of which
Dolly was to have one half and the other was to be employed in paying
off Mr Longestaffe's debts to tradesmen and debts to the bank. It
would have been very pleasant to have had this at once,--but Mr
Longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing such a man as Mr Melmotte,
and was partly conscious of the gradual consummation of a new era in
money matters. 'If your banker is pressing you, refer him to me,' Mr
Melmotte had said. As for many years past we have exchanged paper
instead of actual money for our commodities, so now it seemed that,
under the new Melmotte regime, an exchange of words was to suffice.

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 to
have what belonged to him. It had all been arranged. £5,000 would pay
off all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed of
money in hand, while the other £20,000 would make his own property
free. There was a charm in this which awakened even Dolly, and for the
time almost reconciled him to his father's society. But now a shade of
impatience was coming over him. He had actually gone down to Caversham
to arrange the terms with his father,--and had in fact made his own
terms. His father had been unable to move him, and had consequently
suffered much in spirit. Dolly had been almost triumphant,--thinking
that the money would come on the next day, or at any rate during the
next week. Now he came to his father early in the morning,--at about two
o'clock,--to inquire what was being done. He had not as yet been made
blessed with a single ten-pound note in his hand, as the result of the
sale.

'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 the
Board.'

'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 Beargarden
affair.'

'A bear-garden affair, Adolphus. How so?'

'I mean the club. We had them all there for dinner one day, and a
jolly 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'd
make them fork out something if I took the trouble of going all that
way.'

'I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things.'

'No, I don't. I don't understand much about business, I know. What I
want 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'd
better tell him not. A cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to mine
is about the best thing going. You'll be in the city to-morrow, and
you'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get Squercum
to do it.' Mr Squercum was a lawyer whom Dolly had employed of late
years much to the annoyance of his parent. Mr Squercum's name was
odious to Mr Longestaffe.

'I beg you'll do nothing of the kind. It will be very foolish if you
do;--perhaps ruinous.'

'Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else,' said Dolly as he left
the room. The father knew the son, and was quite sure that Squercum
would 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,--no
power at least of which the father could avail himself,--would turn
him.

On that same day Melmotte received two visits in the city from two of
his fellow directors. At the time he was very busy. Though his
electioneering speeches were neither long nor pithy, still he had to
think of them beforehand. Members of his Committee were always trying
to see him. Orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the house
could not be given by Lord Alfred without some reference to him. And
then those gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in the
last 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?' he
said to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so that Sir Felix also should
remain standing.

'About that money, Mr Melmotte?'

'What money, my dear fellow? You see that a good many money matters
pass through my hands.'

'The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, and as
the shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back.'

'It was only the other day you had £200,' said Melmotte, showing that
he 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 it
might very probably be that day fortnight before he could start for
New York. 'Could I get them, Mr Melmotte?'

'My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of my
time when you come to me about such an affair as this.'

'I'd like to have the money or the shares,' said Sir Felix, who was
not specially averse to quarrelling with Mr Melmotte now that he had
resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York in direct
opposition to his written promise. Their quarrel would be so
thoroughly internecine when the departure should be discovered, that
any present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. What Felix
thought of now was simply his money, and the best means of getting it
out of Melmotte's hands.

'You're a spendthrift,' said Melmotte, apparently relenting, 'and I'm
afraid a gambler. I suppose I must give you £200 more on account.'

Sir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented to
take the sum offered. As he pocketed the cheque he asked for the name
of the brokers who were employed to buy the shares. But here Melmotte
demurred 'No, my friend,' said Melmotte; 'you are only entitled to
shares 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 could
get £200. Perhaps if he bestirred himself and wrote to some of Miles's
big relations he could obtain payment of a part of that gentleman's
debt to him.

Sir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul Montague
coming 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 hear
about 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 passing
on. 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 he
was waiting in Melmotte's outer room while the duke's nephew went in
to see whether it was the great man's pleasure to see him, he
remembered whence Carbury must have heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle. Of
course the rumour had come through Ruby Ruggles.

Miles Grendall brought out word that the great man would see Mr
Montague; but he added a caution. 'He's awfully full of work just
now,--you won't forget that;--will you?' Montague assured the duke's
nephew that he would be concise, and was shown in.

'I should not have troubled you,' said Paul, 'only that I understood
that I was to see you before the Board met.'

'Exactly;--of course. It was quite necessary,--only you see I am a
little busy. If this d----d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. It's a
deal 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 you
should 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 of
instructions. You'd know better, however, than we can tell you, what
to 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 get
that passed at the next Board.'

Mr Melmotte had been so quick that Montague had been unable to
interrupt him. 'There need be no trouble about that, Mr Melmotte, as I
have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go.'

'Oh, indeed!'

There had been a shade of doubt on Montague's mind, till the tone in
which Melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his ears. The
reference to the expenses disgusted him altogether. 'No;--even did I see
my way to do any good in America my duties here would not be
compatible with the undertaking.'

'I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? What good are
you 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 to
your 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's
all. 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 shall
withdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend with
whom 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 duty
to make known out of that Board-room any of the affairs of the
Company which you have learned in that Board-room. It cannot be your
duty to divulge the circumstances of the Company or any differences
which may exist between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman who
is a stranger to the Company. It cannot be your duty.'

'Thank you, Mr Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I can
see my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board without
understanding what duties I should have to perform--.'

'Very much in fault, I should say,' replied Melmotte, whose arrogance
in the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him.

'But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or how
far I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do not
want advice from you.'

'Very well;--very well. I can't ask you to stay, because a partner from
the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is waiting to see me,
about matters which are rather more important than this of yours.'
Montague had said what he had to say, and departed.

On the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the meeting of
the Board of Directors, old Mr Longestaffe called in Abchurch Lane. He
was received very civilly by Miles Grendall, and asked to sit down. Mr
Melmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over to the
offices of the railway, and introduce him to the Board. Mr
Longestaffe, with some shyness, intimated his desire to have a few
moments conversation with the chairman before the Board met. Fearing
his son, especially fearing Squercum, he had made up his mind to
suggest that the little matter about Pickering Park should be settled.
Miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him, but that
at the present moment the chief secretary of the Russian Legation was
with Mr Melmotte. Either the chief secretary was very tedious with his
business, or else other big men must have come in, for Mr Longestaffe
was not relieved till he was summoned to walk off to the Board five
minutes after the hour at which the Board should have met. He thought
that he could explain his views in the street; but on the stairs they
were joined by Mr Cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in the
Board room. Mr Longestaffe was then presented, and took the chair
opposite to Miles Grendall. Montague was not there, but had sent a
letter to the secretary explaining that for reasons with which the
chairman was acquainted he should absent himself from the present
meeting. 'All right,' said Melmotte. 'I know all about it. Go on. I'm
not sure but that Mr Montague's retirement from among us may be an
advantage. He could not be made to understand that unanimity in such
an enterprise as this is essential. I am confident that the new
director whom I have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day will
not sin in the same direction.' Then Mr Melmotte bowed and smiled very
sweetly 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 had
read something out of a book which he had been unable to follow. Then
the chairman had read some figures. Mr Cohenlupe had declared that
their prosperity was unprecedented;--and the Board was over. When Mr
Longestaffe explained to Miles Grendall that he still wished to speak
to Mr Melmotte, Miles explained to him that the chairman had been
obliged to run off to a meeting of gentlemen connected with the
interior of Africa, which was now being held at the Cannon Street
Hotel.



CHAPTER XLVI - ROGER CARBURY AND HIS TWO FRIENDS


Roger Carbury, having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained that
she was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt,
returned to Carbury. He had given the girl his advice, and had done
so in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. He had frightened
her, and had also frightened Mrs Pipkin. He had taught Mrs Pipkin to
believe that the new dispensation was not yet so completely
established as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece's
conduct. Having done so much, and feeling that there was no more to
be done, he returned home. It was out of the question that he should
take Ruby with him. In the first place she would not have gone. And
then,--had she gone,--he would not have known where to bestow her.
For it was now understood throughout Bungay,--and the news had spread
to Beccles,--that old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his
granddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm.
The squire on his return home heard all the news from his own
housekeeper. John Crumb had been at the farm and there had been a
fierce quarrel between him and the old man. The old man had called
Ruby by every name that is most distasteful to a woman, and John had
stormed and had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head
but for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby,--or if he did
he was ready to forgive that harm. But as for the Baro-nite;--the
Baro-nite had better look to himself! Old Ruggles had declared that
Ruby should never have a shilling of his money;-hereupon Crumb had
anathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was
an old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty.
Roger at once sent over to Bungay for the dealer in meal, who was
with him early on the following morning.

'Did ye find her, squoire?'

'Oh, yes, Mr Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs
Pipkin, 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 I
never see'd her.'

'I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there.' John
Crumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming of
his own intellect. 'Of course if she was to go to London it was the
proper thing for her to do.'

'I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. Darned
if 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 how
about she and the Baro-nite?'

Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. 'I suppose
the old man down here did ill-use her?'

'Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged her
about awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. D'ye
think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster
Carbury?'

'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. I
allays 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 Bungay
said 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 into
them. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house
to-morrow, and what'll it matter her then what they say? But, squoire
did 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 one
in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals and all
the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles. Huggery-Muggery
is pi'son to me, squoire.'

'We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up your
mind.'

'I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is her
aunt 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 dealing
sincerely with this most sincere of meal-men. Hitherto he had shuffled
off every question that had been asked him about Felix, though he knew
that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. 'Mrs Pipkin
won't let him come there.'

'If I was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them
lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers
like, 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 forgotten
the 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 unkind
she could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she was
cross, she can't forgive that.' John Crumb again scratched his head,
and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging
than he had yet given to it. 'And to tell you the truth, my friend, I
think 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 intense
anxiety.

'I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But of
course she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or four
children to look after.'

'That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?' said John
Crumb grinning.

'As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her in
another sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should not
be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in
Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs Pipkin's kitchen in London.'

'My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster, most
as big as any in Bungay.'

'I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it
herself. Let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her again
in a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters then than
she 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 I
had two hun'erdweight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and
thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! If I thought that
she'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury. They'd have to
make 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 good
girl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce Mrs
Pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made no
promise that he would abstain from his journey to London after
Saxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that his
purpose of doing so was shaken. He was still however resolved to send
Mrs Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose of
getting Mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order. John
Crumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in literary
acquirements. He was able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, but
did little beyond that in the way of writing letters.

This happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon Roger
Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church matters
at which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting was over he
dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or three
neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long
strand which has made Lowestoft what it is. It was now just the end
of June, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not as yet
flocking to the sea-shore. Every shopkeeper in every little town
through the country now follows the fashion set by Parliament and
abstains from his annual holiday till August or September. The place
therefore was by no means full. Here and there a few of the
townspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to the
sea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion,
had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which had
been described as being small and insignificant,--and making up only a
hundred beds. Roger Carbury, whose house was not many miles distant
from Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter
there for a while when any cause brought him into the town. Now he was
walking close down upon the marge of the tide,--so that the last little
roll of the rising water should touch his feet,--with his hands joined
behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he
came upon a couple who were standing with their backs to the land,
looking forth together upon the waves. He was close to them before he
saw them, and before they had seen him. Then he perceived that the man
was 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 impossible
to pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs Hurtle.

Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had
been natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when fault
had been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands
which were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot which
Mrs Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken down
out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to be
charmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had
no right to expect that Mrs Pipkin should understand what sort of
place she needed. But Paul would understand,--and had understood. 'I
think the hotel charming,' she said. 'I don't know what you mean by
your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous,
and the people so civil!' Hotel people always are civil before the
crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to
London by the mail train which started about an hour after his
arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning,
and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and of
course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothing
in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Of
course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but
was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite
raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which
connected shore with shore. Mrs Hurtle, too, as she leaned with
friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance.
Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring
care, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to be
hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like the
companionship of Mrs Hurtle because her attire, though simple, was
becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the
brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the
dangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of her
close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her
hair,--though he would have given all that he possessed that she had
been 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 the
close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;--and now he felt his folly. As
soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then
leaving Mrs Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his
friend. 'It is Mrs Hurtle,' he said, 'I must introduce you,' and the
introduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so
with the coldest ceremony. Mrs Hurtle, who was quick enough at
gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in
her acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much
of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. 'I did
not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft,' said Roger
in a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present
moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind.

'I was not thinking of it. Mrs Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as
she 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 any
one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me
for 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 dine
you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join
us.' So saying, Mrs Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the
hotel.

'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 so
thoroughly 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 her
in 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 another
woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speaking
to 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 would
never have the patience to hear me.'

'I am not naturally impatient.'

'But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it
must be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound
to 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 her
in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not
desert her.'

'I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself
to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons
which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be
adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would
be justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with
the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that
your old promise holds good.'

'She does not think so. She cannot think so.'

'Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, to
be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why I
should trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that I
don't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right to
complain.'

'For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as
though you meant to throw me over.'

'I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to
this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not
going to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it, of
course I could have turned the other way. But coming on you by
accident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak, what
am I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marrying
you.'

'Never.'

'And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is
good-looking.'

'Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her
country are not as the manners of this country.'

'Then if I marry at all,' said Roger, with all his prejudice expressed
strongly in his voice, 'I trust I may not marry a lady of her country.
She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes down
here and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it. I believe you, but
I don't believe her. She is here with you in order that she may marry
you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. Believing as
I do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell her my
mind,--and leave her.' Paul at the moment thought of the gentleman in
Oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. 'That's what I should
do. 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 bethought
himself that his welcome had not been cordial. 'I mean that I shall be
delighted to see you,' he added, marching away along the strand. Paul
did go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. In the meantime Roger
Carbury marched far away along the strand. In all that he had said to
Montague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to be
the truth. He had not been influenced for a moment by any reference to
his 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 this
very moment living in close intercourse with the woman after he had
told her that he would not keep his promise,--was the chief barrier
between himself and the girl that he loved. As he had listened to John
Crumb while John spoke of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he
and John Crumb were alike. With an honest, true, heartfelt desire
they both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom each
had chosen. And each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of
unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb, by dogged perseverance
and indifference to many things, would probably be successful at last.
But what chance was there of success for him? Ruby, as soon as want or
hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be
trusted to provide her with plenty and comparative ease. But Hetta
Carbury, if once her heart had passed from her own dominion into the
possession of another, would never change her love. It was possible,
no doubt,--nay, how probable,--that her heart was still vacillating. Roger
thought that he knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared her
love. If she were now to know,--if she could now learn,--of what nature
was the love of this other man; if she could be instructed that he was
living alone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,--
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 could
trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would certainly
be shipwrecked!

'Never,' said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach
with his stick. 'Never.' Then he got his horse and rode back to
Carbury 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 the
cover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and made herself
especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that everything
was not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked and laughed,
there was something forced in her manner. He almost knew that she was
only waiting till the man should have left the room to speak in a
different strain. And so it was. As soon as the last lingering dish
had been removed, and when the door was finally shut behind the
retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been on
her mind since she had walked across the strand to the hotel. 'Your
friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?'

'Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true
that he had dined.'

'I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of
declining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimate
terms with you?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. In
point of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?' To this question
Montague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate
answer. 'I can well understand that it should be so. An intimate
friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence.
But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his
friend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told me
that 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. 'Did
not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me,
when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority over
you?'

'Of course he has not. What authority could he have?'

'Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-going
country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past
thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that he
intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did
after I had gone.'

This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was he
sure 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 her
understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly indeed
because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardly
insist because she could allege that she had a prior right to his
heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to cause all
his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he plucked up
courage for the battle. 'It was nearly that,' he said.

There are many--and probably the greater portion of my readers will be
among the number,--who will declare to themselves that Paul Montague was
a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance to face this
woman with the truth. His folly in falling at first under the battery
of her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement, unwise as it was,
and his subsequent determination to break his engagement, will be
pardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, will feel that it was
natural that he should have been charmed, natural that he should have
expressed his admiration in the form which unmarried ladies expect
from unmarried men when any such expression is to be made at all;--
natural also that he should endeavour to escape from the dilemma when
he found the manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed to
take. No woman, I think, will be hard upon him because of his breach
of faith to Mrs Hurtle. But they will be very hard on him on the score
of his cowardice,--as, I think, unjustly. In social life we hardly stop
to consider how much of that daring spirit which gives mastery comes
from hardness of heart rather than from high purpose, or true courage.
The man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her
daughter, the master who succumbs to his servant, is as often brought
to servility by a continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a
softness which causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to
himself,--as by any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one
may have produced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of the
mind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the
troubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to
fear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with absolute
firmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly
as to assert itself. With this man it was not really that. He feared
the woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be
silent; but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter
desertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring
himself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go.
But that was what he had to do. And for that his answer to her last
question prepared the way. 'It was nearly that,' he said.

'Mr Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing
yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?'

'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 silent
about 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 best
friend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should not
have supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travelling
with you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own
actions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold
themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream that
such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world to
make his fortune.'

Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was being
commenced. 'Of course you can say bitter things,' he replied.

'Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter
things to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that
you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I
have to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but
one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be
soon 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 speak
but that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember
how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your
happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though I loved
you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which have now
vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because I believed
you. Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my gift
to 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 man
has 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 think
but little of my life and have but little for which to live. But while
I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and
to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote to me! Heaven
and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!' She
clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she looked
at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance. 'Wrote
to me! Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which
we were bound together? Had not the distance between us seemed to have
made you safe would you have dared to write that letter? The letter
must be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct to
me 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 have
been 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 the
purpose. 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 that
is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the
matter 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 your
throat?'

'There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that
which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I
been fairly careful.'

Then he paused. 'Don't spare me,' she said. 'I know what it all is as
well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which they
have 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 my
feet.' 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 to
tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dying
wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken
screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap
just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alone
that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards
have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me for
his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems
of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of
such 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 over
him. 'They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and
who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of my
former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a
scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you can
hardly know what my life has been.'

'They told me that--you fought him.'

'Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you
to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and
treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for
fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a
duel? 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 away
to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was
the 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 to
the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make a woman free
here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued for a divorce on the
score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Court
granted 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, you
did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to hear
little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become more
particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself, and do
believe. 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 they
have made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my
property?'

'I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have
said 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 because
I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am
I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a
reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or
because by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not
to 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 in
doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to shooting
the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot
a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her husband,--she had
half denied and half confessed it. He presumed that she had been armed
with a pistol when she refused Mr Hurtle admittance into the nuptial
chamber. As to the question of Hurtle's death,--she had confessed that
perhaps he was not dead. But then,--as she had asked,--why should not a
divorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death? He
could not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the
story as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her? She had
seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had
done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well
hesitate before he assumed to be her master. 'I do not condemn you,'
he replied.

'At any rate, Paul, do not lie,' she answered. 'If you tell me that
you 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 since
satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of
us.'

'You have.'

'I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me
as you please. I can hardly defend myself.'

'Hardly, I think.'

'But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the
best in declaring that I will not become--your husband.'

'You will not?' She was still standing, and stretched out her right
hand as though again to grasp something.

He also now rose from his chair. 'If I speak with abruptness it is
only to avoid a show of indecision. I will not.'

'Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after
man false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear
it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is it
that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for
herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary? Perhaps
you 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. It
was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery was
gone, and the colour was fixed and her eyes seemed to be deep in her
head. '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 you
tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your
character. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to
you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me
and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing what
you 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 should
be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! My last word to
you is, that you are--a liar. Now for the present you can go. Ten
minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shot
another man.'

Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but
think that perhaps Mrs Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed at
any 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 present
occasion. 'I will say good-bye to you,' he said, when he had found his
hat.

'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 me
that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman. You
would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself.' He was now standing
in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperative
command. 'I shall not stay here now,' she said--'I shall return on
Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what I
myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking a means of
punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to come to me on
Monday.'

He closed the door as he answered her. 'I do not see that it will
serve any purpose.'

'It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a
coward 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 myself
and to tell my story.' He ended by saying that if she desired it he
would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. On
his return to town he would write to her.

When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then she
closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door
and with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and
falling 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 upon
the floor.

Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never have
one draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end to
the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that she
had 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 had
endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed against,
and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which had befallen
her. But in regard to money, she had been honest and she had been
loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this young
Englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with all
her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey would
this be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone!

But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of
disappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had
poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm of
abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all
something counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was no
counterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and taken
her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed
him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of violence
and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs the old
habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the wrongs, if
she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her,
in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all the
genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she thought she could put
away violence and be gentle as a young girl. When she first met this
Englishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she had
ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. But the
reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her,
and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before,
that it would have been better for her to have turned the muzzle
against her own bosom.

After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told
herself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter first
reached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her,
declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural. In
marrying 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 should
be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in England. With
all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the
old country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the minds
of American men and women, an almost envious admiration of English
excellence. To have been allowed to forget the past and to live the
life of an English lady would have been heaven to her. But she, who
was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities of
her own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence
out in the far West,--how could she dare to hope that her lot should be
so changed for her?

She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before
she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that
hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness.
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 lost
herself 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 man
had relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Though
she could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life
be opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that
journey to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary
kind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she have
accompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been
fit.

She was conscious, perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That at
any rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware that
time was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable of
causing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities of a
good comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this of
herself. If he and she could be together in some country in which
those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could
she not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give up
everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous
country for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with him
in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been she
must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It was
consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present
plans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.

Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the
plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was the
writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest
love, and telling him that he was right. She did write the letter, but
wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength to
send it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling she wrote the
following 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 it
twice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she
ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring
herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went to bed
but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had left her.

Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the
sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance
to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast he
presented himself to the squire. 'I have come earlier than you
expected,' 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. 'Let
her follow you, and bear it,' he said. 'Of course you must suffer the
effects of your own imprudence.' On that evening Paul Montague
returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus
avoid a meeting with Mrs Hurtle in the railway-carriage.



CHAPTER XLVIII - RUBY A PRISONER


Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at
the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him
again. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was
stronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her
lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had
not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a
London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard
life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming
delight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three
days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash
and dress all the children without complaint. Mrs Pipkin was forced to
own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had parted
with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet
again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had been
wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be told
about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would
speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so
she wrote him a letter.

Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly
bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored
the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want to
hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music
Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short
reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the Tuesday. As at
this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to
New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the
companionship of Ruby Ruggles.

Mrs Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is
certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send
and receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's
visit Mrs Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her
niece. 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, nearly
as far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and
saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs Pipkin's mind
was intent on obeying Mr Carbury's behests. She had already hinted
something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose to
tell her and to swear to her most,--solemnly should she find her
preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening,--that she
should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in
her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful
in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went
up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better
precaution struck Mrs Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless,--had left
her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with
the children, and Mrs Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clock
when Ruby went upstairs,--and then Mrs Pipkin locked both the front door
and the area gate. Mrs Hurtle had come home on the previous day. 'You
won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs Hurtle?' said Mrs
Pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs Hurtle declared her purpose
of remaining at home all the evening. 'If you should hear words
between 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; is
it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of
doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come
next.' Mrs Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thus
took her lodger into her confidence.

Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made her
usual little speech. 'I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little
time 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'll
stay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't come
back 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 greatest
scamp 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, you
needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take
off again.'

Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition,--what
she would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that her
aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It seemed to
her 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, any
way.'

'Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl
downstairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a
right 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 all
day till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not once
in a week?'

'Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw
yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me.'

'Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into no
gutter. 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 the
area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off.'

Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. Mrs
Pipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she
possessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, or
attempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of Ruby,
not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her as
over a servant. And though she was now determined in her conduct,--being
fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in her
pocket,--still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall away
into tears, should Ruby be violent. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover
would be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by
her! '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 ruin
me,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you
don't like.'

Mrs Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But
Mr Carbury had spoken so very plainly! 'It ain't the thing, Ruby; and
I won't do it.'

'And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I
don'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 you
choose to go out.'

'Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?' But Mrs Pipkin
was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her
garret.

Mrs Pipkin knocked at Mrs Hurtle's door again. 'She's gone to bed,' she
said.

'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 as
well 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's
got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman
will marry her.'

'She is pretty!'

'But what's beauty, Mrs Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the
scriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry
her? 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 are
managed. No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls
as 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 the
gentlemen. A gentlemen goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up
free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe,
I'm old-fashioned,' added Mrs Pipkin, thinking of the new
dispensation.

'I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly.'

'A deal more, Mrs Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of
spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that
before their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do
it, I suppose,--only not like that.'

'You did it on the sly.'

'I think we got married quicker than they do, anyway. When the
gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But if
you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs Hurtle, she'd listen
to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want her
to go away from this, out into the Street, till she knows where she's
to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's just walking
the streets.'

Mrs Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when making
the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. She
knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it, but
Paul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion as
Ruby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover. Who was she that
she should take upon herself to give advice to any female?

She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in her
pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and
at others she told herself that she would never surrender this last
hope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible to
shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the
Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs Pipkin in her mildest
voice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had not
liked 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 the
Tuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte for New
York on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool on the
Wednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy
himself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor little
Ruby. The details of his journey were settled between him and Marie,
with no inconsiderable assistance from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor
Square, on the previous Sunday,--where the lovers had again met during
the hours of morning service. Sir Felix had been astonished at the
completion of the preparations which had been made. 'Mind you go by
the 5 p.m. train,' Marie said. 'That will take you into Liverpool at
10:15. There's an hotel at the railway station. Didon has got our
tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to
have one cabin between us. You must get yours to-morrow. She has found
out that there is plenty of room.'

'I'll be all right.'

'Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure to
suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We leave
at 7 a.m. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in
time. Robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the cab
with 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 job
to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and
Madame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but I
shall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all my
jewels. 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 Didon
and I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near nine, and I
don'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, I
should only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent me
marrying.'

'Won't your mother find out?'

'She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if she
knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be like
that.'--And she looked up into his face, and thought that it would be
impossible 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 a
pleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the great
heiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed,--and
executed after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wished
that he had not undertaken it. It must have been much nicer when men
ran away with their heiresses only as far as Gretna Green. And even
Goldsheiner with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison with
this which he was expected to perform. And then if they should be
wrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented. He did repent, but
he had not the courage to recede. 'How about money though?' he said
hoarsely.

'You have got some?'

'I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and not
a shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not let
me have it back.'

'Look here,' said Marie, and she put her hand into her pocket. 'I told
you I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two hundred and
fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets.'

'And whose is this?' said Felix, taking the bit of paper with much
trepidation.

'It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the
house and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that she
doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't.' Felix looked at the
cheque and saw that it was payable to House or Bearer, and that it was
signed by Augustus Melmotte. 'If you take it to the bank you'll get
the money,' said Marie. 'Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money
on board the ship?'

Felix thought over the matter very anxiously. If he did go on the
journey he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. He
liked the feeling of having money in his pocket. Perhaps if Didon were
entrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. But then
might it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself he
might be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money? 'I think Didon had
better get the money,' he said, 'and bring it to me to-morrow, at four
o'clock in the afternoon, to the club.' If the money did not come he
would not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the expense of his
ticket for New York. 'You see,' he said, 'I'm so much in the City that
they might know me at the bank.' To this arrangement Marie assented
and took back the cheque. 'And then I'll come on board on Thursday
morning,' he said, 'without looking for you.'

'Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till we
are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on the
deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you think?
Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman on
board. 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's
done, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa,
and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? Of course he'll make
the 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 think
he 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 on
thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. It'll be all
right in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when
he hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see him. He never
can say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged, but it was he
broke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to be
married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!' Felix at
this moment almost wished that he had never done so. As to what the
other man had done, he cared nothing at all.

Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each
other again till they met on board the boat. All arrangements were
made. But Felix was determined that he would not stir in the matter
unless Didon brought him the full sum of £250; and he almost thought,
and indeed hoped, that she would not. Either she would be suspected at
the bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the money on her
own account when she got it;--or the cheque would have been missed and
the payment stopped. Some accident would occur, and then he would be
able to recede from his undertaking. He would do nothing till after
Monday afternoon.

Should he tell his mother that he was going? His mother had clearly
recommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approve
of the measure. His mother would understand how great would be the
expense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stock
of money. He determined that he could tell his mother;--that is, if
Didon 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 within
him as he saw her. Now must he certainly go to New York. She made him
a little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft and
fat with rich enclosures. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a
little waiting-room counted the notes. The money was all there;--the
full sum of £250. He must certainly go to New York. 'C'est tout èn
regle?' said Didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. Sir Felix
nodded his head, and Didon took her departure.

Yes; he must go now. He had Melmotte's money in his pocket, and was
therefore bound to run away with Melmotte's daughter. It was a great
trouble to him as he reflected that Melmotte had more of his money
than he had of Melmotte's. And now how should he dispose of his time
before he went? Gambling was too dangerous. Even he felt that. Where
would he be were he to lose his ready money? He would dine that night
at the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. On the Tuesday he
would take his place for New York in the City, and would spend the
evening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start
for Liverpool,--according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that
he had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well
nobody would know that. All the fellows would give him credit for the
audacity 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?' Lady
Carbury of course went with him. 'I've got something to tell you,' he
said.

'Good news?' she asked, clasping her hands together. From his manner
she thought that it was good news. Money had in some way come into his
hands,--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'm
going to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of money
for this kind of thing.'

'But when?'

'Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. I've
had 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 have
done 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 go
without 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 me
up to it. I've got to get my things ready.'

'Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will
have 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 will
it be if he does not forgive her?' He attempted to laugh. 'When I
spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would
never 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 poor
mother. '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 upon
if things went amiss with them.'

'But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to give
to her husband.'

'Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the
pull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great
deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for
me about money, mother?'

'I have none, Felix.'

'I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do
it.'

'That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry
that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't £20
at 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 so
much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for
them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but I
have not money to give you.'

'That's a blue look-out,' said he, turning himself in his chair 'just
when £60 or £70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from
your friend Broune.'

'I will do no such thing, Felix. £50 or £60 would make very little
difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have
some money?'

'Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help
me.' Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque
for £30 although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not
so much at her banker's.

After this he went back to his club, although he himself understood
the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed, quietly at
home at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the
card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where
Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together,
with pipes in their mouths. 'Here's Carbury,' said Dolly, waking
suddenly 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 fellows
sticking down together.' Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious
of the baronet's dislike to play with him. 'By-the-by, Grendall look
here.' And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his
enemy's ear a petition that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into
cash.

''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, getting
up and standing with his back to the fireplace. There were other men
in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. 'I
wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the
pound?' And he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. He had been
drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a
glass 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 down
here. It isn't the proper thing.'

'Come up into the card-room, then,' said Sir Felix, getting up from
his chair. 'It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what
room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and
hear 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 going
to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had
anything to say, he could say it.

'How I do hate a row!' said Dolly. 'One has to have rows with one's
own 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, walking
out of the room.

On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's
cheque. This was done after a little hesitation: The money was given
to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind
Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. 'Dear, dear;' said
Sir 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 name
of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming
very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and
in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained, from ten
till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles.
As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that
he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York. Of course
he would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever complain on
that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his last
night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her
appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen
to her she could not blame him.

Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall
without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his
club. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well
inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up
in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of
Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one
or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea
of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles
Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the
peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the
Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a
half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but
the payments punctual. The I.O.U.'s had been nearly all converted into
money,--with the assistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those of Miles
Grendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's
former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must
in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him the
determination of the committee. 'Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but
you really must stump up, you know, after this.' Miles had declared
that he would 'stump up.' But on this occasion Miles was absent.

At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred
pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a
further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he
should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.

But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of
recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fisker
had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch
the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New York
without delay.



CHAPTER L - THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL


Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also the
faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of pleasure,--
or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door locked, she
packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having more than once
laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. She
asked Didon her opinion whether that American clergyman of whom they
had heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event the
dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon thought that the man, if
sufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much
signify. She scolded her young mistress very often during the night
for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard for
her. They determined to go without food in the morning, so that no
suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. They could
get refreshment at the railway-station.

At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his
ten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller
luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and
nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them
their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had
quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by Marie
till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad
tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement was so
great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their seats
without any impediment,--and then they were off.

During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie
gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the
things she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale,--especially when,
after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no token
of love,--'pas un baiser!' Didon suggested that such was the way with
English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had been
willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from devoted
affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was ugly, and
that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. 'Bah!' exclaimed
Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations should
prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdale
would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would
never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would never have
anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but her mistress
liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had thought that New
York, with £50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new
career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbear
from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress. Marie bore it
with imperturbable good humour. She was running away,--and was running
to a distant continent,--and her lover would be with her! She gave Didon
to understand that she cared nothing for marquises.

As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be
very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their
destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station should
know that they were going on board the packet for New York. They had
time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and other
things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were in
a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply 'Madame Racine, Passenger
to Liverpool;'--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, which
was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety would not be
over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was sure that all
their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe on board. Poor
Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to
find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss of
money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath the
bedclothes.

When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat for
a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any hurry or
noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take
their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages, keeping however
the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then
Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a
gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, 'You, I think, are Miss
Melmotte.' Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. Didon immediately
became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte;
the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was Madame
Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about
Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their
cab?

But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to
their cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not seem
to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distance
Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connect
himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much at
command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at once gave
up 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, Elise
Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte.' Marie declared that she
spoke French. 'And English too,' said the gentleman. 'I think you had
better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you.'

'Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!' exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up
her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position
and of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to
Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their
luggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing
against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was it
to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit
himself to reply in the same language. 'You had better trust yourself
to me; you had indeed,' said the gentleman.

'But why?' demanded Marie.

Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. 'A cheque has been
changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father
will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we may
bring 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 to
no inconvenience which can be avoided.'

There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well
doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to the
annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen who
spent all the public money without authority ought not to have been
punished with special severity in that they had injured humanity,
rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced. Who is
benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their old
interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie, when
she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr Scudamore.

When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further
opposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she sat
down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her own
behalf,--and her clamour was successful. 'Who was going to stop her?
What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased. Did anybody
mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that
person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go
where she pleased.' So saying she began to tug the rope of her box as
though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station.
The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another document which
he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. Elise
Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. The
gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better return
with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would go
to New York. She would go wherever she pleased;--all the world over.
Nobody should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what little
English she could command to half-a-dozen cab-men who were standing
round and enjoying the scene. They were to take her trunk at once. She
had money and she could pay. She started off to the nearest cab, and
no one stopped her. 'But the box in her hand is mine,' said Marie, not
forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the
jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of
farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she was
driven away out of the station,--and out of our story. She had a
first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have
been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.

Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved
himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on
board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense,
looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been
carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape.
And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still
hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a
marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She
would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she
see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when
he should find himself on his way to New York without his love! But in
one 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 she
would say it again. There was, however, doubt in her mind from time to
time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. If
she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be
killed,--would not that be the best termination to her present
disappointment? 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 that
he cares for me,' she said to herself, thinking over it all.

The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though
she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a
little advice. 'Put a good face on it,' he said, 'and don't be cast
down.'

'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-morrow
if I had the chance.' The gentleman looked at her, not having expected
so much determination. 'I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to
please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that I
stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says
anything 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 because
papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright mean
to 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 the
journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte
carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was
to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Square
might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, of
course, very soon knew all about it. 'And are you to come?' Marie
asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had
been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. 'All the people will wonder
who you are,' said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that
Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much
suffering.

When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room,--and
there she found her father, alone. 'This is your game, is it?' said
he, 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 she
vouchsafed no reply. 'As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was
going 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 her
eyes and looked at him. 'An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's
house 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 New
York, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed
behind, 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 London
at 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. I
only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back
again.'

'I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to
Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to
marry him again if I don't prosecute him?' Marie considered. 'Unless
you 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. I
gave it to him.'

'Will you promise me?'

'No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only
break it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of
all the money if people don't have what they like?'

'All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here,' and he
took her by the arm. 'I've been very good to you. You've had your
share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses,
bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else.' He
held her very hard and shook her as he spoke.

'Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't
care 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've
had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in
return, by G----, you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren't such
a 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'll
have a position in the world which nothing can take from you.'

'Then I won't,' said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she
cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let the
girl for one minute out of her presence.

The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady
with whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden
till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the
breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless.
During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the
club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom,
indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they been
said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that Grendall
would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo,--as to
which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended by
asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club. They had a
desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it,
and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than
one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock the party was
broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing
more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his
luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.

There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix
wandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was nearly
drunk, 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 producing
oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is conscious of
itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the
brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. Sir Felix
trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and losing it at every turn,
feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of
dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of his
intoxication. What had he better do with himself? He fumbled in his
pocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for New York. Should he
still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not
remember where it was. At last, as he steadied himself against a
letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were at
the club. By this time he had wandered into Marylebone Lane, but did
not in the least know where he was. But he made an attempt to get back
to his club, and stumbled half down Bond Street. Then a policeman
enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck
Street, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street. Having once
mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will left
to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting for
Liverpool.

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 was
supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At last
it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than once,
and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not probably
know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning;
but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight
cannot meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a condition.
'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 as
he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the 'old shap' was fast
asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and
Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews.
'Bettersh go to bed.' And so he stumbled upstairs by daylight, the
wretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his
boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own
room, a miserable woman.



CHAPTER LI - WHICH SHALL IT BE?


Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the
Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs Hurtle. As he
sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished that
he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at any rate
have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then have
abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of course
he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of
what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her? The kind of
life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of Roger
Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he loved,
seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like Roger Carbury!
Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write to
Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world?

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had repudiated
the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was necessary
that he should immediately take some further step in regard to Mrs
Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that he would
see 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 an
end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go again to
Islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, she
would 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 still
require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain
unvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent by
post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as he
now 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 had
written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrap
of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words, fairly
transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most generous and
the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be generous. She
had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself. But the
sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been of
another kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she would have
delighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had she found him
a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some disease, she would
have stayed by him and have nursed him and given him comfort. Even had
he been disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country and
have pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice would have been too much
for her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that he
appreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved in
return. But to sacrifice herself by going away and never more being
heard of, was too much for her! What woman can endure such sacrifice
as that? To give up not only her love, but her wrath also;--that was too
much for her! The idea of being tame was terrible to her. Her life had
not been very prosperous, but she was what she was because she had
dared to protect herself by her own spirit. Now, at last, should she
succumb and be trodden on like a worm? Should she be weaker even than
an English girl? Should she allow him to have amused himself with her
love, to have had 'a good time,' and then to roam away like a bee,
while she was so dreadfully scorched, so mutilated and punished! Had
not her whole life been opposed to the theory of such passive
endurance? She took out the scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite
of all, she felt that there was a feminine softness in it that
gratified her.

But no;--she could not send it. She could not even copy the words. And
so 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 her
desk, 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 way
to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the following
morning 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 started
immediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting.
He had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her, his
going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at Mrs Pipkin's,
and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken as evidence
that he was gradually being conquered. He had declared his purpose
plainly enough at Lowestoft,--and plainly enough in his last letter.
She had told him, down at the hotel, that had she by chance have been
armed at the moment, she would have shot him. She could arm herself
now 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 do
her wrong. The worst of that was now over.

The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him with
a happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of her
imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this
very moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, in
fact, 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, but
had not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogether
intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing
about Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs Hurtle's room.

'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 you
much. Will you sit down there?' she said, pointing to a seat at some
distance from herself. 'So you think it would be best that you and I
should never see each other again?' She was very calm; but it seemed
to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might
be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in her eye
which 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 a
gentleman trouble himself to say any more than that he has changed his
mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a
woman's heart?' Then she paused. 'And having come, in consequence of
my 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 you
say? Suppose you were to say, "I am a gentleman, and a man of my word,
and I repent me of my intended perfidy," do you not think you might
get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should
reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after
it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?' As
she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself
in 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 by
my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you,--none to
that 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 nothing
to 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. Mrs
Pipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I
have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a
choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could
die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it.' There was
no answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because there
was no answer possible. 'You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you
are 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 future
life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any
rate to Mrs Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of
leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I
shall be desolate in this.' Then she paused, and there was absolute
silence 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 I
wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to
choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier
written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had
many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may
see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was
writing it, I was determined that that should go.' Then she handed him
the 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? Speak
out and tell me.'

'I am thinking of you, not of myself.'

'Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to
which I have been subjected does not justify?'

'You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under
any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip.'

'It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse
themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I
don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight
for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a
woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning
upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is
unfeminine 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 may
be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take
advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she
be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it
is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of
womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,--and
then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all.' And so
she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and he
read 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 threw
himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. 'I have not sent it, you
know,' she said. 'I only show it you that you may see how my mind has
been at work'

'It hurts me more than the other,' he replied.

'Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that
I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so
ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why should
life 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 at
the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San
Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man
should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon.' But though she
spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his
hair, and looked into his face. 'I wonder whether that other woman
loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better
go.' She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. 'Tell me one
thing. 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 troubled
no more with Winifred Hurtle.' She took the sheet of paper which
contained 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? That
also shall be destroyed.' But she took it and restored it to her
pocket-book.

'Good-bye, my friend,' he said.

'Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no
other word spoken.' And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and
begged Ruby to ask Mrs Pipkin to come to her. 'Mrs Pipkin,' she said,
as soon as the woman had entered the room; 'everything is over between
me and Mr Montague.' She was standing upright in the middle of the
room, 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 right
now 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 about
that. 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.' Mrs
Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an
interesting story.

'We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back not
together. 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 say
anything more about it.'

'And are you going to leave, ma'am?' said Mrs Pipkin, prepared to have
her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she get
such another lodger as Mrs Hurtle,--a lady who not only did not inquire
about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should
eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an
item in a bill since she had been in the house!

'We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs Pipkin.' Then Mrs Pipkin gave
utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost
seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover
in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.



CHAPTER LII - THE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE


Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury
in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother
crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast
asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was
one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head
to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort
anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe
the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he
would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace
within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the
page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and
brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he
did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for
running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely
allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their
arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her
long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had
failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility would be incurred
by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his
money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a
fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was
afraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but no
details, of some row at the club,--but still with a conviction on his
mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he summon courage to
enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All
the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with
him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he
invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at
the club;--or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether
he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station.
He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should
cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this
idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him
and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him
persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he
appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must
be 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 be
the fate of the girl she could not stop to inquire. She had not heard
all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix
had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start
on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of
aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had bought
clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing
for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own daughter as to
the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone, but had
come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his
pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found
his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to
him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his
club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she
had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should
now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some
story. 'Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has
not gone at all,' Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring
herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not
say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hetta no
doubt had her own suspicions. 'Yes; he has come back,' said Lady
Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. 'It was some plan about the
Mexican railway I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy
and not well. I will see to him.' After that Hetta had said nothing
during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady
Carbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should
speak to her.

'Felix,' she said,--'speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake.' He
groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself further
under the bedclothes. 'You must get up for your dinner. It is near six
o'clock.'

'All right,' he said at last.

'What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told
sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your
mother.'

'I am so sick, mother.'

'You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come
of 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 had
discovered it.'

'Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't
see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather
stay here.'

'You must have something to eat, Felix.'

'Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so
faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't
talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'll
tell you all about it then.'

'Where is the money, Felix?'

'I paid it for the ticket,' said he, with both his hands up to his
head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to
be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to
give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and
invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him
soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did
succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

'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 is
nothing 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 tells
me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much better it
would be to be childless!'

'Oh, mamma, do you mean me?' said Hetta, rushing across the room, and
throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. 'Mamma, say
that 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 try
to be a comfort to you?'

'Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can
protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a
friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and
gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will
not 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 love
around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good
man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to
make 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 what
you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to
sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others.'

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again
went upstairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right
that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be
right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her
family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did in truth
worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew, all that her
mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of
his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he was
a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as was
hers 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 she
had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Her
time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she
thought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty,
and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But
she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she
did not love.

'I don't know what there is to explain,' said Felix to his mother. She
had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been
interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him from
Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been
possible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring
himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. 'It
didn'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 fellow
does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club,--that
the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I was
so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the ticket. There it
is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30 in getting it. I
suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't another
shilling in the world.' Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, or
of that which he had himself received from Melmotte. And as his mother
had 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 was
a 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 of
tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper.
Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting his
offer, Mr Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There
was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship
than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freely
about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some
attempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade of
love-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 the
maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him,--the
unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of
contributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders,
under which an Atlas would have succumbed. And he told her something
too of his triumphs;--how he had had this fellow bowled over in
punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring
to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and
clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew his good nature and his
patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune
of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the
steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! Lady Carbury
delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and little
confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost made up her
mind to give up Mr Alf. Of nothing was Mr Broune more certain than
that Mr Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminster
election and those attacks on Melmotte. 'The world of London generally
knows what it is about,' said Mr Broune, 'and the London world
believes Mr Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he has
never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his
antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will
get the worst of it.' Under such teaching as this, Lady Carbury was
almost obliged to give up Mr Alf.

Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also Mr
Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be in her
own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at once
poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she told
him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had already
heard the story. 'The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix
was not there.'

'He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all
day. Did she go?'

'So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of the
police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without letting
her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover
was 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 to
New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything
about money?'

'What money?'

'They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had
taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no
time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do
it, for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it should
be sent back at once. It will be for his credit.' This Mr Broune said
with 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 any
money. What did Mr Broune mean by a large sum? 'That would be
dreadful,' she said.

'Had you not better ask him about it?'

Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to
get 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 came
out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by
her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs
from 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 was
nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. 'You must put a stop to
this.'

'But how?'

'You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must
be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he
got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must be
done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do not
contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off
now, 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 early
to-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 into
Mr Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had
been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr
Melmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of this
from 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 he
had lost this money at play. The story was fairly true; but Lady
Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in
believing it because it was told to her by her son.



CHAPTER LIII - A DAY IN THE CITY


Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the
matter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known
that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet
Sir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of
certain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in the
day the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale would
hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in that
direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl to
throw away her chance,--nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant
career, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely
more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had pledged
himself to abstain from any step of this kind,--had given a written
pledge,--had renounced under his own signature his intention of marrying
Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the details of the cheque
for £250,--how the money had been paid at the bank to Didon, and how
Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself acknowledged that Sir
Felix had received the money. If possible he would prosecute the
baronet for stealing his money.

Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have been
satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed the
money to go without further trouble. At this especial point in his
career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns were of
such magnitude that £250 could make but little difference. But there
had grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, a
self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, which
clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that power of
calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He remembered
perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed it
was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions,
whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, which
was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He knew exactly how
he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom he had given a penny
last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father and son, to whom he had
not as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of Pickering.
But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into his hands for the
purchase of shares,--and that consignment did not justify Six Felix in
taking another sum of money from his daughter. In such a matter he
thought that an English magistrate, and an English jury, would all be
on his side,--especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about to
be chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor of
China!

The next day was Friday,--the day of the Railway Board. Early in the
morning 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 a
clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was still
a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance would be
best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young lord would
of course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had for some
weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard to
Sir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his suit. It
might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the young lady
had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the
whole be rather improved than injured.

Mr Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the
earliest and most unfortunate was Mr Longestaffe. At that time there
had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double
ingress and egress,--a front stairs and a back stairs approach and
exit, as is always necessary with very great men,--in reference to
which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is exactly
contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the front
stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and
uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used
only for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of the
stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in their
right courses. Mr Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane before one,--having
altogether failed in getting a moment's private conversation with the
big man on that other Friday, when he had come later. He fell at once
into Miles's hands, and was ushered through the front stairs passage
and into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external courtesy.
Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did Mr Longestaffe want to see Mr
Melmotte? Oh;--Mr Longestaffe wanted to see Mr Melmotte as soon as
possible! Of course Mr Longestaffe should see Mr Melmotte. He, Miles,
knew that Mr Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing Mr
Longestaffe. Mr Melmotte had mentioned Mr Longestaffe's name twice
during the last three days. Would Mr Longestaffe sit down for a few
minutes? Had Mr Longestaffe seen the 'Morning Breakfast Table'? Mr
Melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment a
deputation from the Canadian Government was with him;--and Sir Gregory
Gribe was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thought
that the Canadian Government would not be long,--and as for Sir Gregory,
perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very best
to get an interview for Mr Longestaffe,--more especially as Mr Melmotte
was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishing
that such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business so
well and should have made himself so handy! We will leave Mr
Longestaffe with the 'Morning Breakfast Table' in his hands, in the
front waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained
for something over two hours.

In the meantime both Mr Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the office,
and both were received without delay. Mr Broune was the first. Miles
knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the same room with
Mr Longestaffe. 'I'll just send him a note,' said Mr Broune, and he
scrawled a few words at the office counter. 'I'm commissioned to pay
you some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte.' Those were the words, and
they at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The Canadian
Deputation must have taken its leave, and Sir Gregory could hardly
have as yet arrived. Lord Nidderdale, who had presented himself almost
at the same moment with the Editor, was shown into a little private
room which was, indeed, Miles Grendall's own retreat. 'What's up with
the Governor?' asked the young lord.

'Anything particular do you mean?' said Miles. 'There are always so
many 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. You
know what he has sent for you for?'

Lord Nidderdale answered this question by another. 'I suppose all this
about 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 a
d---- 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 reason
to love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the club
yesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as Cloe. He'd lost a pot of
money, 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 he
couldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying
about 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 a
girl to New York! It was plucky.'

'It was all her doing,' said Miles, who was of course intimate with Mr
Melmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearing
the true story.

'What a fiasco!' said the young lord. 'I wonder what the old boy means
to say to me about it.' Then there was heard the clear tingle of a
little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time had
come.

Mr Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr Melmotte, and
Melmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor he
immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support
given by the 'Breakfast Table' to his candidature. But Mr Broune cut
him short. 'I never talk about the "Breakfast Table,"' said he. 'We
endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the
soonest mended.' Melmotte bowed. 'I have come now about quite another
matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also.
Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust
from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the
intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's friend, I have called
to return the money to you.' Mr Broune did not like calling himself
the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had
been good enough to him not to marry him.

'Oh, indeed,' said Mr Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he
would 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 myself
payable 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 upon
the table.

'I dare say it's all right,' said Mr Melmotte. 'But, remember, I don't
think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel.'

'At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his
hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's
behalf. Good morning.' Mr Melmotte did put out his hand in token of
amity. Then Mr Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As
Nidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his
pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which
he 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 look
down in the mouth, my Lord.'

Then Lord Nidderdale,--who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a
good face before his late intended father-in-law,--sang the refrain of
an 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 way
with Marie.'

'Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has given
the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and
of her indifference to me.'

'A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She's been
reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down
quietly 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 he
is now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I'm very
sorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always. She's my
only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What
she will have at once will make any man wealthy,--that is, if she
marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shall
be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of
course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I
think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Had
she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, I
want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very
honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of course
has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be sure
that 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 the
whole 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 projects
for such a piece of folly as that! He didn't even see her all the
time.'

'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 all
London would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than
I would. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has just
run 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 of
her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me
the slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she
did once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very much
changed 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 to
complain.'

'You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come on
Sunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settled
arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday
morning about noon?' Lord Nidderdale thought of his position for a few
moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning.
After that Melmotte proposed that they two should go and 'get a bit of
lunch' at a certain Conservative club in the City. There would be time
before the meeting of the Railway Board. Nidderdale had no objection
to 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 I
must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid
fortune.' Then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew him
back as he was passing out by the front stairs. 'Come this way,
Nidderdale;--come this way. I must get out without being seen. There
are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to
business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his
mouth.' And so they escaped by the back stairs.

At the club, the City Conservative world,--which always lunches
well,--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 man
to perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talking
loudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club that
Lord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course knew that
Lord Nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter,--
accepted, that is, by the rich man himself,--and the club knew also
that the rich man's daughter had tried but had failed to run away with
Sir Felix Carbury. There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and
having done with it. The presence of Lord Nidderdale was almost an
assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, as
it were, abolished. A little before three Mr Melmotte returned to
Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; while
Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering within his own mind whether
it was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitor
for Miss Melmotte's hand. He had an idea that a few years ago a man
could not have done such a thing--that he would be held to show a poor
spirit should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter what
a man did,--if only he were successful. 'After all, it's only an
affair of money,' he said to himself.

Mr Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to
impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to
indignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles Grendall
was always ready with an answer. That Canadian Deputation was
determined to settle the whole business this morning, and would not
take itself away. And Sir Gregory Gribe had been obstinate, beyond the
ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at the
bank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication with Mr
Melmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were always most
oppressive. At first Mr Longestaffe was somewhat stunned by the
Deputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth the potency of
those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he waxed hungry,
they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr Longestaffe of Caversham,
a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and accustomed to lunch punctually
at 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 not
remain there to be starved for any Mr Melmotte in Europe. It occurred
to him also that that thorn in his side, Squercum, would certainly get
a finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth,
and attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendall
also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior
clerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with Mr
Melmotte. 'Then say that I can't wait any longer,' said Mr
Longestaffe, stamping out of the room with angry feet.

At the very door he met Mr Melmotte. 'Ah, Mr Longestaffe,' said the
great financier, seizing him by the hand, 'you are the very man I am
desirous of seeing.'

'I have been waiting two hours up in your place,' said the Squire of
Caversham.

'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 do
remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that I
hardly 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 was
cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a Board by a
chairman who had just lunched at his club.

'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 away
again.'

'My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering,'
said Mr Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the collar of his
coat.

'Payments for Pickering!' said Melmotte, assuming an air of
unimportant doubt,--of doubt as though the thing were of no real
moment. '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. My
second cashier, Mr Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go
clean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at this
moment. Let me see;--Pickering! Wasn't there some question of a
mortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage.'

'There was a mortgage, of course,--but that only made three payments
necessary instead of two.'

'But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--something
occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't be
inconvenienced, 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 be
made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will
speak to Mr Smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that he
really need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his
money, for lawyers are expensive. What! you won't come to the Board?
I am sorry for that.' Mr Longestaffe, having after a fashion said
what he had to say, declined to go to the Board. A painful rumour
had reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him
in a very quiet way by a very old friend,--by a member of a private
firm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and
most eminent man of his acquaintance,--that Pickering had been already
mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. 'Mind, I know
nothing,' said the banker. 'The report has reached me, and if it be
true, it shows that Mr Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It
does not concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seems
to be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't
have the title-deeds.' Mr Longestaffe thanked his friend, and
acknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part.
Therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. But
nevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte's manner.

Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did Paul
Montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted.
Lord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the City for that
day, and Mr Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman was
therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe. But they
were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as well
as though those absentees had all attended. When the Board was over Mr
Melmotte 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 yet
before this day week.'

'It isn't eighty thousand pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and that
makes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes to
the 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. You
can manage £25,000 for me by Monday?' Mr Cohenlupe said that he would
try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable
difficulty in the operation.



CHAPTER LIV - THE INDIA OFFICE


The Conservative party at this particular period was putting its
shoulder to the wheel,--not to push the coach up any hill, but to
prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only
dangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative party now and
then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great
national object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire to
keep its own head well above water and be generally doing something,
so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are,
no doubt, members of it who really think that when some object has
been achieved,--when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed
into Parliament for the borough of Porcorum, which for the last three
parliaments has been represented by a Liberal,--the coach has been
really stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at
these triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as a
people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take
something from the greatness of the great, and to add something to the
lowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been broken,
the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of Radical
progress is running back. Who knows what may not be regained if the
Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and take
care that the handle of the windlass be not mended! Sticinthemud,
which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has just been carried
by a majority of fifteen! A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull
altogether,--and the old day will come back again. Venerable patriarchs
think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams of
Conservative bishops, Conservative lord-lieutenants, and of a
Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation.

Such a time was now present. Porcorum and Sticinthemud had done their
duty valiantly,--with much management. But Westminster! If this special
seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly
any longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr Melmotte could be
got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were
sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected
during the last forty years,--from the first reform in Parliament down
to the Ballot,--had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few
ambitious men. Not, however, that the Ballot was just now regarded by
the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of
Radical wickedness. The Ballot was on the whole popular with the
party. A short time since, no doubt it was regarded by the party as
being one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. But it
had answered well at Porcorum, and with due manipulation had been
found to be favourable at Sticinthemud. The Ballot might perhaps help
the long pull and the strong pull,--and, in spite of the ruin and
disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative
measure. It was considered that the Ballot might assist Melmotte at
Westminster very materially.

Any one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing the
Conservative speeches in the borough,--any one at least who lived so
remote as not to have learned what these things really mean,--would
have thought that England's welfare depended on Melmotte's return. In
the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character were
answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief crime
laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great
continental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had so
managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune
of his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had brought
to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the
shareholders in the company. Now the 'Evening Pulpit,' in its
endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed what
it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it was
ascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placed
at Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no
merchant of higher honour than Mr Melmotte had ever adorned the
Exchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of the
time, both of them antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to be in accord on
a material point. One declared that Mr Melmotte was not in truth
possessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his wealth
from those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray so bad a
cause as contradictions such as these? Could anything be so false, so
weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned,--in fact,
so 'Liberal' as a course of action such as this? The belief naturally
to be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on
the minds--of, at any rate, the Conservative newspapers--was that Mr
Melmotte had accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had never
robbed any shareholder of a shilling.

The friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were enabled
to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quite
external to their party. The 'Breakfast Table' supported Melmotte, but
the 'Breakfast Table' was not a Conservative organ. This support was
given, not to the great man's political opinions, as to which a
well-known writer in that paper suggested that the great man had
probably not as yet given very much attention to the party questions
which divided the country,--but to his commercial position. It was
generally acknowledged that few men living,--perhaps no man alive,--
had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age
as Mr Augustus Melmotte. In whatever part of the world he might have
acquired his commercial experience,--for it had been said repeatedly
that Melmotte was not an Englishman,--he now made London his home and
Great Britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of the
country that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. Such
were the arguments used by the 'Breakfast Table' in supporting Mr
Melmotte. This was, of course, an assistance;--and not the less so
because it was asserted in other papers that the country would be
absolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The hotter the
opposition the keener will be the support. Honest good men, men who
really loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsullied
names from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grew
hot in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned to
Parliament as the head of the great Conservative mercantile interests
of Great Britain!

There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the
present moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was the
return of Mr Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a very
ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which had
vexed England for the last half century,--nothing whatever of the
political history which had made England what it was at the beginning
of that half century. Of such names as Hampden, Somers, and Pitt he
had 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 had
not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic might
affect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those
terms. But yet he was fully confident that England did demand and
ought 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 his
head. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game
which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he
became deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself
as the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those who
opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their
own to serve. He went about in his open carriage, with Lord Alfred at
his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply that
Westminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted to certain
political friends that at the next general election he should try the
City. Six months since he had been a humble man to a Lord,--but now
he scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in a manner which
showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their social
pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which such
pre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more arrogant he
became the more vulgar he was, till even Lord Alfred would almost be
tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there were
some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogance
will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the
price those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could not
refrain from thinking Melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; and
gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe.
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 was
debated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hint
should not be given him. 'Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him?'
said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, a
leading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough,
wealthy and connected by blood with half the great Conservative
families in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of
the great financial king, and working like a slave for his success.

'Alfred's more than half afraid of him,' said Lionel Lupton, a young
aristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the idea
that the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in Parliament, but
who would have given up his Scotch shooting rather than have undergone
Melmotte's company for a day.

'Something really must be done, Mr Beauclerk,' said Mr Jones, who was
the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough,
who had become a Conservative politician, who had thoughts of the
House for himself, but who never forgot his own position. 'He is
making 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 Lord
Alfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had always
been intimate. 'Alfred,' said the chosen mentor at the club one
afternoon, 'I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotte
about his manner.' Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into his
companion's face. 'They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he
doesn'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't
think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you might
make 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 the
man, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that
morning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going about
the borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him at
meetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms,--and had been
nauseated with Melmotte. When spoken to about his friend he could not
restrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and
found the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost
insupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first, when
he was called Alfred; but now that he was told 'just to open the
door,' and 'just to give that message,' he almost meditated revenge.
Lord Nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of
this in Grosvenor Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had invested
part of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr Beauclerk, when he
had got his answer, whistled and withdrew. But he was true to his
party. Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives
had taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a
god.

The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained one
night at the India Office. The Secretary of State for the second great
Asiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. This was on
Saturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte's dinner was to take place on
the following Monday. Very great interest was made by the London world
generally to obtain admission to the India Office,--the making of such
interest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of
admission, addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the under
secretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments,
chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives. If a petitioner
could not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the reception
rooms, might not he,--or she,--be allowed to stand in some passage
whence the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen,--so that, if possible,
the petitioner's name might be printed in the list of guests which
would be published on the next morning? Now Mr Melmotte with his family
was, of course, supplied with tickets. He, who was to spend a fortune
in giving the Emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be present
at other places to which the Emperor would be brought to be shown.
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 presented
to the Emperor. Presentations have to be restricted,--if only on the
score of time; and it had been thought that as Mr Melmotte would of
course have some communication with the hardworked Emperor at his own
house, that would suffice. But he had felt himself to be ill-used and
was offended. He spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters of
the Royal Family generally, because he had not been brought to the
front rank either at the breakfast or at the ball,--and now, at the
India Office, was determined to have his due. But he was not on the
list of those whom the Secretary of State intended on this occasion to
present to the Brother of the Sun.

He had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken to
dining freely,--which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at all
hours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he was
tipsy. 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 till
he was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some moment after
dinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which
he had spoken. Melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the India
Office, and soon left them far in the background with a request,--we
may say an order,--to Lord Alfred to take care of them. It may be
observed here that Marie Melmotte was almost as great a curiosity as
the Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attempted
to run away to New York, but had gone without her lover. Melmotte
entertained some foolish idea that as the India Office was in
Westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on this
occasion because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold of
an unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable
young peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was a shy man, of enormous
wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who
never amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and read
everything that anybody could write, and more than any other person
could read, about India. Had Mr Melmotte wanted to know the exact
dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the Punjaub, or
the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would have informed him
without a pause. But in this matter of managing the Emperor, the under
secretary had nothing to do, and would have been the last man to be
engaged in such a service. He was, however, second in command at the
India Office, and of his official rank Melmotte was unfortunately made
aware. 'My Lord,' said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper,
'I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty.' Lord De
Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man,--being
one of the few men in that room who did not know him.

'This is Mr Melmotte,' said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladies
and still stuck to his master. 'Lord De Griffin, let me introduce you
to Mr Melmotte.'

'Oh--oh--oh,' said Lord De Griffin, just putting out his hand. 'I am
delighted;--ah, yes,' and pretending to see somebody, he made a weak
and quite ineffectual attempt to escape.

Melmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity
repeated his demand. 'I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial
Majesty. Will you do me the honour of making my request known to Mr
Wilson?' Mr Wilson was the Secretary of State, who was as busy as a
Secretary 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 you
must excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him I'll tell him.' And the
poor under secretary again endeavoured to escape.

Mr Melmotte put up his hand and stopped him. 'I'm not going to stand
this kind of thing,' he said. The old Marquis of Auld Reekie was close
at hand, the father of Lord Nidderdale, and therefore the proposed
father-in-law of Melmotte's daughter, and he poked his thumb heavily
into Lord Alfred's ribs. 'It is generally understood, I believe,'
continued Melmotte, 'that the Emperor is to do me the honour of dining
at my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm made
acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't going
to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented to
him. Perhaps you'd better let Mr Wilson know, as a good many people
intend to come.'

'Here's a row,' said the old Marquis. 'I wish he'd be as good as his
word.'

'He has taken a little wine,' whispered Lord Alfred. 'Melmotte,' he
said, still whispering; 'upon my word it isn't the thing. They're only
Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here,--not a fellow
among 'em all who hasn't been in India or China, or isn't a Secretary
of State, or something of that kind.'

'Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball,' said
Melmotte, pulling down his waistcoat. 'By George, Alfred! I'm in
earnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to
his Imperial Majesty to-night, by G----, there shall be no dinner in
Grosvenor Square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, I
suppose, to be able to manage that.'

Here was a row, as the Marquis had said! Lord De Griffin was
frightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done.
'There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his
obstinacy,' Lord Alfred said to Mr Lupton, who was there. It no doubt
might have been wise to have allowed the merchant prince to return
home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned. He would
have repented probably before the next morning; and had he continued
obdurate it would not have been difficult to explain to Celestial
Majesty that something preferable had been found for that particular
evening even to a banquet at the house of British commerce. The
Government would probably have gained the seat for Westminster, as
Melmotte would at once have become very unpopular with the great body
of his supporters. But Lord De Griffin was not the man to see this. He
did make his way up to Mr Wilson, and explained to the Amphytrion of
the night the demand which was made on his hospitality. A thoroughly
well-established and experienced political Minister of State always
feels that if he can make a friend or appease an enemy without paying
a heavy price he will be doing a good stroke of business. 'Bring him
up,' said Mr Wilson. 'He's going to do something out in the East,
isn't he?' 'Nothing in India,' said Lord De Griffin. 'The submarine
telegraph is quite impossible.' Mr Wilson, instructing some satellite
to find out in what way he might properly connect Mr Melmotte with
China, sent Lord De Griffin away with his commission.

'My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself;' Mr
Melmotte was saying when the under secretary returned. 'I know my own
position and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be d---- if
any of the lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday.' Lord Alfred
was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the Prime
Minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of acquainting
him with the terrible calamity which was threatened. But the arrival
of the under secretary saved him the trouble.

'If you will come with me,' whispered Lord De Griffin, 'it shall be
managed. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be
done.'

'I do wish it,' said Melmotte aloud. He was one of those men whom
success never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained always
demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet.

'If you will be so kind as to follow me,' said Lord De Griffin. And so
the thing was done. Melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperial
footstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at the
moment of interpreters,--of the double interpreters whom the Majesty
of China required; but the awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestial
one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word even of
his own banquet.

But he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor Mr
Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable. Lord Alfred
tried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her daughter into
the carriage, but Melmotte insisted on his presence. 'You might as
well come, Alfred;--there are two or three things I must settle
before 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 day
at 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 have
escaped. Melmotte, fearing such defection, put his hand on Lord
Alfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. As they were taken
home a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible, but as the words
were not distinguished they required no painful attention; but when
the soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in Mr
Longestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a full
blast. 'I mean to let the fellows know what's what,' said Melmotte,
walking about the room. Lord Alfred had thrown himself into an
arm-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 mean
them to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend ten
thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private
enterprise. 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, I
don't want 'em. But if consideration is to be shown to anybody, I
intend to be considered. The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred,
and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I suppose
a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests.'

'You might turn the election against you if you said anything the
Prince didn't like.'

'D---- the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as a
man of business, not as a courtier,--as a man who understands commercial
enterprise, not as one of the Prince's toadies. Some of you fellows in
England don't realize the matter yet; but I can tell you that I think
myself quite as great a man as any Prince.' Lord Alfred looked at him,
with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home, and shuddered. 'I'll
teach 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 to
spend. What's sixty thousand a year? Didn't I make him go on my
business? And didn't I make 'em do as I chose? You want to tell me
this and that, but I can tell you that I know more of men and women
than some of you fellows do, who think you know a great deal.'

This went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards, as
Lord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount Street,
he thought deeply whether there might not be means of escaping from
his present servitude. 'Beast! Brute! Pig!' he said to himself over
and over again as he slowly went to Mount Street.



CHAPTER LV - CLERICAL CHARITIES


Melmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's antecedents
were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen
there in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes
from sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those parts
knew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London. The
purchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all the
Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his past
frauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune,
were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest
man in England. Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also been
communicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not
recognized as being 'real Suffolk' himself, was so far connected with
Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality
respecting the Melmottes generally. 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 not
believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member of Parliament. Suffolk on
this occasion was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and took
occasion to remember that it was barely the other day, as Suffolk
counts days, since the original Longestaffe was in trade. This selling
of Pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmotte, was a mean
thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmotte had
picked the very bones of every shareholder in that Franco-Austrian
Assurance Company.

Mr Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking
about him,--or talking rather of the attempted elopement. 'I know
nothing about it,' said Roger, 'and I do not intend to ask. Of course
I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I
did believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father
had consented or not I never inquired.'

'It seems he did not consent.'

'Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such
a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the "Gazette" before long,
and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if
he had it.'

'You think Melmotte will turn out a failure.'

'A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a
miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end,--
too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his
position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming
to 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 can
I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set
the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in
return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate they
believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater
than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men
reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to be
honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there
comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the
approval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all the
world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte is not
compatible with a wholesome state of things in general.'

Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero
was discussed under a different heading. 'He has given £200,' said the
Bishop, 'to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man could
spend 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 is
really paid.'

'I don't feel at all sure of that.'

'Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very
ready 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 am
always 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 wishes
to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you
at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect is
pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambition
to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we
should say that it is vile in this man.' Roger frowned and shook his
head. 'Of course Mr Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you
have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a Conservative
constituency. 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 the
Squire.

'It is very hard to see into the minds of men,' said the Bishop; 'but
we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men on the
whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There is
a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a
more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of
superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr Carbury, by following
forms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them.'

'I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would be
done by.'

'There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be saved
even if they have not practised at all times that grand self-denial.
Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almost
demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit,--of temper,
or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in that
way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly
judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or the
causes of them; and do you never judge others after that fashion?'

'I do not put myself forward as an example.'

'I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt to
forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in
general. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich
and the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not
worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace
did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only
at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the
world at large.'

'But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when
Horace wrote.'

'But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit
by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has
not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?'

'In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do you
remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured the
Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar to
post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear
Melmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the man
to 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 is
what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of his
punishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad time
of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps is
managed more justly than you think, Mr Carbury.'

'My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart,' said Roger, as he took
his 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 was
therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in general
than Roger Carbury. To Roger everything seemed to be out of joint. He
had that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury, reminding him of
the promise of a loan, should a time come to her of great need. It had
come very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in the least begrudge the
hundred pounds which he had already sent to his cousin; but he did
begrudge any furtherance afforded to the iniquitous schemes of Sir
Felix. He felt all but sure that the foolish mother had given her son
money for his abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal had
been made to him. He alluded to no such fear in his letter. He simply
enclosed the cheque, and expressed a hope that the amount might
suffice for the present emergency. But he was disheartened and
disgusted by all the circumstances of the Carbury family. There was
Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as Mrs Hurtle down to Lowestoft,
declaring his purpose of continuing his visits to her, and, as
Roger thought, utterly unable to free himself from his toils,--and
yet, on this man's account, Hetta was cold and hard to him. He was
conscious of the honesty of his own love, sure that he could make
her happy,--confident, not in himself, but in the fashion and ways
of his own life. What would be Hetta's lot if her heart was really
given to Paul Montague?

When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. An
accident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment. The
wind had blown the roof off his cottage; and Roger Carbury, though his
affection for the priest was waning, had offered him shelter while the
damage was being repaired. Shelter at Carbury Manor was very much more
comfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roof
on, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham was reading his own
favourite 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 belongs
peculiarly to "The Surplice."'

'That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican
Church. Mr Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man, and
will 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, and
thank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such good
riddance.'

Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of 'The Surplice.' 'Mr
Augustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented a
hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church of
St Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied by a
letter from Mr Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little doubt
that the new member for Westminster will be a member, and no
inconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during the
next session.'

'That's another dodge, is it?' said Carbury.

'What do you mean by a dodge, Mr Carbury? Because money is given for a
pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a
dodge?'

'But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave
£200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the
Bishop exulting in this great act of charity.'

'I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the
Church 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 the
priest; 'but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the
great.'

'The great! Oh dear!'

'A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of Mr
Melmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, it
is 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 vote
in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great thing
both in the House and out of the House to 'catch' Roman Catholic
votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or that
individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he
personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may be
extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people of
the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made
towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is the
easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The
promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a
Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be
conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an
enemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very
efficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in
Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation is
coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same conviction
has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant,--that is the peculiarly
Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is a
feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before,
and was attempted now by Mr Melmotte and his friends. It was perhaps
thought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the £100
given for the altar to St Fabricius; but Mr Alf was wide awake, and
took care that Mr Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of
interest to the world at large. During all that period of newspaper
excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general
interest as that which appeared in the 'Evening Pulpit,' with a
special question asked at the head of it, 'For Priest or Parson?' In
this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent
from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry
didactic wisdom, Mr Alf's man, who did that business, declared that it
was really important that the nation at large and especially the
electors of Westminster should know what was the nature of Mr
Melmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly religious temperament
was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion.
Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this
crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his
ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The 'Evening Pulpit' by no
means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to
the approaching election. Far be it from the 'Evening Pulpit' to
imagine that so great a man as Mr Melmotte looked for any return in
this world from his charitable generosity. But still, as Protestants
naturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant
member, and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be represented
by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr Melmotte would not object to declare
his creed.

This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr Melmotte and his
manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any
way. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St Fabricius
with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must
leave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants chose
to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was
tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any enthusiastic
religionists wishing to enjoy such convictions would not allow
themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of
Mr Alf's newspaper.

It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society did
have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few
to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion and
torpid as to politics. But the donation to St Fabricius certainly had
results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic party
generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed
that Mr Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome. These
manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow instead
of good. On the second afternoon after the question had been asked in
the 'Evening Pulpit,' an answer to it appeared, 'For Priest and not
for Parson.' Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organs
and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together, so as
to show that Mr Melmotte really had at last made up his mind on this
important question. All the world knew now, said Mr Alf's writer, that
with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's
peculiar characteristic,--the Great Financier was the name which Mr Alf
had specially invented for Mr Melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth
was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nation
best as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with
wisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and
by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced. The world of
Westminster at last knew that Mr Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Now
nothing was clearer than this,--that though catching the Catholic vote
would greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to
be returned. This last article vexed Mr Melmotte, and he proposed to
his friends to send a letter to the 'Breakfast Table' asserting that
he adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was
suspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large,
that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have
been too strong. 'Do nothing of the kind,' said Mr Beauchamp
Beauclerk. 'If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that
you are a Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own
people. Don't go writing letters.'

But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St Fabricius was such a
godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling
to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I think that many
of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirring
of people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent Romanists have always
this point in their favour, that they are ready to believe. And they
have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly
inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to
produce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to
himself in the good cause,--his time, his health, his money when he had
any, and his life. Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury Hall, he
would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment
by reticence as to his religion. Roger Carbury was hard of heart. He
could see that. But the dropping of water might hollow the stone. If
the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before
the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault. He at any
rate would do his duty. In that fixed resolution Father Barham was
admirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the
arguments he would use,--or as to the facts which he would proclaim.
With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his
faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man,
and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He
believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth,--believed
that 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 a
Catholic. That a man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the
world professing the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham
either improbable or distressing. Kings who had done so were to him
objects of veneration. By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had
they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was
a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the
young priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar
time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He had
for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in order
that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time
to time betook themselves to the cells of St Fabricius. And so, just
at this season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made a
journey to London.

He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr
Melmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or
two as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a
happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was
perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his
country. On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr Melmotte
had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office,--he
took up his quarters in the cloisters of St Fabricius; he spent a
goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services of
the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of
Mr Melmotte. Having obtained that address from some circular, he went
first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and on the next, which would
be the day of the election, Mr Melmotte was not expected in the City,
and the priest was referred to his present private residence in Bruton
Street. There he was told that the great man might probably be found
in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barham was
at last successful. Mr Melmotte was there superintending the
arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.

The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in
giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in great
confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being
suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden
capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell
of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; and
an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the
accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and poor Father
Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not
a word of the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss to
conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. But
through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the
presence of Mr Melmotte in the banqueting hall.

Mr Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was
standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the
Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry
indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first
planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which he
had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the
Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial One
himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In
face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty
might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat
next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the
princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr Melmotte's
own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a very
bad time of it. 'It's that fellow from "The Herald" office did it, not
me,' he said, almost in a passion. 'I don't know how people ought to
sit. 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 Barham
walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived
by either of the Grendalls, Mr Melmotte was trying, but trying in
vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been
put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared
for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own
hall. 'Who the d---- are you?' he asked, when the priest appeared
close 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 sleek
apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age
can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in
the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's
welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in
glossy black might have been received with better grace.

Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite
pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an
enterprise,--was the rule of his life. 'I am the Rev. Mr Barham,' said
the visitor. 'I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am
speaking to Mr Melmotte.'

'That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you
are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room
without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred,
who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can
anybody who pleases walk into my hall?'

'I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,' said
the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his
mission. 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 the
City,' 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 his
heart 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 are
enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others.'

'Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go
away.'

'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 go
away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows
him.'

'Mr Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend.'

'Carbury! D--- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? A
set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of
him?'

'You'd better go,' said Lord Alfred. 'Don't make a rumpus, there's a
good fellow;--but just go.'

'There shall be no rumpus,' said the priest, waxing wrathful. 'I asked
for 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 one
whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one
still 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;--whereupon
Father Barham bowed and took his leave.

'That's a remarkable thing,' said Melmotte,--'very remarkable.' Even
this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. 'I suppose he was
in earnest.'

'Mad as a hatter,' said Lord Alfred.

'But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's
what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in
all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant.
I wonder whether the "Morning Pulpit" people sent him here now to find
out 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. The
truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend that
they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em
understands 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 having
removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his
intrusion on his own guests in his own house. 'I look upon that
fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times,' he went on
to say. 'They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes
made, and who measures me for my boots!' Perhaps the most remarkable
circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that he
came almost to believe in himself.

Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether
disheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman
Catholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed and
cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have
known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to this
priest, 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 any
rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes Melmotte, with
all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man than
Roger Carbury. 'He insulted me,' said Father Barham to a brother
religionist 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 of
polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be
done. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was
intent upon that.'

'He entertains the Emperor of China this very day,' said the brother
priest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what was
being done.

'The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is
on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for
saying 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 the
world.'

'He looked like it,--and spoke like it,' said Father Barham. 'Think what
such 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 was
uncivil, I am glad that I saw him.' Father Barham, with a simplicity
that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself
believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr Melmotte was certainly a
Roman Catholic.



CHAPTER LVII - LORD NIDDERDALE TRIES HIS HAND AGAIN


Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie
Melmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's house
on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that promise had
been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not seen in Bruton
Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on
this occasion there was need for thought. His father's property was
not very large. His father and his grandfather had both been
extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding to
the family embarrassments. It had been an understood thing, since he
had commenced life, that he was to marry an heiress. In such families
as his, when such results have been achieved, it is generally
understood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. It has
become an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost as
serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things. Rank squanders
money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding its
splendour. The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally,
is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old marquis--so
that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up the property,
which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course.
Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fanciful
theory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by any
liaison tending towards matrimony with any undowered beauty;--but had
claimed his right to 'have his fling' before he devoted himself to the
reintegration of the family property. His father had felt that it
would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a
desire. He had regarded all the circumstances of 'the fling' with
indulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to the
duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself
compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much
longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his
heir. Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the
thing quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had no
intention of 'cutting up rough,' declared that he was ready for the
heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set
himself honestly about the task imposed on him. This had all been
arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader
knows the result.

But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis
had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost
unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred
thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But
here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance
which might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous for
its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The old man
had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the
result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly two difficulties had
culminated above the others. The young lady preferred another
gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the
way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very
existence.

The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he
could learn from inquiry, the money would be there or, at least, so
much money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to
secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means
enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already settled
on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her father
had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,--but
had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of
unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure comfort,
and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed
cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the
grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to
embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge would
hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie had been quite correct in
her story to her favoured lover. And the Marquis's lawyer had
ascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restored
this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe,--with this
as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. The Marquis had
determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr Melmotte had
been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as
soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consent
of all the parties. The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a
doubt; but the Marquis had determined to persevere. The reader will, I
trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust
agitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by information
which had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details.

But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte
declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to
have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--
was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone
with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even
attempt to run off with any one but oneself. 'She'll be sick of him by
this time, I should say,' his father said to him. 'What does it
matter, if the money's there?' The Marquis seemed to think that the
escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having
made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead of
devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he
had been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit
than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that he
would try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into his
mouth. 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 in
the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him.
Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sent
for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had
sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--
of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face
upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties,
succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was
uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover and has been
brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult
to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away without
her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has
then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of
mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and
she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale.

Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. 'Did you ever hear
anything like that, Nidderdale?' he said, speaking of the priest's
visit.

'Mad as a hatter,' said Lord Alfred.

'I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had
been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an
Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see to
that 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 called
on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all those
parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow had
come 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 a
play 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 go
back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are not
looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at
exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at
eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will
have to receive your guests in the drawing-room.' The ladies went
upstairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe took her
departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady
Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte the
duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a
great difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she did
not know how to get up and go out of the room. As regarded herself,
the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too much
for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and probably no belief
in her husband's achievements. It was her present duty to assist in
getting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only
do by going away. But she did not know how to get out of her chair.
She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the Emperor, and her
wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole
evening. She liked Nidderdale better than any one else who came there,
and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nidderdale
assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no
one was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head, and
wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was by
degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and
emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China would
be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her courage, rose
from her chair, and made straight for the door. 'Mamma, where are you
going?' said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her
handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely
destroyed by a toothache. 'I must see if I can't do something for
her,' said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too
quick for her, and stood with his back to it. 'That's a shame,' said
Marie.

'Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you,' said his
lordship. 'Why should you grudge me the opportunity?'

Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had
thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why
had 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 attempt
to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a
hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the
garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a
gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had told
her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he had
never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about the
money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repayment
he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no
virtue 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 have
forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the
drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his
side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she
could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which
forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his
love, 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 should
be 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 had
reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was
quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she
would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done
nothing 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 an
end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be
married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear
again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware
that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was
staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would
frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an
end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded
her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he
should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance
that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On
the Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his
back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the
evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any
rate that she would speak up. 'I don't know what you should have to
say 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, my
lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the
lady 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 given
you 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 of
him? Accidents will happen, you know.'

'I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss
Melmotte.'

'You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of
course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back
again.'

'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 let
me 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 many
people 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, your
father 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 he
really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you
didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told
you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared
for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You
thought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again
because 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 never
called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be
married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was
till 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 to
love 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 to
you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to
Liverpool with you.'

'You don't know why he didn't go.'

'Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about
that.'

'Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?' She asked the question with an
altered tone and an altered face. 'If you really know, you might as
well tell me.'

'No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell
you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to
you?'

'I don't know,' she said, sobbing. 'I do love him;--I do indeed. I
know 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. I
ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't care
what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You
oughtn'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 any
kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in
all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but
it's true.'

'Say good-bye to me, Marie.'

'Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come
any more.'

'Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me
and him yet.' So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he
thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme
difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his
suit. 'She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to
be,' he said to himself 'Upon my word, she's awfully jolly.'

Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in
dismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury was
not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty
there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other good
quality. 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 Lord
Nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix
from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when he said
that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it be
what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. Lord
Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a
commonplace, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no
especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing
eyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But
if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she
thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for
him.



CHAPTER LVIII - MR SQUERCUM IS EMPLOYED


While these things were being done in Bruton Street and Grosvenor
Square horrid rumours were prevailing in the City and spreading from
the City westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting this
Monday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock in
consequence of the banquet to be given to the Emperor. It is difficult
to explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not thoroughly
understood by those who propagated it. But it is certainly the case
that the word forgery was whispered by more than one pair of lips.

Many of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was very
wrong not to show himself that day in the City. What good could he do
pottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room?
There were people to manage that kind of thing. In such an affair it
was his business to do simply as he was told, and to pay the bill. It
was not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend, and had
to see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. His work
was in the City; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis as
this, he should have been in the City. Men will whisper forgery behind
a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face.

Of this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was the
parent. With unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his father,
Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr Squercum, immediately after that
Friday on which Mr Longestaffe first took his seat at the Railway
Board. Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be owned
that veneration was not one of them. 'I don't know why Mr Melmotte is
to be different from anybody else,' he had said to his father. 'When I
buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got the tin,
and I suppose it's about the same with him. It's all right, no doubt,
but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the
money was paid down.'

'Of course it's all right,' said the father. 'You think you understand
everything, 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 to
have a sharp fellow to look after his business.'

'You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. Why
can't you trust Mr Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been the
family lawyers for a century.' Dolly made some remark as to the old
family advisers which was by no means pleasing to the father's ears,
and went his way. The father knew his boy, and knew that his boy would
go to Squercum. All he could himself do was to press Mr Melmotte for
the money with what importunity he could assume. He wrote a timid
letter to Mr Melmotte, which had no result; and then, on the next
Friday, again went into the City and there encountered perturbation of
spirit and sheer loss of time,--as the reader has already learned.

Squercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles. Mr Slow had
been gathered to his fathers, but of the Bideawhiles there were three
in the business, a father and two sons, to whom Squercum was a pest
and a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. It was
not only in reference to Mr Longestaffe's affairs that they knew
Squercum. The Bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous and
orderly transaction of their business. It had grown to be a rule in
the house that anything done quickly must be done badly. They never
were in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to be
in a hurry for work. Squercum was the very opposite to this. He had
established himself, without predecessors and without a partner, and
we may add without capital, at a little office in Fetter Lane, and had
there made a character for getting things done after a marvellous and
new fashion. And it was said of him that he was fairly honest, though
it must be owned that among the Bideawhiles of the profession this was
not the character which he bore. He did sharp things no doubt, and had
no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those of
their fathers. In more than one case he had computed for a young heir
the exact value of his share in a property as compared to that of his
father, and had come into hostile contact with many family
Bideawhiles. He had been closely watched. There were some who, no
doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once so clever, and
so pestilential. But he had not as yet been crushed, and had become
quite in vogue with elder sons. Some three years since his name had
been mentioned to Dolly by a friend who had for years been at war with
his father, and Squercum had been quite a comfort to Dolly.

He was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always wore
a stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a coloured
dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different from his
waistcoat. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He was
light-haired, with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a squat
nose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. He looked as unlike
the normal Bideawhile of the profession as a man could be; and it must
be owned, though an attorney, would hardly have been taken for a
gentleman from his personal appearance. He was very quick, and active
in his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself, and trusting to
his three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener's
labour. He seldom or never came to his office on a Saturday, and many
among his enemies said that he was a Jew. What evil will not a rival
say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the hated one? But this
report Squercum rather liked, and assisted. They who knew the inner
life of the little man declared that he kept a horse and hunted down
in Essex on Saturday, doing a bit of gardening in the summer months;--
and they said also that he made up for this by working hard all
Sunday. Such was Mr Squercum,--a sign, in his way, that the old things
are being changed.

Squercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on a
chair which moved on a pivot. His desk was against the wall, and when
clients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out his
dirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclined
plane, with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude he
would listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as little
as possible. It was by his instructions that Dolly had insisted on
getting his share of the purchase money for Pickering into his own
hands, so that the incumbrance on his own property might be paid off.
He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment.
'Melmotte's at Pickering?' asked the attorney. Then Dolly informed him
how the tradesmen of the great financier had already half knocked down
the house. Squercum still listened, and promised to look to it. He did
ask what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of the
title-deeds. Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale,
but none for the surrender. His father, some time since, had put
before him, for his signature, a letter, prepared in Mr Bideawhile's
office, which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, and
certainly had not signed. Squercum again said that he'd look to it,
and bowed Dolly out of his room. 'They've got him to sign something
when he was tight,' said Squercum to himself, knowing something of the
habits of his client. 'I wonder whether his father did it, or old
Bideawhile, or Melmotte himself?' Mr Squercum was inclined to think
that Bideawhile would not have done it, that Melmotte could have had
no opportunity, and that the father must have been the practitioner.
'It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either,' said Mr Squercum,
in his soliloquy. He went to work, however, making himself detestably
odious among the very respectable clerks in Mr Bideawhile's office,--
men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to Squercum
himself in professional standing.

And now there came this rumour which was so far particular in its
details that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused Mr Melmotte,
to his mode of acquiring the Pickering property. The nature of the
forgery was of course described in various ways,--as was also the
signature said to have been forged. But there were many who believed,
or almost believed, that something wrong had been done,--that some
great fraud had been committed; and in connection with this it was
ascertained,--by some as a matter of certainty,--that the Pickering
estate had been already mortgaged by Melmotte to its full value at
an assurance office. In such a transaction there would be nothing
dishonest; but as this place had been bought for the great man's own
family use, and not as a speculation, even this report of the mortgage
tended to injure his credit. And then, as the day went on, other
tidings were told as to other properties. Houses in the East-end of
London were said to have been bought and sold, without payment of the
purchase money as to the buying, and with receipt of the purchase
money as to the selling.

It was certainly true that Squercum himself had seen the letter in Mr
Bideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the son's
sanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that letter,
prepared in Mr Bideawhile's office, purported to have Dolly's
signature. Squercum said but little, remembering that his client was
not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on the
preceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled as Dolly
always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man.

The letter was said to have been sent to Mr Bideawhile's office with
other letters and papers, direct from old Mr Longestaffe. Such was the
statement made at first to Mr Squercum by the Bideawhile party, who at
that moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of the
accuracy of their statement. Then Squercum saw his client again, and
returned to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the positive
assurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly, when questioned by
Squercum, quite admitted his propensity to be 'tight'. He had no
reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. But he had signed
no letter when he was tight. 'Never did such a thing in my life, and
nothing could make me,' said Dolly. 'I'm never tight except at the
club, and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn and
quartered if I ever signed it. That's flat.' Dolly was intent on going
to his father at once, on going to Melmotte at once, on going to
Bideawhile's at once, and making there 'no end of a row,'--but
Squercum stopped him. 'We'll just ferret this thing out quietly,'
said Squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be high honour
in discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as Mr Melmotte. Mr
Longestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the
Saturday after his last interview with Melmotte in the City. He had
then called at Bideawhile's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and had
been shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent the
letter to Mr Bideawhile. He had begged his son to sign the letter and
his son had refused. He did not at that moment distinctly remember
what he had done with the letter unsigned. He believed he had left it
with the other papers; but it was possible that his son might have
taken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had been both angry
and unhappy. He didn't think that he could have sent the letter back
unsigned,--but he was not sure. He had more than once been in his own
study in Bruton Street since Mr Melmotte had occupied the house,--by
that gentleman's leave,--having left various papers there under his own
lock and key. Indeed it had been matter of agreement that he should
have access to his own study when he let the house. He thought it
probable that he would have kept back the unsigned letter, and have
kept it under lock and key, when he sent away the other papers. Then
reference was made to Mr Longestaffe's own letter to the lawyer, and
it was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son had
been asked to sign; but that he had said, in his own usually pompous
style, that Mr Longestaffe, junior, was still prone to create
unsubstantial difficulties. Mr Bideawhile was obliged to confess that
there had been a want of caution among his own people. This allusion
to the creation of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied, as it was
supposed to have been, by Dolly's letter doing away with all
difficulties, should have attracted notice. Dolly's letter must have
come in a separate envelope; but such envelope could not be found, and
the circumstance was not remembered by the clerk. The clerk who had
prepared the letter for Dolly's signature represented himself as
having been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath his
notice with Dolly's well-known signature.

Such were the facts as far as they were known at Messrs. Slow and
Bideawhile's office,--from whom no slightest rumour emanated; and as
they had been in part collected by Squercum, who was probably less
prudent. The Bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that Dolly had
signed the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of
knowing on any day what he had done on the day before.

Squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. And it must
be owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion was
qualified to convince. 'Yes,' he said to Squercum; 'it's easy saying
that I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and when
I'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 this
Monday morning. Though the elder Longestaffe had first heard of the
matter only on the previous Saturday, Mr Squercum had been at work for
above a week. Mr Squercum's little matter alone might hardly have
attracted the attention which certainly was given on this day to Mr
Melmotte's private affairs;--but other facts coming to light assisted
Squercum's views. A great many shares of the South Central Pacific and
Mexican Railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had
passed through the hands of Mr Cohenlupe;--and Mr Cohenlupe in the City
had 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 the
money certainly had not been paid; and there was the traffic with half
a street of houses near the Commercial Road, by which a large sum of
money had come into Mr Melmotte's hands. It might, no doubt, all be
right. There were many who thought that it would all be right. There
were not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for these
rumours. But it was felt to be a pity that Mr Melmotte was not in the
City.

This was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had even made up his
mind that he would not go to the dinner. What one of his brother
aldermen said to him about leaving others in the lurch might be quite
true; but, as his lordship remarked, Melmotte was a commercial man,
and as these were commercial transactions it behoved the Lord Mayor of
London to be more careful than other men. He had always had his
doubts, and he would not go. Others of the chosen few of the City who
had been honoured with commands to meet the Emperor resolved upon
absenting themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was very
much discussed, and there were no less than six declared City
defaulters. At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a note
to Miles Grendall excusing himself, which was thrust into the
secretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived.

But a reverse worse than this took place;--a defalcation more
injurious to the Melmotte interests generally even than that which was
caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the City Magnates.
The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings in an
exaggerated form. It was whispered about that Melmotte had been
detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property, and
that he had already been visited by policemen. By some it was believed
that the Great Financier would lie in the hands of the Philistines
while the Emperor of China was being fed at his house. In the third
edition of the 'Evening Pulpit' came out a mysterious paragraph which
nobody could understand but they who had known all about it before. 'A
rumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have been
committed by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling to
mention. If it be so it is indeed remarkable that they should have
come to light at the present moment. We cannot trust ourselves to say
more than this.' No one wishes to dine with a swindler. No one likes
even to have dined with a swindler,--especially to have dined with him
at a time when his swindling was known or suspected. The Emperor of
China no doubt was going to dine with this man. The motions of
Emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to be
impossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be felt
to be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger had
been solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the country. Nor was
the thing as yet so far certain as to justify such a charge, were it
possible. But many men were unhappy in their minds. How would the
story be told hereafter if Melmotte should be allowed to play out his
game of host to the Emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon as
the Eastern Monarch should have left his house? How would the brother
of the Sun like the remembrance of the banquet which he had been
instructed to honour with his presence? How would it tell in all the
foreign newspapers, in New York, in Paris, and Vienna, that this man
who had been cast forth from the United States, from France, and from
Austria had been selected as the great and honourable type of British
Commerce? There were those in the House who thought that the absolute
consummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided, and who were of
opinion that the dinner should be 'postponed.' The leader of the
Opposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister. 'It
is the merest rumour,' said the Prime Minister. 'I have inquired, and
there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be
substantiated.'

'They say that the story is believed in the City.'

'I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The
Prince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we be
if Mr Melmotte to-morrow were able to prove the whole to be a calumny,
and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of influencing
the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on.'

'And you will go yourself?'

'Most assuredly,' said the Prime Minister. 'And I hope that you will
keep me in countenance.' His political antagonist declared with a
smile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honourable
friend;--but he could not answer for his followers. There was, he
admitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the Conservative party
of distrust in Melmotte. He considered it probable that among his
friends who had been invited there would be some who would be unwilling
to meet even the Emperor of China on the existing terms. 'They should
remember,' said the Prime Minister, 'that they are also to meet their
own Prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a
dishonour to him.'

'Just at present I can only answer for myself' said the leader of the
Opposition.--At that moment even the Prime Minister was much disturbed
in his mind; but in such emergencies a Prime Minister can only choose
the least of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine with a
swindler would be very bad; but to desert him, and to stop the coming
of the Emperor and all the Princes on a false rumour, would be worse.



CHAPTER LIX - THE DINNER


It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no
degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the
cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a
side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he
should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take
the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quite
suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to
Melmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had
determined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Some
there were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte had
been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that Mr Alf might
carry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this
might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre
from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be
marked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to
care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor
and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question
which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested
at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could
show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty.
But yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time
the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was
to ascertain whether others were going. If a hundred or more out of
the two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the position
of those who were present! And how would the thing go if at the last
moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided
that the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance
of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these
doubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go about
town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and
questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. 'Is your
Grace going?' said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage,--having
left the House and gone into the park between six and seven to pick up
some hints among those who were known to have been invited. The
Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. 'I
usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr Lupton,' said the
Duchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour
before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not
then even heard of the rumour. But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and
Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special
tickets as supporters of Mr Melmotte at the election,--out of the
scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought
themselves bound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader,
and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last
came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The
existing ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince.
But members of the Opposition, by their presence, would support the
man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they
were ashamed of him.

When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he
had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of
money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be
free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such
burdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders
have never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the
blacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely his
whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril
to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which
might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed his
wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his
immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two
Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of
gratified 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 to
him. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had
not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could
such a bird as he fly in safety? He had not only heard,--but also
knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they
had 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 declared
that he had heard nothing. 'They're saying all manner of things in the
City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming.'
Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life that
misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. But
he was unhappy.

The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all
came. The unfortunate Emperor,--we must consider a man to be unfortunate
who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with impassible and
awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor,
whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the
banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards
before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court
Master of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this
occasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the
Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had as yet been
whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed to
enter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime Minister, one
archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India with whose
features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were
alone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendence
of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. Everything
was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming
were proud of their wisdom.

But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were
visible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect
made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or
twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of the
outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to
preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to
herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of
filling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been asked
to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty
spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since it
had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had
for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat
at some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room were but
half-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another six of Mr
Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the
bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till
after other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for whom
so much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers were
absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill Mr
Alf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received
timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. The three independent
members of the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, and
would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected
of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the
dinner commenced.

Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at
the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and his
own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his point.
With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly
round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. 'How
is it that there are so many places empty?' he said to his faithful
Achates.

'Don't know,' said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to
look round upon the hall.

Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the
question in another shape: 'Hasn't there been some mistake about the
numbers? There's room for ever so many more.'

'Don't know,' said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and
repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr Melmotte.

'What the deuce do you mean?' whispered Melmotte. 'You've been at it
from 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 fixed
upon his plate.

'I'll be d---- if I don't find out,' said Melmotte. 'There's either some
horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite
clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?'

'Hasn't come, I suppose.'

'And where's the Lord Mayor?' Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now
sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. 'I know all their
places, 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, for
even a moment, look round upon the room.

'And where's Mr Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?' Mr Killegrew and Sir
David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important
offices in the Conservative party. 'There are ever so many people not
here. 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's
answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly
heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the
feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the
present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to
him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions,
was drawing special attention to him. 'If you go on making a row,' he
said, '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 soon
enough.' 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 the
hall behind the guests.

In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various
denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those
Banquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was
no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English,--the
imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into
ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within
his Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his
neighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins
and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under,
let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much
to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do,
and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. The
brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful
Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern
Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of
it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and
silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his manner of eating;
nor drinking very much,--for this was not his manner of drinking; but
wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which
were coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward
circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of
knives and forks. 'And this,' he must have said to himself, 'is what
they call royalty in the West!' If a prince of our own was forced, for
the good of the country, to go among some far-distant outlandish
people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all
round, the change to him could hardly be so great.

'Where's Sir Gregory?' said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending
over the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner
of 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 the
City 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 he
answered. 'I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr Melmotte; and I've had a
very good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very good
dinner.'

There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not rid
himself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from Lord
Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could
tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open their
mouths. 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 and
then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I
should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be
room. I think it is very odd.'

'It is odd,' said Mr Todd, turning his attention to the plate before
him.

Melmotte had lately seen much of Beaucharnp Beauclerk, in reference to
the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentleman
with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats in
this part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemen
had been set apart together. There Mr Melmotte seated himself for a
minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally.
Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of these
desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him
that he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and
dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He was
now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing
should cow him. And then again he was so cowed that he was ready to
creep to any one for assistance. Personally, Mr Beauclerk had disliked
the man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known,
Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. But he
had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered
himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now
the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained
to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced
her to Mr Melmotte. 'You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr
Melmotte,' said the lady, looking up at the royal table.

'Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate
that he has been much gratified.'--Had the Emperor in truth said so, no
one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word.--'Can you
tell me, Mr Beauchamp, why those other gentlemen are not here? It
looks very odd; does it not?'

'Ah; you mean Killegrew.'

'Yes; Mr Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made a
particular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner at
all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a
Government thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own
party; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent and, by
George, 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 then
take 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 that
had 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 to
Mr Beauchamp that the man knew nothing about it himself. If there was
anything wrong, Melmotte was not aware that the wrong had been
discovered. '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 and
I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the
result.'

'Well; I suppose it's all right,' said Melmotte, rising and going back
to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had his
political friends only been absent, he might have attributed their
absence to some political cause which would not have touched him
deeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribe
was a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, the
Emperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given by
some one, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room about
half an hour. According to the programme arranged for the evening, the
royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee,
and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by
that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the
invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the
Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The plan was carried out
perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and
for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had been
prepared for him. How one would wish to see the inside of the mind of
the Emperor as it worked on that occasion!

Melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into the
banqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till he
found Miles Grendall.

'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 the
people come?' Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his
knowledge. 'Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it at
once.' Miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. 'Is it
about 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 lies
they tell.'

'They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think they
say.'

'Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginning
well. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting
my invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles; that
will do.' And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own
drawing-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's
grand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram,--the place on
the cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmotte had the
honour of inviting to meet the Emperor and the Princes, having been
left blank; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been asked
to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each lady
was disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible,--in which
desire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to
a bargain. It had of course been settled that Lady Monogram was to
have the two tickets,--for herself and her husband,--such tickets at
that moment standing very high in the market. In payment for these
valuable considerations, Lady Monogram was to undertake to chaperon
Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as a
visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during
the time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had other
friends in London besides the Melmottes on whom to depend for her
London gaieties. At this moment Miss Longestaffe felt herself
justified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving a
fair equivalent. The Melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high.
They had just culminated. They fell a little soon afterwards, and at
ten 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 was
complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some
make-weight should be added to the stipulated price.

'As for that, my dear,' said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the rise in
Melmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of her
old manners, 'I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia
Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr Brehgert's junior
partner.'

'Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr Goldsheiner has, in
some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says that he is
one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr Goldsheiner
anywhere.'

'I have.'

'Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr Melmotte, of course, entertains all the City
people. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr Brehgert to
dine here.' Lady Monogram managed everything herself with reference to
her own parties; invited all her own guests, and never troubled Sir
Damask,--who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends; but she
was very clever in the use which she made of her husband. There were
some aspirants who really were taught to think that Sir Damask was
very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house.

'May I speak to Sir Damask about it?' asked Miss Longestaffe, who was
very urgent on the occasion.

'Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are
little things which a man and his wife must manage together without
interference.'

'Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really,
Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr Brehgert, it
does sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, that
that kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as
West End people.'

'A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't
make the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort of
way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my
neighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who come
here will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir
Damask. But we ain't big enough to introduce newcomers. I don't
suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do,
Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go
pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr
Brehgert if I were to see him.'

'You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you said
once, you're glad enough to go there.'

'Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to
throw that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher round
the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don't
at all think of asking them to my house. But if they were suddenly to
turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad
to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used to
it as I am. Mr Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the
corner.' Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or I
think she would hardly have said this.

'He is not a bit like a butcher,' said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up in
real 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 if
I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?'

'You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides
as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best
shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any
other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married
he used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too
free behind the scenes. 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 with
me, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say
Mr Brehgert is good-natured.'

'He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large
fortune.'

'And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a
comfort.'

'If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you
find it lonely enough.'

'Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are
trying 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 a
butcher. What I did say was this,--that I don't feel inclined to risk my
own 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 anybody
they meet in the streets. I can't. I've my own line, and I mean to
follow it. It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would be harder
still if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr Brehgert to come here on
Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but as
for having him to dinner, I--won't--do--it.' So the matter was at last
settled. 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 an
allusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that Mr
Brehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade are
supposed to bear. Let us at least hope that she was so. He was a fat,
greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with hair
dyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour. The
charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, which
were, however, set too near together in his face for the general
delight of Christians. He was stout;--fat all over rather than
corpulent,--and had that look of command in his face which has become
common to master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep and
oxen. But Mr Brehgert was considered to be a very good man of business,
and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of view, the
leading member of the great financial firm of which he was the second
partner. Mr Todd's day was nearly done. He walked about constantly
between Lombard Street, the Exchange, and the Bank, and talked much to
merchants; he had an opinion too of his own on particular cases; but
the business had almost got beyond him, and Mr Brehgert was now
supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He was a widower, living
in a luxurious villa at Fulham with a family, not indeed grown up, as
Lady Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown up
before long, varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just been
placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of twelve, who
was at school at Brighton. He was a man who always asked for what he
wanted; and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, had
asked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to fill that situation. He had met
her at the Melmottes', had entertained her, with Madame Melmotte and
Marie, at Beaudesert, as he called his villa, had then proposed in the
square, and two days after had received an assenting answer in Bruton
Street.

Poor Miss Longestaffe! Although she had acknowledged the fact to Lady
Monogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herself
into society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage to
tell her family. 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 or
his grandfather had been the last Jew of the family; but a Jew that
was. So was Goldsheiner a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had married,--or
at any rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with that
lady. She counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of 'decent
people' who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord Frederic Framlinghame
had married a girl of the Berrenhoffers; and Mr Hart had married a
Miss Chute. She did not know much of Miss Chute, but was certain that
she was a Christian. Lord Frederic's wife and Lady Julia Goldsheiner
were seen everywhere. Though she hardly knew how to explain the matter
even to herself, she was sure that there was at present a general
heaving-up of society on this matter, and a change in progress which
would soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody was Jew or
Christian. For herself she regarded the matter not at all, except as
far as it might be regarded by the world in which she wished to live.
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 be
aware that her happiness did not lie in that direction, and could not
depend in the least on the religion of her husband. Of course she
would go to church herself. She always went to church. It was the
proper thing to do. As to her husband, though she did not suppose that
she 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 might
be able to pass him off as a Christian. She knew that such was the
Christianity of young Goldsheiner, of which the Starts were now
boasting.

Had she been alone in the world she thought that she could have looked
forward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid of her
father and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned, and
had so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a Jew,--and had
been so loud in denouncing the iniquity of Christians who allowed such
people into their houses! Unfortunately, too, Georgiana in her earlier
days 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 Conservative
politician by holding a real opinion of his own,--it had been on that
matter of admitting the Jews into parliament. When that had been done
he was certain that the glory of England was sunk for ever. And since
that time, whenever creditors were more than ordinarily importunate,
when Slow and Bideawhile could do nothing for him, he would refer to
that fatal measure as though it was the cause of every embarrassment
which had harassed him. How could she tell parents such as these that
she was engaged to marry a man who at the present moment went to
synagogue on a Saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination
common to the despised people?

That Mr Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for
hair-dye, was in itself distressing:--but this minor distress was
swallowed up in the greater. Miss Longestaffe was a girl possessing
considerable discrimination, and was able to weigh her own possessions
in just scales. She had begun life with very high aspirations,
believing in her own beauty, in her mother's fashion, and her father's
fortune. She had now been ten years at the work, and was aware that
she had always flown a little too high for her mark at the time. At
nineteen and twenty and twenty-one she had thought that all the world
was before her. With her commanding figure, regular long features, and
bright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of
the day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a
Coronet. At twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four any young peer,
or peer's eldest son, with a house in town and in the country, might
have sufficed. Twenty-five and six had been the years for baronets and
squires; and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been marked
by her as sufficient since that time. But now she was aware that
hitherto she had always fixed her price a little too high. On three
things she was still determined,--that she would not be poor, that she
would not be banished from London, and that she would not be an old
maid. 'Mamma,' she had often said, 'there's one thing certain. I shall
never do to be poor.' Lady Pomona had expressed full concurrence with
her child. 'And, mamma, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me. Fancy
having to live at Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable!' Lady
Pomona had agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hall
was a very nice home for her elder daughter. 'And, mamma, I should
drive you and papa mad if I were to stay at home always. And what
would become of me when Dolly was master of everything?' Lady Pomona,
looking forward as well as she was able to the time at which she
should herself have departed, when her dower and dower-house would
have reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that Georgiana should provide
herself with a home of her own before that time.

And how was this to be done? Lovers with all the glories and all the
graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls of
nineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits by girls of
twenty-nine. Brehgert was rich, would live in London, and would be a
husband. People did such odd things now and 'lived them down,' that
she could see no reason why she should not do this and live this down.
Courage was the one thing necessary,--that and perseverance. She must
teach herself to talk about Brehgert as Lady Monogram did of Sir
Damask. She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her to
declare her fate to her old friend,--remembering as she did so how in
days long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had scattered their
scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish name,--
whose grandfather had possibly been a Jew. 'Dear me,' said Lady
Monogram. 'Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr Todd is--one of us, I
suppose.'

'Yes,' said Georgiana boldly, 'and Mr Brehgert is a Jew. His name is
Ezekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew. You can say what you like about
it.'

'I don't say anything about it, my dear.'

'And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you and
I were younger.'

'Very much changed, it appears,' said Lady Monogram. Sir Damask's
religion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of his
marriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church.

But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than she
had shown even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that spirit
had not as yet come to her. On the morning before she left the
Melmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The Melmottes
of course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. Madame
Melmotte rather aspired to credit for having had so happy an affair
arranged under her auspices. It was some set-off against Marie's
unfortunate escapade. Mr Brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to come
and go as he pleased, and on that morning he had pleased to come. They
were sitting alone in some back room, and Brehgert was pressing for an
early day. 'I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr Brehgert,' she
said.

'You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel at
once,' he remarked. Georgiana frowned, and made no soft little attempt
at the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont to do. 'Mrs
Brehgert'--he alluded of course to the mother of his children--'used
to call me Ezzy.'

'Perhaps I shall do so some day,' said Miss Longestaffe, looking at
her lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able to
have the house and the money and the name of the wife without the
troubles appertaining. She did not think it possible that she should
ever 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 at
Vienna. I have business there, and know many friends.' Then he pressed
her hard to fix some day in the next month. It would be expedient that
they should be married from the Melmottes' house, and the Melmottes
would leave town some time in August. There was truth in this. Unless
married from the Melmottes' house, she must go down to Caversham for
the occasion,--which would be intolerable. No,--she must separate
herself altogether from father and mother, and become one with the
Melmottes and the Brehgerts,--till she could live it down and make a
position for herself. If the spending of money could do it, it should
be 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 the
answer, and went away promising that he would meet his love at the
great Melmotte reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how she should
declare the matter to her family. Would it not be better for her to
say to them at once that there must be a division among them,--an
absolute breaking off of all old ties, so that it should be tacitly
acknowledged that she, Georgiana, had gone out from among the
Longestaffes altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes,
Brehgerts, and Goldsheiners?



CHAPTER LXI - LADY MONOGRAM PREPARES FOR THE PARTY


When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss
Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr Melmotte was in all
his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious.
Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for
hers,--especially as the reception of Mr Brehgert must be considered.
But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie
Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the
elopement. Mr Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and
a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a
lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was
to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I.O.U. of
considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to
accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the
prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through
that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. But
at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were
worth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the whole
town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told
their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the
hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by the
footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the
coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated round
dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.

I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife
as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the
result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made no
calculation. 'Have you heard what's up, Ju?' he said, rushing
half-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 that
girl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean
to 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 some
arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her
not going to the reception. 'What do you mean by found out?'

'I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something
about that place he bought of old Longestaffe.'

'Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day
longer if there is anything against them.'

'Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poor
old 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 a
receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a
whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?'

'Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe,' said Lady Monogram, who had
thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.

'They say he has found it all out. There was always something about
Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody
says that Melmotte will be in quod before long.'

'Not to-night, Damask!'

'Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait
about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had
gone away.'

'Is Mr Lupton going?'

'He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind
whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite
certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet
Council 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 to
dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol
before dinnertime. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows.'

Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon having
a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore
quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But, of course,
everything she did say was repeated downstairs in some language that
had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat
motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own
domain, finished his operations. 'Damask,' she said, when he
reappeared, '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't
you, she's going to marry one of these people?'

'I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of
Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A
vulgar 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. She
had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman
always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose
the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's
villainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the
daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had
first heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference
between commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to become
known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door,
and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched
people,--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 the
Princes, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors,
Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been
there,--that the world, in short, had ignored Melmotte's villainy,--
then would her grief be still greater. She sat down to dinner with her
husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter.
Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she had
transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two. And a horrible
idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind. What should she do with her friend
Georgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up?
Of course, Madame Melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if her
husband were sent to gaol. 'I suppose you'll go,' said Sir Damask as
the ladies left the room.

'Of course we shall,--in about an hour,' said Lady Monogram as she left
the 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'll
stay, 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 about
our going to-night?'

'I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There
seems 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 a
very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that
he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better
finish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear
that the Emperor is there.' Then she descended to her husband, whom
she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. 'Damask,' she
said, '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 yourself
you'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall
and you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were
you.' Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he
did 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 come
before you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju.'

'Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if it
were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened
before, 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 confounded
bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole box
and dice of that sort of thing! He 'wished to goodness' that he had
dined 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 with
the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for and
announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his big
cigar.

It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor
Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was
illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door, and
half the square was already blocked up with carriages.

It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there he
saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The
Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far as
Sir Damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success.
But again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven
before 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 resent
what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. 'I
don't understand it at all,' she said. 'Of course the Emperor is
there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What
is the meaning of it, Julia?'

'My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own
way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the
carriage is there we had better start.' The carriage was there, and
they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to
Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the
door. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming
downstairs. But at last they made their way into the room above,
and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been
there,--but had taken their departure.

Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his
club.



CHAPTER LXII - THE PARTY


Lady Monogram retired from Mr Melmotte's house in disgust as soon as
she was able to escape; but we must return to it for a short time.
When the guests were once in the drawing-room the immediate sense of
failure passed away. The crowd never became so thick as had been
anticipated. They who were knowing in such matters had declared that
the people would not be able to get themselves out of the room till
three or four o'clock in the morning, and that the carriages would not
get themselves out of the Square till breakfast time. With a view to
this kind of thing Mr Melmotte had been told that he must provide a
private means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with a
considerable sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements this
had been done. No such gathering as was expected took place; but still
the rooms became fairly full, and Mr Melmotte was able to console
himself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had as yet
occurred.

There can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembled
did believe that their host had committed some great fraud which might
probably bring him under the arm of the law. When such rumours are
spread abroad, they are always believed. There is an excitement and a
pleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such a moment is
dull and phlegmatic. If the accused one be near enough to ourselves to
make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course we
disbelieve. But, if the distance be beyond this, we are almost ready
to think that anything may be true of anybody. In this case nobody
really loved Melmotte and everybody did believe. It was so probable
that such a man should have done something horrible! It was only hoped
that the fraud might be great and horrible enough.

Melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passed
upstairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. He behaved
certainly very much better than he would have done had he had no
weight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning any
conversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he was
addressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the names
of those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presence
indicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence already
before them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, he wished
that he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal. And he freely
forgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been so angry at
the India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess was lacking of
those who were expected. He could turn his mind to all this, although
he knew how great was his danger. Many things occurred to him as he
stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. It might be the case
that half-a-dozen detectives were already stationed in his own hall
perhaps one or two, well dressed, in the very presence of royalty,--
ready to arrest him as soon as the guests were gone, watching him now
lest he should escape. But he bore the burden,--and smiled. He had
always lived with the consciousness that such a burden was on him and
might crush him at any time. He had known that he had to run these
risks. He had told himself a thousand times that when the dangers
came, dangers alone should never cow him. He had always endeavoured to
go as near the wind as he could, to avoid the heavy hand of the
criminal law of whatever country he inhabited. He had studied the
criminal laws, so that he might be sure in his reckonings; but he had
always felt that he might be carried by circumstances into deeper
waters than he intended to enter. As the soldier who leads a forlorn
hope, or as the diver who goes down for pearls, or as the searcher for
wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knows that as his gains may be great,
so are his perils, Melmotte had been aware that in his life, as it
opened itself out to him, he might come to terrible destruction. He
had not always thought, or even hoped, that he would be as he was now,
so exalted as to be allowed to entertain the very biggest ones of the
earth; but the greatness had grown upon him,--and so had the danger. He
could not now be as exact as he had been. He was prepared himself to
bear all mere ignominy with a tranquil mind,--to disregard any shouts
of reprobation which might be uttered, and to console himself when the
bad quarter of an hour should come with the remembrance that he had
garnered up a store sufficient for future wants and placed it beyond
the reach of his enemies. But as his intellect opened up to him new
schemes, and as his ambition got the better of his prudence, he
gradually fell from the security which he had preconceived, and became
aware that he might have to bear worse than ignominy.

Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his own
conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as he
stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety the part
of host to an Emperor. No;--he could not run away. He soon made himself
sure of that. He had risen too high to be a successful fugitive, even
should he succeed in getting off before hands were laid upon him. He
must bide his ground, if only that he might not at once confess his
own guilt by flight; and he would do so with courage. Looking back at
the hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had allowed
himself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room,--but also to
seem to be frightened. The thing had come upon him unawares and he had
been untrue to himself. He acknowledged that. He should not have asked
those questions of Mr Todd and Mr Beauclerk, and should have been more
good-humoured than usual with Lord Alfred in discussing those empty
seats. But for spilt milk there is no remedy. The blow had come upon
him too suddenly, and he had faltered. But he would not falter again.
Nothing should cow him,--no touch from a policeman, no warrant from a
magistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in the City, no
solitude in the West End. He would go down among the electors to-morrow
and would stand his ground, as though all with him were right. Men
should know at any rate that he had a heart within his bosom. And he
confessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter of
arrogance. He could see it now,--as so many of us do see the faults
which we have committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue,
and which we never confess except to our own bosoms. The task which he
had imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added weight,
had been very hard to bear. He should have been good-humoured to
these great ones whose society he had gained. He should have bound
these 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 help
for spilt milk. I think he took some pride in his own confidence as to
his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind.
Very much might be suspected. Something might be found out. But the
task of unravelling it all would not be easy. It is the small vermin
and the little birds that are trapped at once. But wolves and vultures
can fight hard before they are caught. With the means which would
still be at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he could
make a strong fight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a
certain safety in their very diversity and proportions. Might it not
be that the fact that these great ones of the earth had been his
guests should speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had the
real brother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into
the dock and then sent out of it like a common felon.

Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs
with a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a moment
when any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dined at
the table,--or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that no duty
had devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours, and would
probably be the last person in that house to hear them. It never
occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full or
empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China and
must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with an
Emperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she had gone when
she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performed
her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She, I think,
had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and but
little understanding of the position in which she had been placed.
Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine dresses,
but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or have enjoyed
the company of the Emperor. From the beginning of the Melmotte era it
had been an understood thing that no one spoke to Madame Melmotte.

Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at first
had been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired to
have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledged to
be betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he had said
nothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, but thought
now that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however, in the
drawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwards
retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a person of
interest as the young woman who had lately run away under such strange
circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she
herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage for
the occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had been brought hither by
her mother.

The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent before
the elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference had been
made to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. Lady Carbury
herself was anxious that that affair should not be considered as
having given cause for any personal quarrel between herself and Mr
Melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr Broune. Mr Broune was
the staff on which she leant at present in all her difficulties. Mr
Broune was going to the dinner. All this of course took place while
Melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr Broune saw no reason
why Lady Carbury should not take advantage of her tickets. These
invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor surrounded by the
Princes. The young lady's elopement is 'no affair of yours,' Mr Broune
had said. 'I should go, if it were only for the sake of showing that
you did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter.' Lady
Carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her.
'Nonsense,' said the mother, when Hetta objected; 'Mr Broune sees it
quite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour of
the Emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothing
to offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor.' A few
minutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from Mr
Broune, written in pencil and sent from Melmotte's house by a
Commissioner. 'Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as
far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as
thick as blackberries.' Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of
hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she
went. And Hetta went with her.

Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was
talking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of
the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to her
and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial to
the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the
great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed
to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. 'I hope you won't be
angry with me for speaking to you.' Hetta smiled more graciously. She
could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she
was there as the guest of the girl's mother. 'I suppose you know about
your brother,' said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the
ground.

'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't
think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody
in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really
loves him,--that ought to go before everything?'

This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt
quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a
man. '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? I
don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would
only 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 horrid
morning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was now
four days since,--he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till
this evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury had
started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would not
get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed
fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and
drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that
he was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show
himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled at
the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to
Liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated. He
had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him from
day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept out
intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles. 'Do
tell 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 it
is 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 care
for me?'

Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by the girl
recommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with the affection
manifested for her own brother, though she could hardly understand the
want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speaking of her love to
one who was almost a stranger. 'Felix hardly ever talks about himself
to me,' she said.

'If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it,' Marie said
very gravely. 'If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go
through,--oh,--all the world for him. Nothing that papa could say
should stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked to
any one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person to
talk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There's
no disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get married without
being 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 voice
to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to her
companion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother did not
in the least 'care for' Marie Melmotte, and that it would be very much
for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But she had
not 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 my
brother,--and of course I love you for loving him.' This was almost
more than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some
gracious 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 you
know him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not love
me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't the
way 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 she
would. '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 know
it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all the
same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very
bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But he
ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think he
ought 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 Miss
Carbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved
him to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he had
not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly immoral,
that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to
other men's wives, was to him a matter of everyday life. Nothing of
that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet quite old enough
to believe in swindling. It had been impossible to convince him that
Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr Melmotte had
forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer should
run away in battle. Common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort of
thing. He had almost fallen in love with Marie when he saw her last,
and was inclined to feel the more kindly to her now because of the
hard things that were being said about her father. And yet he knew
that he must be careful. If 'he came a cropper' in this matter, it
would be such an awful cropper! 'How do you like the party?' he said
to 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 ever
saw. Prince Frederic,'--one of the German princes who was staying at
the time among his English cousins,--'Prince Frederic says that he's
stuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop
in the Haymarket.'

'I've seen him talk.'

'He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. I
think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I've
dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put anything to
eat into his jolly old mouth.'

'Of course he did.'

'Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other
day?'

'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 three
months.'

'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're
all 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 that
in 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 at
all 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 his
wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he would
follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some last
directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and
extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had looked
round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of
searching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those who
knew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought of
all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the real
venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this
additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily gracious
as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, considering
all things, the party had gone off very well. 'I only wish it could
have been done a little cheaper,' he said laughing. Then he went back
into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterly
deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busy
in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the
Emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should come to such a fate
as this;--that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his
own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and German
Royalty,--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 rate
remember him. The grand dinner which he had given before he was put
into prison would live in history. And it would be remembered, too,
that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough of
Westminster,--perhaps, even, the elected member. He, too, in his manner,
assured himself that a great part of him would escape Oblivion. 'Non
omnis moriar,' in some language of his own, was chanted by him within
his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent suite
of rooms from the armchair which had been consecrated by the use of an
Emperor.

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 things
were not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly as they
were before, but for the absence of those guests from the
dinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Had
he not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had
known that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by
similar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which
had followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which had
overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which he
had allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking such
as that. When people talked of him they should say that he was at
least a man.

As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one
of the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. 'Is
that you, Miles?' he said. 'Come in. I'm just going home, and came up
here 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 from
throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,--as though proclaiming
the 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 a
few words of consultation between him and his father,--only a very
few words. 'You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular
salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him to-morrow
till I find out how things are going. By G----, I've had about enough
of him.' But hardly enough of his money or it may be presumed that Lord
Alfred would have 'hooked it' sooner.

'Why don't you come in, and not stand there?' said Melmotte. 'There's
no Emperor here now for you to be afraid of.'

'I'm afraid of nobody,' said Miles, walking into the middle of the
room.

'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 his
master's mind.

'I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he
gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the
committee-room about ten to-morrow?'

'That's the best, I should say.'

'You'll be there by that time?' Miles Grendall assented slowly, and
with imperfect assent. 'And tell your father he might as well be there
as early as convenient.'

'All right,' said Miles as he took his departure.

'Curs!' said Melmotte almost aloud. 'They neither of them will be
there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they
will do it.' Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendall
article had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. 'Curs!'
he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through the
banqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. What
a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk within
him! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit him
hardest. 'What cowards they are!' The men went on with their work, not
noticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had been done
by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The care of the
house and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, and
his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. A confidential
clerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways,
was there also to guard the property. 'Good night, Croll,' he said to
the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night.
Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying to
catch from it some indication of the mind within. Did Croll know of
these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had known
him in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him through
them. He paused a moment as though he would ask a question, but
resolved at last that silence would be safest. 'You'll see everything
safe, eh, Croll?' Croll said that he would see everything safe, and
Melmotte passed out into the Square.

He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton
Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars.
If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all
his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he
thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he could even
now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions in
some distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. But
he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they
were, to the end. He could reach no place so distant but that he would
be 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 large
as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the
ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, or
thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up
promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones,
now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds
had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the
reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as
to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On the
Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from
morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought little
of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary
in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the
tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte's
committee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there were
some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No such
suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps, because no one dared to
make it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election,
as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the
hour was turned to the dinner.

But Mr Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close
consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their
Committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the
'Pulpit' of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair,
which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were
immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and
mentioned no details. Mr Alf explained that this had been put in by
the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was
bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no
note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been
connected with the election.

One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most
of it. 'It's no more than we've all believed all along,' said the old
gentleman, 'and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if
we can keep him out?' He was of opinion that everything should be done
to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible,--
so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and
the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be
effected. But the Committee generally was averse to fight in this
manner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law Courts. If,
after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud,--or, as was much more
probable, should not be convicted of fraud,--then it would be said that
the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and
there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who
had been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what
they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no
overt use should be made of the rumours by Mr Alf's Committee. In
regard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were busy
enough. The dinner to the Emperor was turned into ridicule, and the
electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a
gentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered to
spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in
London. There was very much said on placards and published in
newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printed
which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours
never been sent out from the City. At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr
Alf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking
home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour
of Mr Alf.

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman
had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that
an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his
bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor,
which Mr Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr Melmotte had used
since he had been in Mr Longestaffe's house for the work which he did
at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often late
at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavy
desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground.
One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own
purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had
been made, Mr Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were close friends. Terms
for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause for
suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen had
been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr Longestaffe
could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house at
ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter that
room. The servants were to regard Mr Longestaffe quite as master of
the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr Longestaffe could
spare it, Mr Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. The
matter was arranged very pleasantly.

Mr Melmotte on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at
his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle of
letters and another of small documents. From these, with very little
examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps from each.
These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits,--holding
them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china
plate. 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 bit
into 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 walked
across to the other table, Mr Longestaffe's table, and pulled the
handle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and then, without touching
the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the
lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Having
done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door,
and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to
hand. The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried
fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always
breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did
on this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the
'Pulpit,' and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest
change in his colour. There was no one to see him now,--but he was
acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a
crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,--not even when the
policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him,--
would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss
of a drop of blood from his heart. He would go through it, always
armed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do
it.

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall
Place. He thought that he would face the world better by walking than
if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the carriage
should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him if
he was not there. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent
Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly
triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great
guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom
he 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 he
would have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. Even after the man
had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He
would take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphant
Merchant Prince,--as long as the police would allow him. He probably
was not aware how very different was the part he was now playing from
that which he had assumed at the India Office.

At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was
informed that everything was going on regularly. The electors were
balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the
understrappers,--there never was any excitement. The men looked
half-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they ought
to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. They
certainly had not expected to see him there. 'Has Lord Alfred been
here?' Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to the
empty grate. No,--Lord Alfred had not been there. 'Nor Mr Grendall?'
The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for 'his
Secretary,' and not for Mr Grendall, but for the rumours. It is so
hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding Charybdis. Mr
Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody had been there. 'In fact,
there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?' said Mr Melmotte. The
senior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done.
He left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out
again on foot.

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The
place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested
election, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everybody
and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he was
recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and
shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing with
people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. He did
not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the
'Pulpit' to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely
enough of the general accusations that had been brought against him
previously. He wished the electors to understand that nothing which
had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here or
elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the electors
of 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 him
from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. He
flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to regard the
ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter of
course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his back to bear
perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward to
a triumphant return. But things had been said, and published, which
the excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these
things he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion to
the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was
the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he
had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as
he was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the
'Breakfast-Table' who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs
as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that
paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted
afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness, that
he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone having
considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation;
but in truth the affair had not been pre-concerted. It was while in
Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden,
and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered
round him.

It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He
was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His
success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he feared
that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he was
not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would go
boldly into the City,--to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He had
determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. But
his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss.
Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face
them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a
holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had
altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, and
they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. 'Mr Grendall has not
been here?' he asked. No; Mr Grendall had not been there; but Mr
Cohenlupe was in Mr Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired
to see Mr Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his
transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr Cohenlupe knew
that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had
been mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had so
been raised. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase,
although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in getting
the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraid
that he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he
could not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to
stand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But
the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office
without 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 Westminster
while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the
letters. 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 air
of indignation. 'Alf and his people had got hold of him. There was
ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the
invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to
come. 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 a
fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough
to believe, if you do.'

'There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not
know,' said Cohenlupe.

'Look you here, Cohenlupe,'--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to a
whisper,--'keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and
say 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 and
have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for
it. There's no fraud in that.'

'No, no,--nothing in that.'

'You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the
bank now.' Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low
in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great
man to the City.

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 one
for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which kept
what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through,
after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the
manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the
fireplace just as though nothing had happened,--or as nearly as though
nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He could
not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he
was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did not
behave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed
their 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 that
when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to be
done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; but
as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent
Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they say
there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of.'

'And the dinner went off pretty well?' asked the manager.

'Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything
that has been done for him yet.' This was a brilliant flash of
imagination. 'For a friend to dine with me every day, you know, I
should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. But
then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have
much to say for ourselves;--eh?' The manager acceded to this
proposition. 'We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over
the 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 somehow
compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him.'
Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. He
would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. 'You don't
give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know.' He had
been in the habit of overdrawing on his private account,--making
arrangements with the manager. But now, in the manager's presence, he
drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and
then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the £250 which he had
received from Mr Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix had
taken from Marie.

'There don't seem much the matter with him,' said the manager, when
Melmotte had left the room.

'He brazens it out, don't he?' said the senior clerk. But the feeling
of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the
rumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr Melmotte
would 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 there
the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as the
reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that
loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on
the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiry
as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for the
things that had been said, Mr Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol,
or would be--wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon as
the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he
had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the
following morning. Others had been told that at the last moment his
name would be withdrawn,--and a question arose as to whether he had
the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day
before the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of the
electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should
have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of
men went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth.
He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagated
this report certainly damaged Mr Alf's cause. A second reaction set
in, and there grew a feeling that Mr Melmotte was being ill-used.
Those evil things had been said of him,--many at least so declared,--
not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr Alf's return. Tidings
of the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various polling
places, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr
Alf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech.
Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the
newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of
having injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr Alf might
say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.

About two o'clock in the day, Mr Alf did make a speech,--and a very good
speech it was, if correctly reported in the 'Evening Pulpit.' Mr Alf
was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately
at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in this
speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to
convince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament,
because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their
views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not,
indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness
for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himself
with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;--and that he
and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr
Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of
nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. 'Mr Melmotte,' he said,
'comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of
his friends,--for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,--
that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is
not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative
supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet
which Mr Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those
whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that
banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the
City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say
that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their
candidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free
themselves from the individual shame of having supported the
candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of
clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr Melmotte's
committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there.
Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets,
or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in
the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they
have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it.' Then he ended
by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. 'I scorn,' said he, 'to say
anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which
I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no
allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and
which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they
may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them
as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you
long before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr Melmotte was
not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I
repeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do
you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be
accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless,
indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him
in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British
merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whose
business here has connected them with the assurance companies of
foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to
represent Westminster in the British parliament!' There was much more
yet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr Alf made with the
object of inducing the electors to vote for himself.

At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was
going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of
Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of
money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,--partly, no
doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the
crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will
almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted
on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade
themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because
the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull
down the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest
calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of
the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most
part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud,
were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves
dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many
good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be
due to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of such
a feeling generally, in respect of Mr Melmotte. But there was a
commencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public
robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in
London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr
Melmotte.

About three o'clock, the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast-Table'
called on Lady Carbury. 'What is it all about?' she asked, as soon as
her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain
anything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet
failed in learning any certain news of what was going on.

'I don't know what to make of it,' said Mr Broune. 'There is a story
abroad that Mr Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a
purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories as
to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an
electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all
his own side seem to believe it.'

'Do you believe it?'

'Ah,--I could answer almost any question sooner than that.'

'Then he can't be rich at all.'

'Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that
he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of
immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills.'

'Will he be returned?' she asked.

'From what we hear, we think not; I shall know more about it in an
hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an
opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is
doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are
ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to
him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter
so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed
on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as
they had put in their voting papers.'

'I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool,' said Lady Carbury.

'It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought
back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her.'

'I saw him talking to her last night.'

'There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts
that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say
everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The
Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £15
premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of
that.' But Mr Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly
displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr Alf. 'I shouldn't think
him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship
when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man
must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a
London daily paper at the same time.'

'Has it never been done?'

'Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the
"Pulpit." How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend
to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf
believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll
come to the ground. Where's Felix now?'

'Do not ask me,' said the poor mother.

'Is he doing anything?'

'He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.'

'But that wants money.' She only shook her head. 'You do not give him
any?'

'I have none to give.'

'I should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the door
if he will not give it up.'

'And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must
wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do
that, Mr Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her
reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry
out the sentence.' Mr Broune never now thought of kissing Lady
Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and
she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed.
The feeling between them was changed.

Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his
wife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always
joined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an
understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unless
he explained his absence by some engagement,--so that his presence
there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not infrequently
'Alfred' and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wines
were good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place,--but
on this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said
a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But not
a person had called to-day, the day after the great party,--and even
she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to
think that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to the
presence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. She
thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting
for her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him to
discuss the work of the day. '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 the
day'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 had
gone back to his office, and had written letters,--just as if nothing
had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up
courage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from
the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerk
expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr Melmotte,
judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side
and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs
altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not the
foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that
subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He read
Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr Alf had not
dared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburg and
Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. His
whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. 'I think we
shall do pretty well,' he said to the clerk. His very presence in
Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home,
something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could
swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. 'Nor Lord Alfred,'
he said with scorn. Then he added more. 'The father and son are two
d---- curs.' This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined
this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

'Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?' she said afterwards, creeping up
to 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 this
time.'

'Then there is something.'

'Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You
don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as
the 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 get
plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marry
Lord Nidderdale?' Madame Melmotte shook her head. 'What a poor
creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a
reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her
over. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You
tell her that I say so.'

'Then he may flog me,' said Marie, when so much of the conversation
was repeated to her that evening. 'Papa does not know me if he thinks
that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging.' No such attempt was
at any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again
see 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;--but
that was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers, including
the 'Breakfast-Table,' repeated this report,--but each gave it as the
general opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known till seven
or eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers did not
scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr Alf was owing to a
sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr Melmotte.
The 'Breakfast-Table,' which had supported Mr Melmotte's candidature,
gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the other
papers. 'We know not how such an opinion forms itself,' the writer
said,--'but it seems to have been formed. As nothing as yet is really
known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the
matter.'

Mr Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to
have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway
shares were low, and Mr Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits and
unhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened.
If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably
recover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of the day,
Melmotte received a letter from Messrs Slow and Bideawhile, which, of
itself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was comfort to be
drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. The
letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It had come evidently
from a hostile party. It had none of the feeling which had hitherto
prevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known Conservative
gentlemen, Mr Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr Augustus Melmotte. But there
was no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings;
no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr Longestaffe and
Mr Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which Mr
Melmotte had purchased.

'We have to remind you,' said the letter, in continuation of
paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, 'that the
title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to
that effect from the Messrs Longestaffe, father and son, on the
understanding that the purchase-money was to be paid to us by you. We
are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We do
not state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue,
forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay
to us the purchase-money,--£80,000,--or else return to us the
title-deeds of the estate.'

This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared positively
that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by them
from both the Longestaffes,--father and son. Now the accusation brought
against Melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that he
had forged the signature to the young Mr Longestaffe's letter. Messrs
Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt,
he cared little comparatively about that. Many fine men were walking
about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.

As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,--for both his
wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dined
early,--news was brought to him that he had been elected for
Westminster. He had beaten Mr Alf by something not much less than a
thousand votes.

It was very much to be member for Westminster. So much had at any rate
been achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling and
without 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 and
much as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so great to him
as 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 the
British Parliament, and member for one of the first cities in the
empire. Ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude of the
achievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present position, still
at this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. Of
course he had committed forgery,--of course he had committed robbery.
That, indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and
stealing all his life. Of course he was in danger of almost immediate
detection and punishment. He hardly hoped that the evil day would be
very much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed his triumph. Whatever
they might do, quick as they might be, they could hardly prevent his
taking his seat in the House of Commons. Then if they sent him to
penal servitude for life, they would have to say that they had so
treated the member for Westminster!

He drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water. In
such troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly get
sufficient support from wine. He knew that he had better not drink;--
that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to be free to
him for his own work and his own enjoyment. But if the world were no
longer free to him, if he were really coming to penal servitude and
annihilation,--then why should he not drink while the time lasted? An
hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man, if the man's
imagination were strong enough so make him so regard his hour. He
therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took it he was
able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, after
all, he might even yet escape from his bondages. No;--he would drink
no more. This he said to himself as he filled another beaker. He would
work instead. He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and would yet
conquer his enemies. It would not be so easy to convict a member for
Westminster,--especially if money were spent freely. Was he not the man
who, at his own cost, had entertained the Emperor of China? Would not
that be remembered in his favour? Would not men be unwilling to punish
the man who had received at his own table all the Princes of the land,
and the Prime Minister, and all the Ministers? To convict him would be
a national disgrace. He fully realized all this as he lifted the glass
to his mouth, and puffed out the smoke in large volumes through his
lips. But money must be spent! Yes;--money must be had! Cohenlupe
certainly had money. Though he squeezed it out of the coward's veins
he would have it. At any rate, he would not despair. There was a fight
to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. Then he took a
deep drink, and slowly, with careful and almost solemn steps, he made
his way up to his bed.



CHAPTER LXV - MISS LONGESTAFFE WRITES HOME


Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that
entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very
little avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himself
affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as
anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her
ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and
rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end,
including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had been
made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to
Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no
Prince! 'They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny
cats.' That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two
ladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than
of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.

'What a horrid affair!' said Lady Monogram. 'Did anybody ever see
anything so vulgar?' This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever
vulgarity 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 we
got 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 to
pay 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 the
honour of coming to us to-morrow night?' She could not have declared in
plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she
had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.

'If you mean Mr Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and
I did so.'

'Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different
sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix
things.' Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her
tongue.

Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she
should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia
Triplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and
Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first
London 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 than
weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her
friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day,
and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. 'I wonder what has
made you so ill-natured,' she said at last. 'You didn't use to be like
that.'

'It's no good abusing me,' said Lady Monogram. 'Here we are, and I
suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take
you anywhere else.' Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the
house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffe
followed 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 twice
proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr Longestaffe, who
had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the
present moment. Of course it was proper that Mr Brehgert should see
her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should
postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many
doubts. Those few words about 'various sets' and the 'mixing of
things' had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. Mr
Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of
what she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go down
into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of
Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be
the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, and
had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham had
been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of
the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel
satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her
mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were
in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,--
until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the
house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; but
there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written
to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to Mr Brehgert begging
that the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided on
the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of
the match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and
wide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale
had heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to be
public before the end of the season. Each morning lately she had
feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the
meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her
father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know
whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so
abominable a report.

And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte
this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the
drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she
was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was going
to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the
proposed duration of her visit, and Mr Longestaffe, in his ambiguous
way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes.
She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although
Mr Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr Brehgert's wishes
she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr
Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take
her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be
easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. But
then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat;--and how should
she face her family after such a declaration? She had always given
herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice.
Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon
her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the
best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations
as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears
to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own
father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her
mother,--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 away
and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer
be in her way.

About one o'clock on that day Mr Longestaffe called at Lady
Monogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted upstairs, and had only just
met in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at first,
but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of Mr
Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on
the 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 a
little longer,' said Lady Monogram; 'but we have but the one spare
bedroom, and another friend is coming.' Georgiana, who knew both these
statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a
thing. 'We have a few friends corning to-night, Mr Longestaffe, and I
hope you'll come in and see Georgiana.' Mr Longestaffe hummed and
hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are
asked 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 not
revealing any secret.'

'I don't understand anything about it,' said Mr Longestaffe.
'Georgiana, who is Mr Brehgert?' He had understood very much. He had
been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and also
from his daughter's face, that Mr Brehgert was mentioned as an
accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any
father would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to Sir
Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as
Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr Longestaffe's
knowledge.

'My dear Georgiana,' she said, 'I supposed your father knew all about
it.'

'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 forced
to 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 to
you 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 old
enough to be your father!' The poor girl's condition now was certainly
lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man
she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with her
father. But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner
in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to
begin to be bold. She only looked at him as though imploring him to
spare her. 'Is the man a Jew?' demanded Mr Longestaffe, with as much
thunder 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 in
the thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further
reply. 'If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I
certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I
certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but
you 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 old
fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should
think of it! You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in
yourself! Have you written to your mother?'

'I have.'

'It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home
to-morrow?'

'I wrote to say so.'

'And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and
explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--a
Jew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself
to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in
this way?' The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly
that morning. 'You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my
hotel 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 not
have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to
come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not
permit you to meet Mr Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A
Jew! 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 between
them would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and in
the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. She
said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. 'Tell him that I was
called away suddenly.'

'I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it.' The poor
girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit
her now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yield
to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her
father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken
to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She
believed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert in the morning of that
day;--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, Mr
Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. Lady
Monogram received him with a sweet smile. 'Miss Longestaffe,' she
said, 'has left me and gone to her father.'

'Oh, indeed.'

'Yes,' said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to
other persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak another
word to Mr Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stood
for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the
wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he
was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his
wife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probably
change her acquaintance.



CHAPTER LXVI - 'SO SHALL BE MY ENMITY'


'You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle.' So Mrs Hurtle had
said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come to
England with the view of marrying. And then when he had said good-bye
to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, she
declined that. 'Nay,' she had said; 'this parting will bear no
farewell.'

Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return home
with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that letter
with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended to
write to him,--that letter which she had shown him, owning it to be
the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed,--
he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, however
badly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. He
could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could
have assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to
escape from the clutches of a wildcat such as that. But at the last
moment 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 exquisitely
beautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied with
himself. He had destroyed her life for her,--or, at least, had created
a miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. She had
said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow
him,--and he had believed her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She
had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong
he had done her. But was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he
might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further
inquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine
that has been drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed as the day
that is past?

But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolved
that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in
that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared by
herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her he
would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish
coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to
be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs Pipkin's lodgings.

During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the
dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the
American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr
Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in
which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it;
adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his
letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company
seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter to
Mr Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing
his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague,
and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him,--a payment
which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners,
if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the
success of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote these
letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet
sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first
heard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old set
had for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been
heard of for the last four or five days,--and then the whole story of
Miss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the
newspapers, was told to him. 'We think that Carbury has drowned
himself' said Lord Grasslough, 'and I haven't heard of anybody being
heartbroken about it.' Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the
club. '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 money
down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the
party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thing
he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was
always an ass.' Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three
days. 'We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like,'
said Lord Grasslough; 'and then Melmotte won't let him out of his
sight. He has taken to dine there every day.' This was said during the
election,--on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and on
that evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there,
and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's
condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was
faithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openly
enough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a
word.

On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed
purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta
alone. 'Mamma has gone to her publisher's,' she said. 'She is writing
so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, Mr
Montague?' Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very
little. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. 'I
suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in
Parliament or not?' Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman
of his. 'Are you out of it altogether, Mr Montague?' Yes;--as far as
it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did not
like Mr Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth he
repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing deep
regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that
alliance. '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 to
run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord
Nidderdale is to marry her now.'

'I think not, Mr Montague.'

'I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of
it.'

'Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I
do 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 when
I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry
Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it
will be if anything happens.'

But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention of
discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the
opportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and
now 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 to
do.

'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 thought
that he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs that
ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her love
after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady
Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could not
remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had
spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that she
had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed her
own love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of that
confession; but he must have known that he had her heart!

So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, as
ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She had
endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to
her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. She would
have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are
times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will
hardly act mechanically.

'Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one
moment so as to let me know.' Her eyes had turned downwards after her
work. '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, and
then 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 to
take 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 it
with 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 with
joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success.
'Want it!' he said. 'Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with
real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my
only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.'

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the
truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did
not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could
ever 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 same
thing. 'He is as good as gold,' she said,--'ever so much better than
you are, Paul,' stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his
eyes.

'Better than anybody I have ever known,' said Montague with all his
energy.

'I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought
to 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. I
do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes
thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did
not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have
everything 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 is
not 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 an
unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he
never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he made
me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says
must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but I almost
think that I ought to have obeyed him.' Paul Montague of course had
very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did
exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. It
should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises,
should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external
circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her
heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse
him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he
could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing that he had failed to
win her heart. It was very well said,--at least so Hetta thought,--and
she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in
reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for
good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger
should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be
helped. But would it not be right that it should be told? 'Do you know
I almost feel that he is like a father to me,' said Hetta, leaning on
her lover's shoulder.

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would
himself write to Roger. 'Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will
ever 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 as
he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love
you. How could I have known?'

'That would be unreasonable.'

'He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always
goes 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 that
I 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 great
sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come
upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and
wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive
you, but he will never forgive me.' Then they parted, she having
promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came
home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the
spirit. 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 answer
the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the
terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk
and wrote his reply. 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 those
parts 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 were
going 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 you
knew 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 I
not to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him--'

'Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had
got 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 all
Melmotte's wickedness.'

'Oh, mamma, do not say that!'

'But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try
to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as
he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation like
that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! I
feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think nothing
of that.'

'I think very much of my cousin Roger.'

'And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been a
home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been
worse to me even than Felix.' Then Lady Carbury, in her passion, burst
out 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 but
little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He had
spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he had
incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had
forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and
had attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly
ruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had
always contrived 'to carry on the game.' He had eaten and drunk, had
gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion
considered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept up
till now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all
things. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up
all his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a
little roll of Mr Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps to
a couple of hundred pounds,--and Mr Melmotte owed him £600. But where
was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually he
learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool,--how Marie had
gone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's money had
been repaid to Mr Melmotte by Mr Broune, and how his failure to make
the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to his
club. He could not go to Melmotte's house. He was ashamed even to show
himself in the streets by day.

He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the
brilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond
hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts,
he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,--nor was she
willing to yield as she had yielded.

One thing only was clear to him. He must realize his possessions. With
this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To the
former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time, and
he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on to
remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury
was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of £200;--but that if
such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the
Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter Mr
Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr Melmotte
he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made no
allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger, or to his
seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr Melmotte that there was a sum
of £600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent to
him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was not altogether
unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. A
clerk from Mr Melmotte's office called at the house in Welbeck Street,
and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South Central Pacific and
Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum claimed,--insisting on a full
receipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. The clerk went
on to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been left
in Mr Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir
Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the
scrip. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster,
when the result was not yet known,--and when the shares in the railway
were very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the
shares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote the
price,--but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of
course he took them;--and hurrying off into the City found that they
might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to
whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--the
scrip had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,--
or, more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great
Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first time
that he had been out of the house before dark since his little
accident.

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 get
through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never
read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a
day'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 amuse
himself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better
the 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's
house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would
be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs Pipkin told her
that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as
she, Mrs Pipkin, chose. 'Am I to be a slave?' Ruby asked, and almost
upset 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 Ruby
had been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. But
she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid
to 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 this
condition Sir Felix came to Mrs Pipkin's house, and asked for her at
the door, it happened that Mrs Pipkin herself had opened the door,--
and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young
man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was in the house. But
Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herself
into his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn that
she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for
Mrs Hurtle, or for John Crumb,--or for any person or anything. She
cared only for her lover. Then Mrs Hurtle had asked the young man his
intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that he
supposed he might as well some day. 'There,' said Ruby, 'there!'--
shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the
completest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs Pipkin had
been very weak. Instead of calling in the assistance of her
strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together
for half an hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix in
any way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably
too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such
renewal. 'There must be an end of this,' said Mrs Pipkin, coming in
when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to
come again on the following evening. 'You must not come here, Sir
Felix,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'unless you puts it in writing.' To this, of
course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated
himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing he
could do when he had realized the money for the shares would be to
take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four
months,--and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity.

That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the
drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the
distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hetta
since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words,--
thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of
the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could
become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue
because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but
be happy if he really loved her. And she,--as she had told him that she
loved him,--would be true to him through everything! In her present
mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the
opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had
extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and
told him that she had talked with Marie. 'I promised to give you a
message,' 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 really
loves you.'

'But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the
policemen in the country are dodging her.'

'She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you
mean to give her up, I think you should tell her.'

'How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a
letter.'

'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 of
that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me
up to marry her.'

'I never put you up to it.'

'Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to
hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much
about her.'

'Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!'

'Awfully shocking, I dare say. You think I am as black as the very
mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other
men are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe
that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague.' Hetta blushed, but
said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover
before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few
young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. 'I suppose you'd be
surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American
widow living at Islington.'

'Mr Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe
it.'

'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 in
the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at
Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it.'

'I don't believe it,' repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much
as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was
impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his
mouth 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 hearts
she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,--or perhaps
some trick to divide her from the man she loved. 'Felix, how dare you
say things so wicked as that to me?'

'What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become
fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to
marry 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 the
woman. There,' said he, 'that's where she is;'--and he wrote Mrs
Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.

'It is not true,' said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing
upright. 'I am engaged to Mr Montague, and I am sure he would not
treat 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 I
stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs Hurtle whom he
constantly visits at that place in Islington.'

'I do not believe it,' said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her
lover which was applicable at the moment.

'By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger
Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough
against 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 all
about 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 Master
Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage
you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what
Roger tells her.'

'I do not believe a word of it,' said Hetta, leaving the room. But
when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some
foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger
Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's
manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether
baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the
tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man
have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her
hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily
communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his
wife?

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to
herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son
were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some
music 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 learned
from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs
Hurtle. Mrs Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs Pipkin, and
Mrs Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had
herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had
taken Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the
two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs Hurtle had seen Roger
Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of
its details,--not quite with all,--had come round to Lady Carbury's
ears. 'What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove
of 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 same
house.'

'Has he seen her?'

'I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write
to 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 other
man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not
steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has
not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,--tells
me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I
suppose 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 never
believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but
it can't be that.'

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it
pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had
no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still
thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very
night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the
whole story. 'If,' she said, 'you know that there is such a person as
Mrs Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr Montague has promised to make
her his wife, of course you will tell me.' Then she declared her own
wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to
give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would
certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing
this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the
circumstances of Montague's life? 'You know,' she said, 'what my
wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr Montague's
interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present
moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence;
and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,--and
also yourself.'



CHAPTER LXVIII - MISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE


Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to
be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had
come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very
moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman
whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her
had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!
Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first
meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had
thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and
affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had
therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed
so 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 it
would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And
now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at
the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but
no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard
before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at
heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew
that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew also that
nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should
come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare
to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could
only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that
she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken
to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and
she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in
a 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 her
mother at breakfast.

'Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the
Melmottes?'

'I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a
message 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. Of
course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They
could 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 did
quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should
he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte
should forgive such offence as had now been committed. 'It is out of
the question,' she said. 'That, like everything else with us, has been
a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no
obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much
doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go
alone, you know,' Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not
at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over
Oxford 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 the
Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that
there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But
she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open.
Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the
banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much
trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the
ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of
Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House.
Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short
time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that he had
sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the
present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now
noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was
talking to the contractor for the work,--having just propitiated that
man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the
necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of
keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked
one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. 'Do you want my
daughter?' said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his
hat. '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 the
present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his
daughter.

'I am Miss Carbury,' said Hetta in a very low voice.

'Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?' There
was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on
Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. 'Oh;--Sir Felix's sister!
May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with my
daughter?' The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen
around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the
suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply.
She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something
between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that
it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over.
'I wonder whether that is true,' said Melmotte, looking at her out of
his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his
head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the
moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. 'Because,
you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir
Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----, infamously. A day or two
before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the
whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what
you 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 at
your party.'

'Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is
one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be
suspicious, Miss Carbury.' Here was one who had spent his life in lying
to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of
a man who had lied to him! 'You are not plotting another journey to
Liverpool;--are you?' To this Hetta could make no answer. The insult
was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him
back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton
Street himself and at his bidding she walked by his side. 'May I hear
what you say to her?' he asked.

'If you suspect me, Mr Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It
is 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 it
for me. If you please, I think I will go home now.'

But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a
subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte
himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was
more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed
interview. 'Oh, you shall see her,' he said. 'I don't suppose she's
such a fool as to try that kind of thing again.' Then the door in
Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found
herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotte
upstairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for
a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the
room. 'Miss Carbury,' she said, 'this is so good of you,--so good of
you! 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, took
her 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 at
daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as
though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would
you?' Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not
fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her
mother in an affair of the same kind. 'What does he say, dear?'

Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were
told, there was nothing more to be said. 'It must all be over, Miss
Melmotte.'

'Is that his message, Miss Carbury?' Hetta nodded her head. 'Is that
all?'

'What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you
word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I
have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of
his 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 it
to 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 one
hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything
impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that.
That's what I want to know.' She paused, but Hetta could not answer
the question. 'You must know about your brother. Don't you know
whether 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 even
know what your name is.'

'My name is Hetta.'

'Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have
no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell
anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my
mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so.' All this she
whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. 'And papa is so
cruel to me! He beats me sometimes.' The new friend, round whom Marie
still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. 'But I never will
yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and
gnash 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, there
was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was melted with
sympathy.

'I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you,' said
Marie. 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 about
yourself.'

'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 should
not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a
right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will
venture if he will.'

It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted
to falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr Melmotte had dared to suppose
that she could be capable. 'I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannot
listen 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 a
stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw
away from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on
Hetta's waist. 'Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask me
for the truth.'

'Yes; I did.'

'Men are not, I think, like girls.'

'I suppose not,' said Marie slowly. 'What liars they are, what
brutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why
should 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 as
Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. 'It is better that you
should think of him no more.'

'Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and
agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to
think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant or a
horse? 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 that
we 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 tell
him that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meet
him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could,--oh!
--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell you to say
that 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. Of
course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he
did 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-hearted
liar, and that I trample him under my foot.' Marie as she said this
thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truth
beneath 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 of
all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can
bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have
borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;--that I can't
bear.' Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort
her, 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 into
Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. 'You can tell
papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases.' She spoke
in 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 have
thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very
good young man.'

'Yes,' continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. 'I'll
marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr Grendall who is worse than
all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the
crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that
he 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 Nidderdale
repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa.' And then, having thus
entrusted 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, it
should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Marie
had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing to him
what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could now be
brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. If
Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs
that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been secured. Now there
might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the
villainy of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once the father-in-law of the
eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Even
though something might be all but proved against him,--which might come
to certain proof in less august circumstances,--matters would hardly be
pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to
the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! So many persons would then be
concerned! Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of course
his wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster
was his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this
very day. But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in
reference to Lord Nidderdale.

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the
manner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward
as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss had
been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been the
manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned,
should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be made much of
through the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned,--but
the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, within
the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their
man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the House? But with this
feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea
among another class that Melmotte might become as it were a
Conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be the realization
of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and old-fogyism, of which
we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been
employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those
whose declared purpose is to stand still. The new farthing newspaper,
'The Mob,' was already putting Melmotte forward as a political hero,
preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand
doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain
irregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes in
carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young
lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. 'The Mob'
thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that
the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a
multitude of sins. I do not know that the theory was ever so plainly
put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in
'The Mob'; but in practice it has commanded the assent of many
intelligent minds.

Mr Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before
that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase
of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the
unfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter
from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary
way in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said
that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of
Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things
should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make
themselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible to
take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this would
suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmotte
would raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason why
that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should
ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did
bear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves. It
would have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office, as
they knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The very
letter written by themselves,--as a suggestion,--and given to Dolly's
father, had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to
them,--as they believed,--with other papers by Dolly's father. What
justification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid.
That was the fault of Longestaffe senior. But if the money could be
paid, that would set everything right. Squercum evidently thought that
the money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with
Bideawhile's people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having
delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that
a note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be
impounded. On the receipt by Mr Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt
reply Mr Squercum was informed that Mr Melmotte had promised to pay
the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr Squercum
replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before
the Lord Mayor.

But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of
the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain degree
recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons disliked and
feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loud
and confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty well
known that Mr Longestaffe had not received his money,--and that was a
condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man
living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was no crime in that. No
forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that
effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been
very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly from either? And
Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. It was
astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these
days! But they who had expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of a
prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now
imagined that they had been deceived.

Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have
become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to
Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political
ally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been
walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would
have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the
position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, no
such popular Conservative offered his services. 'I don't think we
ought to throw him over,' Mr Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought,
quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was
very intimate with Mr Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was not
the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and
everybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had
territorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anything
there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the
world that nobody else would do it. 'It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton,'
said Mr Beauclerk. 'Not at all,' said Lupton; 'but I also, like
Nidderdale 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 four
o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his
resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears,--that he would
lose 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 make
his way in and assume his right. But here again fortune befriended
him. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that new
doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an apostle
and an expounder,--who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to
be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue
to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude,--he
happened to be entering the House, as his late host was claiming from
the doorkeeper the fruition of his privilege. 'You had better let me
accompany you,' said the Conservative leader, with something of
chivalry in his heart. And so Mr Melmotte was introduced to the House
by the head of his party! When this was seen many men supposed that
the rumours had been proved to be altogether false. Was not this a
guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that
afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a
state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was aware
of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmotte's
daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte should be
proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede,
there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he did not believe
the rumours. He was fully determined that the money should be paid
down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede
now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared to
recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. 'Old
Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,' said the father. Cure
was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld Reekie.

'There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir,' said the
son.

'What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't
always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred
thousand 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's
money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done
till 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 after
sitting there ten minutes went away home.

Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and
went to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall
dining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full
of 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! Vossner
has bolted!'

'Bolted!' exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was
just going to eat his soup.

'Bolted,' repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room
and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the
features of all the dining members. 'Bolted, by George! He has sold
all 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 in
almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new
trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the ground
by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him the
terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the
house. 'Good G----,' exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendall
shook 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 of
July.

'Brandy?' suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of
brandy, but they had been already consumed. 'Send out and get some
brandy,' said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so
reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his
pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now
demanded.

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr
Vossner 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. It
was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to
tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not to
Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances for large
sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members
had all been sold to Mr Flatfleece. Mr Flatfleece had spent a
considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested
that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this moment Dolly
Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heard
the story,--but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when
he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. 'Here's a
go,' said Dolly. 'One thing atop of another! There'll be nothing left
for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? There
was 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. Does
anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?'

'He's down in the House, as big as life,' said Nidderdale. 'He's all
right 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 a
beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by
George, 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 that
was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is a
fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to
pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand that
kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?' Nidderdale said
that 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. I
suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than
Vossner.' With that he turned on his heels and went into the
smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence at the table,
for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's
daughter.

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House
of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative
benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and
forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had
passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At first
he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the
majority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat
motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never
hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very
much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The
Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it
seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people
in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a
sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very
quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say
the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very
commonplace affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on
which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to
return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and
one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of
observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him
reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition to
a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the
ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to use
gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte
listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very little
about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed,
a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the
conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte
really did know something and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to him
that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,--and who had
maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one Mr Brown, who sat just
before him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding wearily
and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood
nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for
himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for the
injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that
he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required some courage
certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon
his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to
parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now ever
teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done by
brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and he
saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothing
of the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them than an ordinary
schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less trepidation than might
another parliamentary novice. Mr Brown was tedious and prolix; and
Melmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost told
himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when,
suddenly, Mr Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular
end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of
argument. But a statement had been made and repeated, containing, as
Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to set
the matter right. At any rate he desired to show the House that Mr
Brown did not know what he was talking about,--because Mr Brown had not
come to his dinner. When Mr Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The
subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the
House were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which
two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should
be allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but on
a sudden the new member was on his legs.

Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that
a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his
first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent
election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered by
many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before
the ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing
himself even if he were elected; and again by another party that his
appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance
within the walls of Newgate. 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, was
extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement in the thing which
made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of
approbation.

As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that
everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal
of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to
his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr Brown had been
toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of
great men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be at
all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath
their hats. Mr Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt,
prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every
year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of putting
two 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 it
when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was
the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace,--and
worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to
him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten
even 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 altogether
quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the
face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a
dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. 'Mr
Brown is all wrong,' he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he
rose. Mr Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one,
whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he
should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he
did 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-natured
voice which he could assume, 'is not perhaps as yet aware that he
should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the
gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel.
And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but
the chair.'

'You should take your hat off,' said the good-natured gentleman
behind.

In such a position how should any man understand so many and such
complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the
gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was
of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. 'What he said was
all wrong,' continued Melmotte; 'and I should have thought a man out
of the City, like Mr Brown, ought to have known better.' Then there
were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter
from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring around
him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr Brown,
determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the
ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the
place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on
the combat. 'I ought to know something about it,' said Melmotte
sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.

'We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does
understand the subject,' said the leader of the House, 'and we shall
be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon
ignorance of its rules in so young a member.'

But Mr Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, and
had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say that
he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit
that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat till
the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as
stately a demeanour as he could assume.

'Well, that was plucky!' said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in
the lobby.

'I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he
was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me
do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of
a place.'

'Has Longestaffe's money been paid?' said Cohenlupe opening his black
eyes 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 Longestaffe
and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by
what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are
concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every
word that is spoken.'

'Oh, dear; yes,' said Cohenlupe apologetically. 'You don't suppose
that I am afraid of anything.' But at that moment Mr Cohenlupe was
meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and
was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an
order from the British police would have no power to interfere with
the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now
willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as
to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to
Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.



CHAPTER LXX - SIR FELIX MEDDLES WITH MANY MATTERS


There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which
calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the
same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and we
may say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men's
sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of
either protection or vengeance,--although the duty of protecting and
avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels,
and that banging about of another man with a stick is always
disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps,
and come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, even
if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There is
a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,--thrown over, perhaps, is
the proper term,--after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to
her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges
as her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl does
not mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become the
tragic heroine of a tale for three months. 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. But
if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late
unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be
greatly increased. The brother recognizes his duty, and prepares for
vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left to
fight her own little battles alone.

'Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,' Sir Felix had said very
grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man
who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman.
Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for
threats. No money was required and no immediate action,--and Sir Felix
could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very
little present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her
brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the day
but one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury,--nor
could as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and
she remembered her brother's threat. Felix had forgotten that he had
made a threat,--and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter since
his 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 man
who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by heavens, if
he 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 with
our affairs?'

'Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both say
that he is to marry that woman,--I will not see Mr Montague again. Pray
do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear
it and to be silent. What good can be done?'

'Leave that to me,' said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much
fraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself driven
to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to
remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. He
too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of the
past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of
fashion. 'Montague,' he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour
that his late sorrows had left to him, 'I believe I am right in saying
that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs Hurtle.'

'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 of
business,' said Sir Felix.

'Well;--yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg your
pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs Hurtle. I
suppose 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 is
to 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 that
will 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 details
of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answer
to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs Hurtle
to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am in
any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not.
If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do
not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go,--at any
rate, at present.' Sir Felix still blustered, and made what capital he
could out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towards
positive revenge. 'Of course, Carbury,' said the other, 'I wish to
regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you, it is only because
you are rough to me.'

Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed to
haunt,--for the first time since his misadventure,--and, plucking up
his courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He would
have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yet
be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. But
when he arrived there, the club was shut up. 'What the deuce is
Vossner about?' said he, pulling out his watch. It was nearly five
o'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that this
was an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may call
private clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told him
the astounding news;--The club was shut up! 'Do you mean to say I can't
come 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 narrow
aperture. Mr Vossner had gone away. There had been a meeting of the
Committee, and the club was shut up. Whatever further information
rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to Sir Felix
Carbury.

'By George!' The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's
bosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine
at his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant
among his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and Vossner
had gone away! What business had the club to be shut up? What right
had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance?
Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is
he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he could
recover damages from the whole Committee.

He went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise
of marriage in Mrs Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come
again on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thought
nothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his
position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herself
who 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, I
wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away.' Sir
Felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep
over him. 'I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and
me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to
see him again.'

'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 should
not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. 'And he has
everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And they
do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him,' said
Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her
aristocratic lover's shoulder.

This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs Pipkin had ascended
from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with
wretched references to the cold outer world. 'Well, now, Sir Felix,'
she began, 'if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my
niece.'

'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 out
to dinner, Mrs Pipkin. She shall be back before late;--before ten; she
shall indeed.' Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his
shoulder. 'Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll
be 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 the
marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle
what dress she should wear,--and perhaps to give her the money to go
and buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! She looked up into Mrs
Pipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely on such an occasion as this
an aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a
slave. 'Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?' demanded Mrs
Pipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs Hurtle had given it as her decided
opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Ruggles
unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of a
written contract.

'Writing be bothered,' said Sir Felix.

'That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But
when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor
words. 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 as
you don't, just say so, and walk away,--free.'

'I shall go,' said Ruby. 'I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for
any one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in
a minute.' The girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs, and began to
change her dress without giving herself a moment for thought.

'She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix,' said Mrs Pipkin, in her
most solemn tones. 'She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my
poor 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 marry
her.' 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 be
chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seen
scores 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 the
world.' As she spoke, Mrs Hurtle came downstairs, and an introduction,
after some rude fashion, was effected between her and Sir Felix. Mrs
Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was quite as certain
as Mrs Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a few
minutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs Hurtle in her own room. He
had been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement
with Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of
Paul's engagement with his sister. It was not an hour since Paul
himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own
statement.

'Sir Felix Carbury,' she said, 'I am afraid you are doing that poor
girl no good, and are intending to do her none.' It did occur to him
very strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs Hurtle's, and that
he, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an
unjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was Mrs
Hurtle? 'Would it not be better that you should leave her to become
the wife of a man who is really fond of her?'

He could already see something in Mrs Hurtle's eye which prevented his
at once bursting into wrath;--but! who was Mrs Hurtle, that she should
interfere with him? 'Upon my word, ma'am,' he said, 'I'm very much
obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour of
your--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 Hurtle
with energy. 'We're all apt to wait a little too long, because we're
ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You must go
and 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 Felix
with an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly hard
enough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised that he
would have heard aught of her own concerns. She only barely connected
him with that Roger Carbury who, she knew, was Paul's great friend,
and she had as yet never heard that Hetta Carbury was the girl whom
Paul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp should
know all her story?

She thought awhile,--she had to think for a moment,--before she could
answer 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, am
old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I
was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to
be taken about the town by you at night?' She had desired in what she
said to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it matter whether
this young man was left in a belief that she was, or that she was not,
about to be married?

'If you'll answer me, I'll answer you,' said Sir Felix. 'Does Mr
Montague mean to make you his wife?'

'It does not concern you to know,' said she, flashing upon him. 'The
question is insolent.'

'It does concern me,--a great deal more than anything about Ruby can
concern 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 know
where to find you,' added Mrs Hurtle.

To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix left
the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And were
there not policemen in London? And what additional harm would be done
to John Crumb, or what increase of danger engendered in that true
lover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had danced
with him so often at the Music Hall that John Crumb could hardly be
made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on this
evening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed.
'You don't come in here again to-night,' said Mrs Pipkin, thumping the
little table which stood in the passage, 'if you goes out of that
there door with that there young man.'

'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, just
as 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 no
more. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 've
saved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you,'--and she looked at Sir
Felix,--'only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the lady
upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after
poor girls.' I do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance
from Mrs Hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution.

Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs Pipkin and her
lodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby had
been triumphant, and was happy. She did not stop to consider whether
her aunt would or would not open her door when she should return
tired, and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm, in her best
clothes, and going out to have a dinner given to her. And her lover
had told her that he had ever so many things,--ever so many things to
say to her! But she would ask no impertinent questions in the first
hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up to
Pentonville;--so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half public-house
and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the good things,
which in his company would be so nice! Who cannot understand that even
an urban Rosherville must be an Elysium to those who have lately been
eating their meals in all the gloom of a small London underground
kitchen? There we will leave Ruby in her bliss.

At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs Pipkin's, and was
told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury. He hit his leg a
blow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. 'He'll have it hot
some day,' said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby
till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took his
departure.



CHAPTER LXXI - JOHN CRUMB FALLS INTO TROUBLE


It was on a Friday evening, an inauspicious Friday, that poor Ruby
Ruggles had insisted on leaving the security of her Aunt Pipkin's
house with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of the
positive assurance made to her by Mrs Pipkin that if she went forth in
such company she should not be allowed to return. 'Of course you must
let her in,' Mrs Hurtle had said soon after the girl's departure.
Whereupon Mrs Pipkin had cried. She knew her own softness too well to
suppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl out in the
streets all night; but yet it was hard upon her, very hard, that she
should be so troubled. 'We usen't to have our ways like that when I
was young,' she said, sobbing. What was to be the end of it? Was she
to be forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let the
girl's conduct be what it might? Nevertheless she acknowledged that
Ruby must be let in when she came back. Then, about nine o'clock, John
Crumb came; and the latter part of the evening was more melancholy
even than the first. It was impossible to conceal the truth from John
Crumb. Mrs Hurtle saw the poor man and told the story in Mrs Pipkin's
presence.

'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;--went
to dinner wi' him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner here?'

Then Mrs Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence. Ruby Ruggles
had had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in London,--a
bullock's heart and potatoes,--just as much as ever she had pleased to
eat of it. Mrs Pipkin could tell Mr Crumb that there was 'no starvation
nor yet no stint in her house.' John Crumb immediately produced a very
thick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak, which he had brought up
with him to London from Bungay, as a present to the woman who had been
good to his Ruby. He assured her that he did not doubt that her victuals
were good and plentiful, and went on to say that he had made bold to
bring her a trifle out of respect. It was some little time before Mrs
Pipkin would allow herself to be appeased;--but at last she permitted
the garment to be placed on her shoulders. But it was done after a
melancholy fashion. There was no smiling consciousness of the bestowal
of joy on the countenance of the donor as he gave it, no exuberance of
thanks from the recipient as she received it. Mrs Hurtle, standing by,
declared it to be perfect;--but the occasion was one which admitted of
no delight. 'It's very good of you, Mr Crumb, to think of an old woman
like me,--particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young
un'.'

'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 moving
a limb, with his eyes fastened on Mrs Pipkin's ceiling. Mrs Hurtle had
some work in her hand, and sat watching him. The man was to her an
extraordinary being,--so constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlike
her own countrymen,--willing to endure so much, and at the same time so
warm in his affections! 'Sir Felix Carbury!' he said. 'I'll Sir Felix
him some of these days. If it was only dinner, wouldn't she be back
afore 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 his
chair, and stretching himself. It was evident to both the ladies that
he 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 the
palm of his other hand, and then sat silent for awhile.

'I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing,' he said. 'I'd a had
dancing for her down at Bungay,--just as ready as anything. D'ye
think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?' This
was 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 Crumb
burst out with some violence. 'Domn him! Domn him! What 'ad I ever dun
to him? Nothing! Did I ever interfere wi' him? Never! But I wull. I
wull. 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 treating
you,' 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 nor
nothin'! When I handles it I don't know whether its middlings nor
nothin' else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it on
yourself to say as I was wrong?'

'I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him,' said Mrs
Hurtle.

'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 not
want to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give no
assurance 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 up
and let her in than to sit up for her. Poor Mr Crumb did not at once
take the hint, and remained there for another half-hour, saying
little, but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come. But when the
clock struck twelve he was told that he must go. Then he slowly
collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house.

'That young man is a good fellow,' said Mrs Hurtle as soon as the door
was closed.

'A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles,' said Mrs Pipkin. 'And he can
maintain a wife. Mr Carbury says as he's as well to do as any
tradesman down in them parts.'

Mrs Hurtle disliked the name of Mr Carbury, and took this last
statement as no evidence in John Crumb's favour. 'I don't know that I
think 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 me
that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. Nobody
seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere with
nobody else.' This was all Greek to poor Mrs Pipkin. 'I suppose we may
as well go to bed now. When that girl comes and knocks, of course we
must let her in. If I hear her, I'll go down and open the door for
her.'

Mrs Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition of
her household. She would remain up herself to answer the door at the
first sound, so that Mrs Hurtle should not be disturbed. She would do
her best to prevent any further annoyance. She trusted Mrs Hurtle
would see that she was endeavouring to do her duty by the naughty
wicked 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 by
these disagreeable occurrences. 'I don't mind saying it now, Mrs
Hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't nothing to
depend 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, was
certainly peculiar. She cared nothing for disturbances, and rather
liked than otherwise the task of endeavouring to assist in the
salvation of Ruby. Mrs Hurtle begged that Mrs Pipkin would go to bed.
She would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking. Another
half-hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the parlour after
Crumb's departure. Then Mrs Hurtle took her candle and had ascended
the stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud double knock
was heard. She immediately joined Mrs Pipkin in the passage. The door
was opened, and there stood Ruby Ruggles, John Crumb, and two
policemen! Ruby rushed in, and casting herself on to one of the stairs
began 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 and
murdered him!'

'This young woman is living here;--is she?' asked one of the
policemen.

'She is living here,' said Mrs Hurtle. But now we must go back to the
adventures of John Crumb after he had left the house.

He had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern Counties
Railway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when business
brought him up to London, and thither he proposed to himself to
return. At one time there had come upon him an idea that he would
endeavour to seek Ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of the
metropolis; and he had asked a question with that view. But no answer
had been given which seemed to aid him in his project, and his purpose
had been abandoned as being too complex and requiring more
intelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. So he had
turned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to know
that it would take him to the Islington Angel,--where various roads
meet, and whence he would know his way eastwards. He had just passed
the Angel, and the end of Goswell Road, and was standing with his
mouth open, looking about, trying to make certain of himself that he
would not go wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he
saw, and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know
his business. Then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and knew
that it was Ruby's voice. The sound was very near him, but in the
glimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it came. He
stood 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 he
should 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 after
the sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led back into
Goswell Road, saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms. She had left the
dancing establishment with her lover; and when they had come to the
turn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to her further
destiny for the night. Ruby, though she well remembered Mrs Pipkin's
threats, was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door. Sir Felix
was of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement for her;
and as Ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had thought
that a little gentle force might avail him. He had therefore dragged
Ruby into the passage. The unfortunate one! That so ill a chance
should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion! He had
swallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was therefore
brave with reference to that interference of the police, the fear of
which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold of
Ruby's arm when she first raised her voice. But what amount of brandy
and water would have enabled him to persevere, could he have dreamed
that 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 the
railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of his
body. 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 the
world for him were all over; and, collapsing throughout his limbs, he
slunk down upon the ground.

'Get up, you wiper,' said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it
better to cling to the ground. 'You sholl get up,' said John, taking
him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. 'Now, Ruby, he's
a-going to have it,' said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of
her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first
attracted John Crumb's notice.

'Don't hit a man when he's down,' said the baronet, pleading as though
for his life.

'I wunt,' said John;--'but I'll hit a fellow when un's up.' Sir Felix
was 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 head
into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school,--struck the
poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing
or caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a
feature. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and
rescued Sir Felix from his arms. 'He's about got enough of it,' said
John Crumb as he gave over his work. Then Sir Felix fell again to the
ground, moaning fearfully. 'I know'd he'd have to have it,' said John
Crumb.

Ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each
end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And now
the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which she
made to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was as
bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. It
was in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand that the
young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered.
Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby swore
that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been done
before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He could
only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood
from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings.
And John, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the
extent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word
against Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by her
denunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards, he
had 'dropped into the baronite' just in time, and, having been
successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such an
operation necessary.

There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other
persons, cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless
wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the
pavements to the poorhouse wards. They all took part against John
Crumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her
young man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed his
eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he had
better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he was
so mashed and mauled that she was sure he would never 'come to'
again. A precocious youth remarked that he was 'all one as a dead
un'.' A cabman observed that he had ''ad it awful 'eavy.' To all these
criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply,
but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he did
not much care whither.

At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. They
had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felix
was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable to
Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he might
be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted
to the address she gave,--not half a mile from the spot on which they
now stood,--and be left there or not according to the account which
might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the
station-house. He was the offender;--for aught that any of them yet
knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a
good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the
treatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyed
up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his
enemy.

Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby
came together to Mrs Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud with
complaints 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 her
lamentations. But from Mrs Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn
something of the truth. Oh yes;--the girl lived there and was--
respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and
was the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was
undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was
only the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's name was given. 'I'm
John Crumb of Bungay,' said he, 'and I ain't afeared of nothin' nor
nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I ain't. Mauled un'! In
course I've mauled un'. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is
engaged 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 his
heart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance how
it all was, but that Mr Crumb had better come along with him just for
the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay made
not the slightest objection.

'Miss Ruggles,' said Mrs Hurtle, 'if that young man doesn't conquer
you 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 ever
so. He's been and killed Sir Felix.' Mrs Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs
Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the
three women all went to bed.



CHAPTER LXXII - 'ASK HIMSELF'


Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiring
him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection with
Mrs Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured
to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not
personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to
the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He
was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and asking as though he were Hetta's
brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that
American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present
to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of
all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He
had seen Mrs Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that
they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that
she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the
fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He
knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had,
indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it
might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He
thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his
firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that
Mrs Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder
brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man
embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague
to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--
but not on that account could he think that the man in his present
condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally
clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own
cause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the
friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had
resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs Hurtle together upon
the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he
loved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in
seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to
himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a
perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for
the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there
were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the
person of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding
that he and the child's father should never see each other. No more
than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's
letter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty
hours 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 came
the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct
answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a
certain Mrs Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it
inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed
lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how
was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a
letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure
himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in
order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's
letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the
story 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, and
knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the
morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir
Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a
page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering
from some terrible calamity. 'My lady' had been summoned to the
hospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very
bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but
supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes;
Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though
she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That
poor Hetta should be 'put about' with her brother in the hospital and
her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural
enough.

'What's this about Felix?' asked Roger. The new trouble always has
precedence over those which are of earlier date.

'Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last
night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city
to say that he is there.'

'What has happened to him?'

'Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him,' said Hetta whimpering. Then she
told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital
had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his
bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face,
that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth
knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to
say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman
should not be taken home. 'And mamma has gone to fetch him,' said
Hetta.

'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 told
about 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 occur
in the world.' The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole
story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. 'If it be as I
suppose,' continued Roger, 'John Crumb has considered himself to be
aggrieved 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 with
a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and
have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest
man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your
brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told
by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the
girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought that such a
pretty 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 with
your old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all
changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love
with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he
has been punished.'

'You know all about it then?'

'No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John
Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or
later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to
blame him?'

Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his
manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that
stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have
made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer
her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and
respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it
were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the
old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on
with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of
the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it
by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be
supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. 'It is very
shocking,' she said.

'Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I
pity 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 as
yet dare to ask the question.

'I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,' said he after
a 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 be
here when she brings Felix back to the house.'

'Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are
troubles. 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 me
also.'

'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 have
something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to
show 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 a
difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You
never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard
thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is
not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false
than Felix.'

'Oh, Roger, how has he been false?'

Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs Hurtle. The
treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had
been committed by his friend towards himself. 'He should have left the
place and never have come near you,' said Roger, 'when he found how it
was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of
water from my lips.'

How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched
his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to
tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story
of Mrs Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. She
would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had
sinned in loving her. 'But, Roger,' she said,--'it would have been the
same.'

'You may say so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will
not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he
didn'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 you
mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been
impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told
myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I
won'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 will
be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest
creature living. My hatred to him--'

'Oh, Roger, do not say hatred.'

'My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I
tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As
to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has
always 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. I
have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He
might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could
only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me.'

But still there was no word of Mrs Hurtle. 'Roger,' she said, 'I have
given 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. He
has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has
turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he
has 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 up
and taking him by the arm.

'No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;' and
he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself
from her hold.

'Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because you
yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It
would not be you to leave a false impression even against your
enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can
trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a
sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has
my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my
hand?'

'Ask himself, Hetta.'

'And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you
know 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 know
that 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 cannot
trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--but
mamma 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 will
say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct
to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs
Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he
lies 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 I
cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that
I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man
whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband
of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were
still 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's
heart.'

'Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence.'

'But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the
street?'

'I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him
perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down
and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up
to bed, so that I need not see him.'

Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the
hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to
descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house,
and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the
dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a
feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of
his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been
so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. 'Roger is
upstairs, 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 your
letter. 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 kill
him. 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 and
you?'

On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal
intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as
comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady
Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had
learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir
Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some
circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a
necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a
young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's
pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he
do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash
encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had
told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been
Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman
called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much could
not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when Sir
Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating
him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be
believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only
hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own
words.

'What am I to do with him?' Lady Carbury said to her cousin. 'It is no
use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know
that I have done much to make him what he is.' As she said this the
tears 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 Felix
had 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 cousin
he could see no possible salvation for him. 'Perhaps I should take him
abroad,' he said.

'Would he be better abroad than here?'

'He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running
you into debt.'

Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all
the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her
Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and
her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which
she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become
somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the
dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that
she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be
a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured.
This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when
almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But
yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be
together. 'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose it would be so. I only wish that
I 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 in
the 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 cousin
of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to
be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the
son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her
sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and
the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his
appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. 'If you
like 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 a
home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that
would 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 there
would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs
Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could have
been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself
--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not
savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her
cousin Roger.

'Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself,' he said.

'How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it
not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has
promised to marry?'

'No;--that is not true.'

'What is true then? Is he not engaged to the woman?' Roger hesitated a
moment. 'I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to
me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told
Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this
woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not
love 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 his
connexion with Mrs Hurtle, he will tell her the truth.'

Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he see
his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by his
journey 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 he
had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be no
other love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might then
save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself
to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the
world. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this could
be right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him,--made it
almost the first of his duties,--to watch over the interests of her he
loved 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 had
already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken from
her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth. She
knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she should
know. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with the
object he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge of the
details of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when the thing
was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie's
memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father's
anticipation. He was deriving a very considerable income from a large
sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her name, and
had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him to draw this
income on her behalf. This he had done fearing shipwreck in the course
which he meant to run, and resolved that, let circumstances go as they
might, there should still be left enough to him of the money which he
had realised to enable him to live in comfort and luxury, should he be
doomed to live in obscurity, or even in infamy. He had sworn to
himself solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this money
to go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he had
been true to his oath. Though bankruptcy and apparent ruin might be
imminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of this money
even though it might appear at the moment that the money would be
sufficient for the purpose. If such a day should come, then, with that
certain income, he would make himself happy, if possible, or at any
rate luxurious, in whatever city of the world might know least of his
antecedents, and give him the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth.
Such had been his scheme of life. But he had failed to consider
various circumstances. His daughter might be untrue to him, or in the
event of her marriage might fail to release his property,--or it might
be that the very money should be required to dower his daughter. Or
there might come troubles on him so great that even the certainty of a
future income would not enable him to bear them. Now, at this present
moment, his mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume this
property it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to the
Longestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some other
difficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, he
certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made for
himself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should come
they would be as good creditors as any other. But then he was
painfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness
was involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand traced
Dolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old
Mr Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed by
the elder Mr Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and he had
himself posted this letter in a pillarbox near to his house. In the
execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly befriended him.
He had become the tenant of Mr Longestaffe's house, and at the same
time had only been the joint tenant of Mr Longestaffe's study,--so
that Mr Longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands. To pick a
lock was with him an accomplishment long since learned. But his science
in that line did not go so far as to enable him to replace the bolt in
its receptacle. He had picked a lock, had found the letter prepared by
Mr Bideawhile with its accompanying envelope, and had then already
learned enough of the domestic circumstances of the Longestaffe family
to feel assured that unless he could assist the expedition of this
hitherto uncompleted letter by his own skill, the letter would never
reach its intended destination. In all this fortune had in some degree
befriended him. The circumstances being as they were it was hardly
possible that the forgery should be discovered. Even though the young
man were to swear that the signature was not his, even though the old
man were to swear that he had left that drawer properly locked with
the unsigned letter in it, still there could be no evidence. People
might think. People might speak. People might feel sure. And then a
crash would come. But there would still be that ample fortune on which
to retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days.

Then there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had been
so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe never
would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another matter.
Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition, and
increasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that were
spread abroad,--which to Melmotte were serious indeed,--they named, at
any rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing that had
been done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually home
to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done that
thing, of what use then would be all that money? When that fear arose,
then there arose also the question whether it might not be well to use
the money to save him from such ruin, if it might be so used. No doubt
all danger in that Longestaffe affair might be bought off by payment
of the price stipulated for the Pickering property. Neither would
Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr Melmotte had already heard,
concern himself in this matter if the money claimed were paid. But
then the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as he
firmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove the
thing which he had done.

But the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for the
country of his adoption Mr Melmotte had allowed himself to attach
higher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belong
to them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all the
world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld
Reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost safe
from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought he
could so use the family with which he would be connected as to force
from it that protection which he would need. And then again, if he
could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a
British Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failed
altogether to inquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or what
would be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage would add
a charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could not be got
to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of absolute
property, but he did think that the income which might thus be
transferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had been
promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given proof
to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the
property in question.

And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within the
last few days and which had startled Mr Melmotte very much indeed. On
a certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and had told her
that he should require her signature in reference to a deed. She had
asked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a document
regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a deed once
before, telling her that it was all in the way of business. It was not
necessary that she should ask any more questions as she would be
wanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not merely by
showing him that she understood a great deal more of the transaction
than he had thought,--but also by a positive refusal to sign anything at
all. The reader may understand that there had been many words between
them. 'I know, papa. It is that you may have the money to do what you
like with. You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that
I 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 not
know whether to approach her with threats, with entreaties, or with
blows. Before the interview was over he had tried all three. He had
told her that he could and would put her in prison for conduct so
fraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrous
perversity. And at last he took her by both arms and shook her
violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut her to pieces; but
she would sign nothing. 'I suppose you thought Sir Felix would have
had 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 would
no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would secure
the Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in his
nicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the
Longestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that he
could make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he
was doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were very
great! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him,
and this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she would
accept Nidderdale,--or the sweep at the crossing.

On Monday morning,--it was on the preceding Thursday that he had made
his famous speech in Parliament,--one of the Bideawhiles had come to
him in the City. He had told Mr Bideawhile that all the world knew that
just at the present moment money was very 'tight' in the City. 'We are
not asking for payment of a commercial debt,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'but
for the price of a considerable property which you have purchased.' Mr
Melmotte had suggested that the characteristics of the money were the
same, let the sum in question have become due how it might. Then he
offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months'
date, with proper interest allowed. But this offer Mr Bideawhile
scouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds might be
restored 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 I
propose to pay it.'

Mr Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole
course of his business, in all the records of the very respectable
firm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this.
Of course Mr Longestaffe had been the person to blame,--so at least
all the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxious
to have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the
title-deeds should be given up. But then the title-deeds had not been
his to surrender. The Pickering estate had been the joint property of
him and his son. The house had been already pulled down, and now the
purchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! 'Do you mean to
tell me, Mr Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what
you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have already
gone out of your hands?'

'I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value,
thirty times the value,' said Melmotte proudly; 'but you must know I
should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannot
always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice.'
Mr Bideawhile without using language that was absolutely vituperative
gave Mr Melmotte to understand that he thought that he and his client
had been robbed, and that he should at once take whatever severest
steps the law put in his power. As Mr Melmotte shrugged his shoulders
and made no further reply, Mr Bideawhile could only take his
departure.

The attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client,
and to his own house in opposition to Mr Squercum, nevertheless was
becoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letter
which Dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed. Mr
Longestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given it
as his opinion that Dolly had not signed the letter. His son had
certainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have
had no opportunity of signing it since. He was all but sure that he
had left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the room
which had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his own. Then,
on entering the room in Melmotte's presence,--their friendship at the
time having already ceased,--he found that his drawer was open. This
same Mr Bideawhile was with him at the time. 'Do you mean to say that
I have opened your drawer?' said Mr Melmotte. Mr Longestaffe had
become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he
certainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left
the drawer unlocked. He knew his own habits and was sure that he had
never left that drawer open in his life. 'Then you must have changed
the habits of your life on this occasion,' said Mr Melmotte with
spirit. Mr Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within the
house, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured the
lawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that to
the best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within the
drawer. Mr Bideawhile could only remark that it was the most
unfortunate 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 that
though Mr Melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licence
in that statement as to property thirty times as great as the price
which he ought to have paid for Pickering, still there was property.
The man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did not
really know what he owned, or what he owed. But he did know that at
the present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. His chief
trust for immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had really
been the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway. He had
trusted much to Cohenlupe,--more than it had been customary with him
to trust to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done
with the railway shares at the present moment. They had fallen under
the panic almost to nothing. Now in the time of his trouble Melmotte
wanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted money
the great railway was worth nothing. Cohenlupe told him that he must
tide over the evil hour,--or rather over an evil month. It was at
Cohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr
Bideawhile. 'Offer 'em again,' said Cohenlupe. 'He must take the bills
sooner or later.'

On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby of
the House. 'Have you seen Marie lately?' he said. Nidderdale had been
assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father's
presence, that if he married Miss Melmotte at present he would
undoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over
£5,000 a year. He had intended to get more than that,--and was hardly
prepared to accept Marie at such a price; but then there probably
would be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering.
Melmotte certainly had been raising money. But this might probably be
an affair of a few weeks. Melmotte had declared that Pickering should
be made over to the young people at the marriage. His father had
recommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could be
broken 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 to
the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them
alone 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 to
her, 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 might
as 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 better
know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not
think 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 been
in 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 to
me, 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 being
there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us
to 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. I
did 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's
arms. 'You hadn't heard it?'

'Who has thrashed him?'

'I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been
cut 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 nothing
to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I
suppose you've made up all that out of your own head.'

'Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a
young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it
signifies 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 the
better 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; only
you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what
one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never
to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having
nothing 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 place
where 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 a
new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the
castle. 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;--I
won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it
will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,--John.'

So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house
thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to
any operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it.
As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter
days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known
her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell
himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of
her own which made him think that she would be able to live with
ladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the
contrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become
fond 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 get
away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked
so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that
horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling
you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I
never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not
quite 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 a
marquis his dear boy,--'as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite.
Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect
upon 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's
money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very
great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or
whither 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 and
waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half
the 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. I
don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to
be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could
hurt 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 to
understand 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 in
one or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no
interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I
can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest
comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the
matter.'

'I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business,' said
the modest young lord.

'You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But
I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going
on. 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 fact
was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they
could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for
a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what
harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They
couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of
depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money.
Think what that is!'

'I don't understand how it could be done.'

'Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They
persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and
consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The
effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The
Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to
something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question.
Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what
that comes to!' Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but
failed altogether. 'That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. When
a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely
with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another
every day of his life,--according as the markets go. I don't keep such
a sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then when
a 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 the
meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other
purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in
Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to
raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all
right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that, you know, is
settled.'

He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he
spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's
bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of
service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog,
Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as
he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended
scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more
exciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever
the man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this
occasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the
interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one with
whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become
attached.

And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a
simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to him
to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted.
It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a
participation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he
should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of
his own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had
been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been only
on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Even
though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,--
though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three
months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendalls
had left him since the day of the dinner,--Miles having sent him a
letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was a
comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much
preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.

This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over
Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the
Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with
difficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done
without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had
never more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid
were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand
which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr
Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden;
but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its
members that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had
felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the day
as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and
going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did Dolly
Longestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had
begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a
resort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly could
have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was
accustomed.

But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury.
Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease
and indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would
pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would
still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that
if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck
to his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and
the title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! He did not
know whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr
Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He was
very 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 the
Bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. Squercum had
explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the
world had ever produced. 'By George! the world,' he said, 'must be
coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in
Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged
my name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever
deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung.' This he spoke
openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as
Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been
dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some
half-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 the
room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a
day or two. You don't know Melmotte.'

'Mistaken!' Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. 'Am I
mistaken 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 to
do with it.'

'Squercum says--'

'Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow
of that kind.'

'I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte.'

'Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you
do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet
for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself
responsible for the entire sum he owes you.'

'The devil you will.'

'I will indeed.'

Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear
him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower
his voice. 'That's out of the question, you know,' he said. 'How could
I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and
so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my
father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even
my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many days are over
you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery.'

This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was either
engaged 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 except
that I am sure Mr Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I
understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father
and 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 than
that 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 man
as 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 it
used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a
game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended
with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country,--a
fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home
with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and
Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment
he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr
Ramsbottom. 'By George,' said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and
ordered more brandy and water, 'I think everything is going to come to
an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man
being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems
everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't
even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in
hoping that things would ever come right again.'

The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in
dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted
by some to be 'very fishy.' If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't
he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before
it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly
was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who
would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not
signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through
the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so
punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No
doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,--as
he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,--he did make
use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of
looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The
world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of
China's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous
depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact
that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to
think that Melmotte would 'pull through.'



CHAPTER LXXV - IN BRUTON STREET


Mr Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and
anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to
perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all,--if he could prove
that which he knew. He had extended his inquiries in the city till he
had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had
twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover
the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a
falling, but a fallen star,--perhaps not giving sufficient credence to
the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain
stockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend,
that Melmotte was a 'gone coon.' The stockbroker made also some few
inquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was
a 'gone coon.' If such were the case it would positively be the making
of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the
destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the
Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against
him. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum,--feeling that
they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be
careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. 'I suppose you
give it up about the letter having been signed by my client,' said
Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.

'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 it
to 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 like
the last.'

'Would you let me look at it again, Mr Bideawhile?' Then the letter
which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was
handed to Mr Squercum. 'It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never
could have written had he tried it ever so.'

'Perhaps not, Mr Squercum. We are not generally on the look out for
forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons.'

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But then Mr Longestaffe had already told you
that his son would not sign the letter.'

'How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will
change his purpose?'

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But you see, after such a declaration as that
on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in itself a
little 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 just
say that. What Mr Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his
title-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's
property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'd
have made a few remarks yourself, Mr Bideawhile, if the case had been
reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know.'
To this Mr Bideawhile said not a word. 'And I think I understand you
now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being
genuine.'

'I say nothing about it, Mr Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard
to 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 I
were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with
me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say
that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a
freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it
and sent it off? If I understand, Mr Longestaffe says that he locked
the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied,
and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, be
alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke
open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it
whichever 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 for
supposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say
anything more.'

'Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in
this matter.'

'I won't admit even that, Mr Squercum.'

'The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised
his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been
in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord
Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an
investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will
be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court.'

'If so you may be sure that we shall produce it.' Then Mr Squercum
took his leave and went straight away to Mr Bumby, a barrister well
known in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr
Squercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr Bumby on the
matter more than once. Mr Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might
not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. Mr
Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's
share of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr Squercum
suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale
having been made. Mr Bumby shook his head. 'Title-deeds give
possession, Mr Squercum. You don't suppose that the company which has
lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. Take
the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get
out 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 offered
his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following
Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in
Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been
abstracted. There were Mr Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe,
and Mr Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and
Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Direct
application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been
formally made to Mr Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting took
place at eleven o'clock--a terribly early hour. Dolly had at first
hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two
enemies, and Mr Squercum had told him that as the matter would
probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet
his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at
great personal inconvenience to himself. 'By George, it's hardly worth
having if one is to take all this trouble about it,' Dolly had said to
Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with
Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr
Longestaffe nor Mr Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the
table, in which the letter had been deposited.

'Now, Mr Longestaffe,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'perhaps you will show us
where you think you put the letter.'

'I don't think at all,' said he. 'Since the matter has been discussed
the whole thing has come back upon my memory.'

'I never signed it,' said Dolly, standing with his hands in his
pockets 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 Bideawhile
says so.'

'No, Mr Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that
we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We
have never gone beyond that.'

'Nothing on earth would have made me sign it,' said Dolly. 'Why should
I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such
a thing in my life.'

The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as
to 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 a
bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed, 'There,' said he,
'the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and
the two were the two first documents in the bundle.' He went on to say
that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was
quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very
particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that
about this time Mr Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had
opened it, and,--as he was certain,--had locked it again. At that
special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him
and Melmotte. It was then that Mr Melmotte had offered him a seat at
the 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 just
may be the suspicion induced,' said the lawyer. 'Your father for a
time 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 to
collect 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. 'I
should 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 what
Mr Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very
aristocratic.'

'Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,' said the lawyer laughing.

'No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower
than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. It
was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if
it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at
present.' Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He
believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles
came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left
his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles,
money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not
have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the
sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed
and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and
frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his
displeasure. '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 to
instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the
presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so
positively, Mr Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?'

'There is no doubt.'

'And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop
a moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence
having been used.' So saying Mr Bideawhile knelt down in front of the
table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and
satisfied himself that there was 'no sign of violence.' 'Whoever has
done it, did it very well,' said Bideawhile.

'Of course Melmotte did it,' said Dolly Longestaffe standing
immediately 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 immediately
enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done
so on this occasion Mr Bideawhile would have been found still on his
knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the
intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his
feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause,
during which Mr Bideawhile moved away from the table,--as he might
have done had he been picking a lock;--and then Mr Longestaffe bade the
stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and Mr
Melmotte appeared.

Now Mr Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It was
known that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was
known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in
this room at this special hour,--and he might well have surmised with
what view. There was now declared hostility between both the
Longestaffes and Mr Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the
gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way
to meet them on this occasion. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'perhaps you
think that I am intruding at the present moment.' No one said that he
did not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr
Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat
pockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a
bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of
expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. 'I
fear that you do think I am intruding,' said Melmotte, 'but I trust
that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir,' he
said, turning to Mr Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open
drawer, 'that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will
be 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 make
no 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 no
conclusions,--but I left it locked and I found it open.'

'I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion,' said Dolly; 'and
that 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 out
of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble
about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen
would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for
meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business.' He
paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dolly
to ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second
thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be
taken, and probably for no good. 'Mr Bideawhile, I believe,' suggested
Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. 'If I remember rightly I
wrote 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 six
months' date.'

'They couldn't be accepted, Mr Melmotte.'

'I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused
before.'

'You must be aware, Mr Melmotte,' said the lawyer, 'that the sale of a
property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills
are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money
should 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 we
became,--well, I think I may be justified in saying more than
suspicious. It was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. You say you have
another offer to make, Mr Melmotte.'

'Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose
business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and,
with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been
known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth
openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of
such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time
came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was
impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me
now. Accusations are made, false as hell,'--Mr Melmotte as he spoke
raised his voice and looked round the room 'but which at the present
crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you
will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the
City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is the amount due to
these 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 you
that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--
but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago
that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such
a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by
Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be
done at a terrible cost. But what Mr Bideawhile says is true. I have
no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be
looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should
have been paid,--and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be
paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord
Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false.
I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate
them, 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 the
accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was at
Dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. 'I, on
behalf of my client,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'will consent to wait till
Friday at noon.'

'I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much,' said the elder
Longestaffe.

Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but
Melmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorry
for the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though he
had been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused
it to be forged,--and did not now go so far into the matter as to
abandon that conviction,--he had been talked into crediting the reasons
given for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that
the money would be paid on Friday. Something of the effect which
Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they now
also 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 than
that. And upon my word, Mr Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of
trouble.'

Melmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they three
should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment
should then be made,--Dolly stipulating that as his father would be
attended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To this
Mr 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 that
she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have been
in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger
had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any rate
with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to
Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation
turned naturally to Mr Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes
almost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr Broune's
life to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two
propositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her
residence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir
Felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should
take possession of Carbury manor for six months. 'And where would Mr
Carbury go?' asked Mr Broune.

'He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. There's
a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to.' Mr Broune
shook his head. Mr Broune did not think that an offer so quixotically
generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or French town,
Mr Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted
whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice
demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the
colonies. 'That he might drink himself to death,' said Lady Carbury,
who now had no secrets from Mr Broune. Sir Felix in the meantime was
still in the doctor's hands upstairs. He had no doubt been very
severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him
beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present moment
better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room
and to meet the world. 'As to Melmotte,' said Mr Broune, 'they say now
that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have
trusted him.'

'And the girl?'

'It is impossible to understand it at all. Melmotte was to have been
summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but it
was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still means
to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth about it. We
shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something.' The
'we' of whom Mr Broune spoke was, of course, the 'Morning Breakfast
Table.'

But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought
very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some
special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to
her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed her
love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was
at that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs
Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind
that Mrs Hurtle was by no means a fiction,--but indeed a fact very
injurious to her happiness. Then Paul's second love-letter had come,
full of joy, and love, and contentment,--with not a word in it which
seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the
existence of a Mrs Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs Hurtle, the letter
would have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have
answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usual
enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible that
she should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossible
that she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to
'ask himself;' and she now found herself constrained to bid him either
come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to
give her some written account of Mrs Hurtle so that she might know who
the lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way
interfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:

'Welbeck Street, 16 July, 18--

'MY DEAR PAUL.' She found that after that which had passed between them
she could not call him 'My dear Sir,' or 'My dear Mr Montague,' and
that it must either be 'Sir' or 'My dear Paul.' He was dear to her,--
very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any
conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there
been no Mrs Hurtle he would have been her 'Dearest Paul,'--but she made
her 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 which
must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribed
herself,


   Your affectionate friend,

   HENRIETTA CARBURY.


'Most affectionately your own Hetta' would have been the form in which
she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written
to him.

Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the
Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware
that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of Mrs
Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had been
impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had
pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is
intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible
for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs Hurtle and to have
told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a second
or third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. When
Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should
write the story. But there are many reasons strong against such
written communications. A man may desire that the woman he loves
should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after days, there
may be nothing to detect: so that, should the Mrs Hurtle of his life
at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and
undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--'Ah, this is the trouble of
which I spoke to you.' And then he and his beloved one will be in one
cause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a
written record of his folly. And then who does not know how much
tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice,
by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the
lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the Mrs
Hurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through from
beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no
sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The soft
falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal
interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to
deceit, if sent in a letter. I think therefore that Paul Montague did
quite right in hurrying up to London.

He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with
her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the
dining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They
should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could be
helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then,
upstairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to
see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it
with her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would not
again accept her lover till this story of Mrs Hurtle had been sifted
to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover had to
say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room and
suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's
behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister
quietly said that she would rather see Mr Montague herself. Felix had
been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, and
Hetta left the room alone.

When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his
arms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she
had prepared herself for it. 'Paul,' she said, 'let me hear about all
this--first.' She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found
himself compelled to seat himself at some distance from her.

'And so you have heard of Mrs Hurtle,' he said, with a faint attempt
at a smile.

'Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her.'

'Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows
the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think
your 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 must
be 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 be
interrogated. 'If you will allow me I will tell it you all from
beginning to end.'

'Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her
you must have loved her.' There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a
tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.

'Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all.' Then he did tell
his 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 were
bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the
American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paul
had promised to make this woman his wife. 'Had she been divorced
then?' asked Hetta,--'because I believe they get themselves divorced
just when they like.' Simple as the question was he could not answer
it. 'I could only know what she told me,' he said, as he went on with
his story. Then Mrs Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he
reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. 'Did you give her
up then?' demanded Hetta with stern severity. No;--not then. He had
gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not intended to say that the
engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it
had not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his second
return to England,--and then she had appeared in London at Mrs Pipkin's
lodgings in Islington. 'I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to
me,' he said, 'for I had by that time become quite aware that my
happiness must depend upon you.' He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods
that should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It
is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking
with 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 something
about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make
Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. 'It was
on 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 that
when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?'

'I cannot understand why you deserted her at all,' said Hetta. 'You
say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to
me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was
divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I
am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and
down 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 a
gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to
her, 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 to
explain, 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 crush
all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her
because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an
engagement. You had better go back to Mrs Hurtle and tell her that you
are 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. When
she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she
asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of
her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting
here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very
old,--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.' All
this 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 with
me!'

'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 this
story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he
would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict
it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me
just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr Montague, nearly
three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't
have 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, Mr
Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it
so 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, Mr
Montague.' And so she left him.

Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He
had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of
Mrs Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she could
only really know it all, there could be no such result. He had been
true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, never
swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved some
woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not,
affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs Hurtle in
London,--which he would have given half his possessions to have
prevented. 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 doubt
he had behaved badly to Mrs Hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome.
And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never
behaved badly to her.

He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he
could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with
Roger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually
free from Mrs Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the
wild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content to
abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possible
preserve an income on which to support her. And now she told him that
they must part,--and that only because he had not been cruelly
indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from
America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he thought, very
little heart. 'I don't want you to throw Mrs Hurtle over,' she had
said. Why should Mrs Hurtle be anything to her? Surely she might have
left Mrs Hurtle to fight her own battles. But they were all against
him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of it
would be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old
enough to be her father! She could not ever really have loved him.
That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own
for her. True love always forgives. And here there was really so very
little to forgive! Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that
night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have
forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living
'nearly three weeks ago' in close intercourse with another lover of
whom he had hitherto never even heard the name. But then,--as all the
world knows,--there is a wide difference between young men and young
women!

Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to her
own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxious
ear 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. 'You
have 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 her
lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for
disturbing her bliss.

'What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me
openly?'

'I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more
openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He is
like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some
abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he
has nothing to do but to say so,--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 to
me 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 like
that.'

'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 cause
for 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 to
be 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 to
ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you
have hitherto behaved badly about Mr Montague.'

'I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done
nothing that I am ashamed of.'

'But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come
here 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 that
she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that
you 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 left
her daughter to her solitude.



CHAPTER LXXVII - ANOTHER SCENE IN BRUTON STREET


When Mr Melmotte made his promise to Mr Longestaffe and to Dolly, in
the presence of Mr Bideawhile, that he would, on the next day but one,
pay to them a sum of fifty thousand pounds, thereby completing,
satisfactorily as far as they were concerned, the purchase of the
Pickering property, he intended to be as good as his word. The reader
knows that he had resolved to face the Longestaffe difficulty,--that
he had resolved that at any rate he would not get out of it by
sacrificing the property to which he had looked forward as a safe
haven when storms should come. But, day by day, every resolution that
he made was forced to undergo some change. Latterly he had been intent
on purchasing a noble son-in-law with this money,--still trusting to
the chapter of chances for his future escape from the Longestaffe and
other difficulties. But Squercum had been very hard upon him; and in
connexion with this accusation as to the Pickering property, there was
another, which he would be forced to face also, respecting certain
property in the East of London, with which the reader need not much
trouble himself specially, but in reference to which it was stated
that he had induced a foolish old gentleman to consent to accept
railway shares in lieu of money. The old gentleman had died during the
transaction, and it was asserted that the old gentleman's letter was
hardly genuine. Melmotte had certainly raised between twenty and
thirty thousand pounds on the property, and had made payment for it in
stock which was now worth--almost nothing at all. Melmotte thought that
he might face this matter successfully if the matter came upon him
single-handed;--but in regard to the Longestaffes he considered that
now, at this last moment, he had better pay for Pickering.

The property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds was
really his own. There could be no doubt about that. It had never been
his intention to make it over to his daughter. When he had placed it
in her name, he had done so simply for security,--feeling that his
control over his only daughter would be perfect and free from danger.
No girl apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud her
father could have crept quietly about a father's house. Nor did he now
think that she would disobey him when the matter was explained to her.
Heavens and earth! That he should be robbed by his own child,--robbed
openly, shamefully, with brazen audacity! It was impossible. But still
he had felt the necessity of going about this business with some
little care. It might be that she would disobey him if he simply sent
for her and bade her to affix her signature here and there. He thought
much about it and considered that it would be wise that his wife
should be present on the occasion, and that a full explanation should
be given to Marie, by which she might be made to understand that the
money had in no sense become her own. So he gave instructions to his
wife when he started into the city that morning; and when he returned,
for the sake of making his offer to the Longestaffes, he brought with
him the deeds which it would be necessary that Marie should sign, and
he brought also Mr Croll, his clerk, that Mr Croll might witness the
signature.

When he left the Longestaffes and Mr Bideawhile he went at once to his
wife'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 about
her.'

'I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her. Bid her come
now.' This was said in French. Then Madame Melmotte left the room, and
Melmotte arranged a lot of papers in order upon a table. Having done
so, he called to Croll, who was standing on the landing-place, and
told him to seat himself in the back drawing-room till he should be
called. Melmotte then stood with his back to the fireplace in his
wife's sitting-room, with his hands in his pockets, contemplating what
might be the incidents of the coming interview. He would be very
gracious,--affectionate if it were possible,--and, above all things,
explanatory. But, by heavens, if there were continued opposition to
his demand,--to his just demand,--if this girl should dare to insist
upon exercising her power to rob him, he would not then be affectionate
nor gracious! There was some little delay in the coming of the two
women, and he was already beginning to lose his temper when Marie
followed Madame Melmotte into the room. He at once swallowed his rising
anger with an effort. He would put a constraint upon himself The
affection and the graciousness should be all there,--as long as they
might secure the purpose in hand.

'Marie,' he began, 'I spoke to you the other day about some property
which for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we were
leaving Paris.'

'Yes, papa.'

'You were such a child then,--I mean when we left Paris,--that I could
hardly 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 quite
understand it. It would have been very odd if you had, as I never
explained 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 to
contradict the assertion. And yet he had not intended to talk of the
possibility of trouble. 'I wanted to lay aside a large sum of money
which should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercial
enterprise.'

'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 of
putting the money beyond my own reach. Such a transaction is very
common; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some one
who is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he can
put full confidence. And it is customary to choose a young person, as
there will then be less danger of the accident of death. It was for
these reasons, which I am sure that you will understand, that I chose
you. 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 out
into 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 it
would be stopped.'

Then, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred to
Melmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child of
his might be stiff-necked. 'As we are thinking of your marriage,' he
said, 'it is necessary that a change should be made. Settlements must
be drawn for the satisfaction of Lord Nidderdale and his father. The
old Marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendid
that I have consented. You must now sign these papers in four or five
places. 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 your
own. 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 am
to 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 call
in Mr Croll.'

'No, papa,' she said.

Then came across his brow that look which had probably first induced
Marie to declare that she would endure to be 'cut to pieces,' rather
than to yield in this or that direction. The lower jaw squared itself
and the teeth became set, and the nostrils of his nose became
extended,--and Marie began to prepare herself to be 'cut to pieces.'
But he reminded himself that there was another game which he had
proposed to play before he resorted to anger and violence. He would
tell her how much depended on her compliance. Therefore he relaxed the
frown,--as well as he knew how, and softened his face towards her, and
turned again to his work. 'I am sure, Marie, that you will not refuse
to do this when I explain to you its importance to me. I must have that
property for use in the city to-morrow, or--I shall be ruined.' The
statement was very short, but the manner in which he made it was not
without effect.

'Oh!' shrieked his wife.

'It is true. These harpies have so beset me about the election that
they have lowered the price of every stock in which I am concerned,
and have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they cannot be sold
at all. I don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but on
this 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 save
us from destruction.' This he said, very slowly, and with the utmost
solemnity.

'But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to be
married,' 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 life
will generally allow, he cannot make them tally. Melmotte was thrown
back for a moment, and almost felt that the time for violence had
come. He longed to be at her that he might shake the wickedness, and
the folly, and the ingratitude out of her. But he once more
condescended to argue and to explain. 'I think you misunderstood me,
Marie. I meant you to understand that settlements must be made, and
that of course I must get my own property back into my own hands
before anything of that kind can be done. I tell you once more, my
dear, that if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use that
property the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. Everything will
be 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 a
great 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,' said
Madame Melmotte.

'No!' said Melmotte. 'She does not care who is ruined, because we saved
her 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 Lord
Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing without
telling him. And if the property was once made to be mine, I don't
think I ought to give it up again because papa says that he is going
to be ruined. 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,' said
Marie.

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 very
hoarse. 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 she
believe 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 for
his own advantage, and never allowing her for a moment to suppose that
aught that he did was to be done for her happiness. And now, almost in
a breath, he had told her that this money was wanted that it might be
settled on her and the man to whom she was to be married, and then
that it might be used to save him from instant ruin. She believed
neither one story nor the other. That she should have done as she was
desired in this matter can hardly be disputed. The father had used her
name because he thought that he could trust her. She was his daughter
and should not have betrayed his trust. But she had steeled herself to
obstinacy against him in all things. Even yet, after all that had
passed, although she had consented to marry Lord Nidderdale, though
she had been forced by what she had learned to despise Sir Felix
Carbury, there was present to her an idea that she might escape with
the man she really loved. But any such hope could depend only on the
possession of the money which she now claimed as her own. Melmotte had
endeavoured to throw a certain supplicatory pathos into the question
he had asked her; but, though he was in some degree successful with
his voice, his eyes and his mouth and his forehead still threatened
her. He was always threatening her. All her thoughts respecting him
reverted to that inward assertion that he might 'cut her to pieces' if
he liked. He repeated his question in the pathetic strain. 'Will you
do this now,--to save us all from ruin?' But his eyes still threatened
her.

'No;' she said, looking up into his face as though watching for the
personal attack which would be made upon her; 'no, I won't.'

'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 mean
that you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at the
moment you can destroy him by your wickedness?' She shook her head but
said 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 the
scene which followed. Poor Marie. That cutting her up into pieces was
commenced after a most savage fashion. Marie crouching down hardly
uttered a sound. But Madame Melmotte frightened beyond endurance
screamed at the top of her voice,--'Ah, Melmotte, tu la tueras!' And
then she tried to drag him from his prey. 'Will you sign them now?'
said Melmotte, panting. At that moment Croll, frightened by the
screams, burst into the room. It was perhaps not the first time that
he had interfered to save Melmotte from the effects of his own wrath.

'Oh, Mr Melmotte, vat is de matter?' asked the clerk. Melmotte was out
of breath and could hardly tell his story. Marie gradually recovered
herself; and crouched, cowering, in the corner of a sofa, by no means
vanquished in spirit, but with a feeling that the very life had been
crushed out of her body. Madame Melmotte was standing weeping
copiously, with her handkerchief up to her eyes. 'Will you sign the
papers?' Melmotte demanded. Marie, lying as she was, all in a heap,
merely shook her head. 'Pig!' said Melmotte,--'wicked, ungrateful
pig.'

'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 their
departure.

Madame Melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some minutes
spoke never a word. Marie lay on the sofa, all in a heap, with her
hair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing hard, but
uttering no sobs and shedding no tears. The stepmother,--if she might
so be called,--did not think of attempting to persuade where her
husband had failed. She feared Melmotte so thoroughly, and was so timid
in regard to her own person, that she could not understand the girl's
courage. Melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as Satan,--whom
she never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived him, and was
constantly detected in her deceptions. Marie seemed to her to have all
her father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much of his power. At
the present moment she did not dare to tell the girl that she had been
wrong. But she had believed her husband when he had said that
destruction was coming, and had partly believed him when he declared
that the destruction might be averted by Marie's obedience. Her life
had been passed in almost daily fear of destruction. To Marie the last
two years of splendour had been so long that they had produced a
feeling of security. But to the elder woman the two years had not
sufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and never
for a moment had she felt herself to be secure. At last she asked the
girl what she would like to have done for her. 'I wish he had killed
me,' Marie said, slowly dragging herself up from the sofa, and
retreating 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 his
daughter merely saying that nothing would overcome her wicked
obstinacy. He made no allusion to his own violence, nor had Croll the
courage to expostulate with him now that the immediate danger was
over. The Great Financier again arranged the papers, just as they had
been laid out before,--as though he thought that the girl might be
brought down to sign them there. And then he went on to explain to
Croll what he had wanted to have done,--how necessary it was that the
thing should be done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that in
such a crisis of his life he should be hampered, impeded,--he did not
venture to his clerk to say ruined,--by the ill-conditioned obstinacy
of a girl! He explained very fully how absolutely the property was his
own, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it from
him! How monstrous in its injustice was the present position of
things! In all this Croll fully agreed. Then Melmotte went on to
declare that he would not feel the slightest scruple in writing
Marie's signature to the papers himself. He was the girl's father and
was justified in acting for her. The property was his own property,
and he was justified in doing with it as he pleased. Of course he
would have no scruple in writing his daughter's name. Then he looked
up at the clerk. The clerk again assented,--after a fashion, not by any
means with the comfortable certainty with which he had signified his
accordance with his employer's first propositions. But he did not, at
any rate, hint any disapprobation of the step which Melmotte proposed
to take. Then Melmotte went a step farther, and explained that the
only difficulty in reference to such a transaction would be that the
signature of his daughter would be required to be corroborated by that
of a witness before he could use it. Then he again looked up at
Croll;--but on this occasion Croll did not move a muscle of his face.
There certainly was no assent. Melmotte continued to look at him; but
then came upon the old clerk's countenance a stern look which amounted
to very strong dissent. And yet Croll had been conversant with some
irregular doings in his time, and Melmotte knew well the extent of
Croll's experience. Then Melmotte made a little remark to himself. 'He
knows that the game is pretty well over.' 'You had better return to
the city now,' he said aloud. 'I shall follow you in half an hour. It
is quite possible that I may bring my daughter with me. If I can make
her understand this thing I shall do so. In that case I shall want you
to be ready.' Croll again smiled, and again assented, and went his
way.

But Melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter. As soon as
Croll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk and
drawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter and of
this German clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin tissue
paper. He commenced his present operation by bolting his door and
pulling down the blinds. He practised the two signatures for the best
part of an hour. Then he forged them on the various documents;--and,
having completed the operation, refolded them, placed them in a locked
bag of which he had always kept the key in his purse, and then, with
the bag in his hand, was taken in his brougham into the city.



CHAPTER LXXVIII - MISS LONGESTAFFE AGAIN AT CAVERSHAM


All this time Mr Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London while
the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at Caversham.
He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to
Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of her
suggested marriage with Mr Brehgert as a thing utterly out of the
question. Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at
the Jermyn Street Hotel. 'Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard,' she
said.

'What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear
them.'

'You can do nothing for me.'

'Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to
wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you choose
to 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's
to 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 a
thorough 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 to
become of me? It isn't that Mr Brehgert is the sort of man I should
choose.'

'Do not mention his name to me.'

'But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I to
see 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 could
only see the people he had there. I like nice people as well as
anybody.'

'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 I
can put up with Mr Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should
complain.'

'A Jew!'

'People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very
fine income, and I should always have a house in--'

Then Mr Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped her
for that time. 'Look here,' he said, 'if you mean to tell me that you
will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you
shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my
house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence
again. It is disgusting, degrading,--disgraceful!' And then he left
her.

On the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see Mr
Brehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had she
the courage to ask him. The objectionable name was not mentioned again
in her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between herself,
Lady Pomona, and her sister. When Mr Longestaffe and his younger
daughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the hall to
meet her child,--from whom she had that morning received the dreadful
tidings about the Jew. As to these tidings she had as yet heard no
direct condemnation from her husband. The effect upon Lady Pomona had
been more grievous even than that made upon the father. Mr Longestaffe
had been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage was
out of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed, and
could take upon himself to see the Jew with the object of breaking off
the engagement. But poor Lady Pomona was helpless in her sorrow. If
Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not help it. But
such an occurrence in the family would, she felt, be to her as though
the end of all things had come. She could never again hold up her
head, never go into society, never take pleasure in her powdered
footmen. When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't think
that she could pluck up the courage to look even her neighbours Mrs
Yeld and Mrs Hepworth in the face. Georgiana found no one in the hall
to meet her, and dreaded to go to her mother. She first went with her
maid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. As she
sat pretending to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regain
her courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Why, at any rate,
should she be afraid of other females? Had she not always been
dominant over her mother and sister? 'Oh, Georgey,' said Sophia, 'this
is wonderful news!'

'I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be
married 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't
like 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 word
to 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 be
surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up about
this.' Then Georgiana understood that she must be content to stand all
alone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up Mr
Brehgert.

'So I've come back,' said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing her
mother.

'Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!' said Lady Pomona, slowly raising
herself and covering her face with one of her hands. 'This is
dreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it from
you.'

'What is the good of all that, mamma?'

'It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worse
than your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bible
against it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going
to do this.'

'Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,--and she goes
everywhere.'

'What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he's
fixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think of
that, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise.'

'Mamma, that's nonsense.'

'Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody
is. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they have
been able to sit in Parliament.'

'One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew,' said Georgiana, who
had already learned to fortify her own case.

'Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but what
they are. I'm sure that Mr Whitstable, who is to be your
brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him.'

Now if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised from
her youth upwards it was George Whitstable. He had been a
laughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded as a
lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural
dullness since he had become a man. He certainly was neither beautiful
nor bright;--but he was a Conservative squire born of Tory parents.
Nor was he rich;--having but a moderate income, sufficient to maintain
a moderate country house and no more. When first there came indications
that Sophia intended to put up with George Whitstable, the more
ambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her scorn. And now she
was told that George Whitstable would not speak to her future husband!
She was not to marry Mr Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, among
others, upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured.

'Then Mr Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not
trouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan't
trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about
me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the
moon.'

'He has always been in county society,' said Sophia, 'and was staying
only the other day at Lord Cantab's.'

'Then there were two fools together,' said Georgiana, who at this
moment was very unhappy.

'Mr Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make
your sister happy; but as for Mr Brehgert,--I can't bear to have his
name mentioned in my hearing.'

'Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't be
mentioned again by me.' Having so spoken, Georgiana bounced out of the
room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down
into the drawing-room before dinner.

Her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her
feelings. She presumed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert, but did
not in the least know what had passed between them. It might be that
her father had been so decided in his objection as to induce Mr
Brehgert to abandon his intention,--and if this were so, there could be
no reason why she should endure the misery of having the Jew thrown in
her face. Among them all they had made her think that she would never
become Mrs Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail her
colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almost
sick of the thing herself. But she could not back out of it so as to
obliterate all traces of the disgrace. Even if she should not
ultimately marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been engaged
to a Jew,--and then it would certainly be said afterwards that the
Jew had jilted her. She was thus vacillating in her mind, not knowing
whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening Lady
Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being 'far from well.' It was
of course known to them all that Mr Brehgert was her ailment. She was
accompanied by her elder daughter, and Georgiana was left with her
father. Not a word was spoken between them. He sat behind his
newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and
deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servants
treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice.
It was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise her
altogether. Of what service would it be to her that Lady Julia
Goldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to be
left without a single Christian friend? Would a life passed
exclusively among the Jews content even her lessened ambition? At ten
o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. Her father
grunted less audibly than usual under the operation. She had always
given herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her
courage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as
these.

On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were
left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable
wedding. Dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultations
held,--from all which things Georgiana was kept quite apart. The
accepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as though
the Whitstables had always kept a town house. Sophy loomed so large in
her triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. All Caversham
treated her with a new respect. And yet if Toodlam was a couple of
thousand a year, it was all it was:--and there were two unmarried
sisters! Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her
younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive parent. Oh,
heavens;--was Mr Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feeling
of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her. Even
Caversham, the Caversham of old days which she had hated, but in which
she had made herself respected and partly feared by everybody about
the place,--had charms for her which seemed to her delightful now that
they were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to be
the first personage in the house,--superior even to her father;--but
now she was decidedly the last.

Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr Longestaffe
was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room between the
library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted
only of Georgiana. In the course of the evening she went upstairs and
calling her sister out into the passage demanded to be told why she
was thus deserted. '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 must
have known that you were going to separate yourself from us.'

On the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr Longestaffe,--of
what nature Georgey did not know as it was addressed to Lady Pomona.
But one enclosure she was allowed to see. 'Mamma,' said Sophy, 'thinks
you ought to know how Dolly feels about it.' And then a letter from
Dolly to his father was put into Georgey's hands. The letter was as
follows:--


   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 from
a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. This letter had
not been received with a welcome. Nevertheless the head of the family
had thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it to
Caversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter.

And so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! She'd like to
see somebody do it! As soon as she had read her brother's epistle she
tore 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 Dolly
says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought it
worth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after that
I 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 anybody
else,' said Sophy.

'As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are
about the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world.'

'Of course we all know, Georgiana,' rejoined the elder sister, 'that
for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercial
classes, and especially among a certain sort.'

'I've done with you all,' said Georgey, rushing out of the room. 'I'll
have nothing more to do with any one of you.'

But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her
family! A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or come
and claim his property after twenty years. A young man may demand an
allowance, and has almost a right to live alone. The young male bird
is supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. But the daughter of a
house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a
husband. The only way in which Georgey could 'have done' with them all
at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr Brehgert, and at the
present moment she did not know whether Mr Brehgert did or did not
consider himself as engaged to her.

That day also passed away with ineffable tedium. At one time she was
so beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to her
sister in reference to the wedding garments. In spite of the very
bitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would have done
so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy was
heartlessly cruel in her indifference. In her younger days she had had
her bad things, and now,--with George Whitstable by her side,--she
meant to have good things, the goodness of which was infinitely
enhanced by the badness of her sister's things. She had been so greatly
despised that the charm of despising again was irresistible. And she
was able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by telling herself
that duty required her to show implacable resistance to such a marriage
as this which her sister contemplated. Therefore Georgiana dragged out
another 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 a
Wednesday. During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a very sad
time, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry Mr
Brehgert. Her father had declared to her that he would break off the
match, and she believed that he had seen Mr Brehgert with that
purpose. She had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted to
any one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield. But she
felt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to her
purpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return to
London with a feeling that she might still be controlled. She was
beginning to be angry with Mr Brehgert, thinking that he had taken his
dismissal from her father without consulting her. It was necessary
that something should be settled, something known. Life such as she
was leading now would drive her mad. She had all the disadvantages of
the Brehgert connection and none of the advantages. She could not
comfort herself with thinking of the Brehgert wealth and the Brehgert
houses, and yet she was living under the general ban of Caversham on
account of her Brehgert associations. She was beginning to think that
she herself must write to Mr Brehgert,--only she did not know what to
say to him.

But on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr Brehgert. It was
handed to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her sister,--who
at that moment was triumphant with a present of gooseberries which
had been sent over from Toodlam. The Toodlam gooseberries were noted
throughout Suffolk, and when the letters were being brought in Sophia
was taking her lover's offering from the basket with her own fair
hands. 'Well!' Georgey had exclaimed, 'to send a pottle of
gooseberries to his lady love across the country! Who but George
Whitstable would do that?'

'I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold,' Sophy retorted. 'I
don't suppose that Mr Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is.' At that
moment the letter was brought in, and Georgiana knew the writing. 'I
suppose that's from Mr Brehgert,' said Sophy.

'I don't think it matters much to you who it's from.' She tried to be
composed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow of
composure, and she retired to read it in privacy.

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 the
room 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, at
the 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-telling
letter. Not that she, to herself, gave it praise for those virtues;
but that it imbued her unconsciously with a thorough belief. She was
apt to suspect deceit in other people;--but it did not occur to her
that Mr Brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to deceive
her. But the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogether
thrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she read it, that
she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a Jew,
though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and with a family,
because he was an honest man. She did not see that the letter was
particularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be pained by the
total absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first allusion to her
age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed that
Brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. She was well aware
that the world in general attributes more years to unmarried women
than they have lived, as a sort of equalising counter-weight against
the pretences which young women make on the other side, or the lies
which are told on their behalf. Nor had she wished to appear
peculiarly young in his eyes. But, nevertheless, she regarded the
reference to be uncivil,--perhaps almost butcher-like,--and it had its
effect upon her. And then the allusion to the 'daughter or daughters'
troubled her. She told herself that it was vulgar,--just what a butcher
might have said. And although she was quite prepared to call her
father the most irrational, the most prejudiced, and most ill-natured
of men, yet she was displeased that Mr Brehgert should take such a
liberty with him. But the passage in Mr Brehgert's letter which was
most distasteful to her was that which told her of the loss which he
might probably incur through his connection with Melmotte. What right
had he to incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping his
engagements 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 no
town-house for three years. When she read this she felt that she ought
to be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down without
further consideration and tell the man with considerable scorn that
she would have nothing more to say to him.

But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would she
have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her father and
mother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she should consent
to fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of George
Whitstable! And what would then be left to her in life? This episode
of the Jew would make it quite impossible for her again to contest the
question of the London house with her father. Lady Pomona and Mrs
George Whitstable would be united with him against her. There would be
no 'season' for her, and she would be nobody at Caversham. As for
London, she would hardly wish to go there! Everybody would know the
story of the Jew. She thought that she could have plucked up courage
to face the world as the Jew's wife, but not as the young woman who
had wanted to marry the Jew and had failed. How would her future life
go with her, should she now make up her mind to retire from the
proposed alliance? If she could get her father to take her abroad at
once, she would do it; but she was not now in a condition to make any
terms with her father. As all this gradually passed through her mind,
she determined that she would so far take Mr Brehgert's advice as to
postpone her answer till she had well considered the matter.

She slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a few
questions. 'Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?'

'In what way, my dear?' Lady Pomona's voice was not gracious, as she
was free from that fear of her daughter's ascendancy which had
formerly affected her.

'Well;--I suppose he must have some plan.'

'You must explain yourself. I don't know why he should have any
particular 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 see
that. I'm sure you do, mamma. The long and short of it is this;--if I
give 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 we
are to remain here at Caversham, how am I to hope ever to get
settled?'

'Sophy is doing very well.'

'Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;--thank God.' She
had meant to be humble and supplicating, but she could not restrain
herself from the use of that one shaft. 'I don't mean but what Sophy
may be very happy, and I am sure that I hope she will. But that won't
do me any good. I should be very unhappy here.'

'I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going
abroad,' said Lady Pomona, 'and I don't see why your papa is to be
taken away from his own home. He likes Caversham.'

'Then I am to be sacrificed on every side,' said Georgey, stalking out
of the room. But still she could not make up her mind what letter she
would write to Mr Brehgert, and she slept upon it another night.

On the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though when
she sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind what she
would say. 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 any
circumstances be anxious to go back from his engagement. She so fully
recognised her own value as a Christian lady of high birth and
position giving herself to a commercial Jew, that she thought that
under any circumstances Mr Brehgert would be only too anxious to stick
to his bargain. Nor had she any idea that there was anything in her
letter which could probably offend him. She thought that she might at
any rate make good her claim to the house in London; and that as there
were other difficulties on his side, he would yield to her on this
point. But as yet she hardly knew Mr Brehgert. He did not lose a day
in sending to her a second letter. He took her letter with him to his
office 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 very
indignant at her lover's conduct. She did not believe that her own
letter had at all been of a nature to warrant it. She had regarded
herself as being quite sure of him, and only so far doubting herself,
as to be able to make her own terms because of such doubts. And now
the Jew had rejected her! She read this last letter over and over
again, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart of
hearts she had intended to marry him. There would have been
inconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the sorrow
on the other side. Now she saw nothing before her but a long vista of
Caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by her father
and mother, and scorned by Mr and Mrs George Whitstable.

She got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. But what
vengeance was possible to her? Everybody belonging to her would take
the part of the Jew in that which he had now done. She could not ask
Dolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with a
stern frown of paternal indignation. There could be no revenge. For a
time,--only a few seconds,--she thought that she would write to Mr
Brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about this
termination of their engagement. This, no doubt, would have been an
appeal 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 which
somebody had told her had not cost less than a hundred and fifty
guineas. She could not wear them, as people would know whence they had
come; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could wear.

At lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of the
afternoon she thought it best to inform her mother. 'Mamma,' she said,
'as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken off
everything with Mr Brehgert.'

'Of course it must be broken off,' said Lady Pomona. This was very
ungracious,--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 the
unfortunate young woman burst out into tears.

'It was so dreadful,' said Lady Pomona;--'so very dreadful. I never
heard of anything so bad. When young what's-his-name married the
tallow-chandler's daughter I thought it would have killed me if it had
been Dolly; but this was worse than that. Her father was a methodist.'

'They had neither of them a shilling of money,' said Georgey through
her tears.

'And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. But it's all
over?'

'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 course
everybody has known it through the county. I once thought he would
have been off, and I really don't know that we could have said
anything.' At that moment Sophy entered the room. 'It's all over
between Georgiana and the--man,' said Lady Pomona, who hardly saved
herself 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,' said
Georgiana. '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 Longestaffe
been 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 of
which her father had been guilty.



CHAPTER LXXX - RUBY PREPARES FOR SERVICE


Our poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to durance vile
after his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was locked up
for the remainder of the night. This indignity did not sit so heavily
on 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 had
therefore enjoyed his revenge without the necessity of 'swinging for
it at Bury.' That in itself was a comfort to him. Then it was a great
satisfaction to think that he had 'served the young man out' in the
actual presence of his Ruby. He was not prone to give himself undue
credit for his capability and willingness to knock his enemies about;
but he did think that Ruby must have observed on this occasion that
he was the better man of the two. And, to John, a night in the
station-house was no great personal inconvenience. Though he was
very proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very much
for such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned. Nor did he
feel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. He was very
good-humoured with the policeman, who seemed perfectly to understand
his nature, and was as meek as a child when the lock was turned upon
him. As he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself with
thinking that Ruby would surely never care any more for the 'baronite'
since she had seen him go down like a cur without striking a blow. He
thought a good deal about Ruby, but never attributed any blame to her
for her share in the evils that had befallen him.

The next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told at
an early hour of the day that he was again free. Sir Felix was not
much the worse for what had happened to him, and had refused to make
any complaint against the man who had beaten him. John Crumb shook
hands cordially with the policeman who had had him in charge, and
suggested beer. The constable, with regrets, was forced to decline,
and bade adieu to his late prisoner with the expression of a hope that
they might meet again before long. 'You come down to Bungay,' said
John, 'and I'll show you how we live there.'

From the police-office he went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house, and at
once 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 present
himself before Ruby quite yet. 'You see,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'she's a
thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman.'

'But I wasn't;--not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the
wuss.'

'You let her alone for a time,' said Mrs Hurtle. 'A little neglect
will do her good.'

'Maybe,' said John,--'only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'll
let her have her wittles regular, Mrs Pipkin.'

It was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should not
extend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving an
assurance from Mrs Hurtle that he should be summoned to town as soon
as it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes;
and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly women that as
soon as ever a 'line should be dropped' he would appear again upon the
scene, he took Mrs Pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were 'any
hextras,' he was ready to pay for them. Then he took his leave without
seeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay.

When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb had
called. 'I thought as he was in prison,' said Ruby.

'What should they keep him in prison for?' said Mrs Pipkin. 'He hasn't
done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was dragging
you about as far as I can make out, and Mr Crumb just did as anybody
ought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't going to keep
him in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be in
prison.'

'And where is he now, aunt?'

'Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here
any more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's
worth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby.'

'John Crumb'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him
encouragement,' 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 go
about 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 the
servant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do with
herself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to her
after the treatment he had received;--and a further idea that if he did
come he was not, as she phrased it to herself, 'of much account.' She
certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten, though,
at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. She did not
believe that she would ever dance with him again. That had been the
charm of her life in London, and that was now all over. And as for
marrying 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 whom
Ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love and
John Crumb were poles asunder. But--! Ruby did not like wheeling the
perambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to go
about her work. What Ruby did like was being in love and dancing; but
if all that must come to an end, then there would be a question
whether she could not do better for herself, than by staying with her
aunt and wheeling the perambulator about Islington.

Mrs Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and having
but little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to the
interest of John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymen
she had never seen. 'I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his
head,' she had said to Mrs Pipkin. Mrs Pipkin had replied that Mr
Crumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. Mrs
Hurtle had smiled, thinking that Mrs Pipkin was also very unlike her
own countrywomen. But she was very kind to Mrs Pipkin, ordering
rice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she was
quite determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.

In order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs Pipkin into
confidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to Ruby. Mrs
Pipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan was
altogether Mrs Hurtle's plan. On the day following John's return to
Bungay Mrs Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and thus
addressed 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 there
isn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't
have 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,--nor
I 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 as
nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give
you a character;--only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask
much wages just at first.' Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears
were near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall was
so 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 said
by me as though I was your mistress. You would go out with that
rapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place
like, 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. You
must earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover
and your grandfather.'

There was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessary
notice was put into the paper,--Mrs Hurtle paying for its insertion.
'Because, you know,' said Mrs Hurtle, 'she must stay here really, till
Mr Crumb comes and takes her away.' Mrs Pipkin expressed her opinion
that Ruby was a 'baggage' and John Crumb a 'soft.' Mrs Pipkin was
perhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger took in her
niece, thinking perhaps that all Mrs Hurtle's sympathies were due to
herself.

Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the
mothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The answers which she had
received had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy,
and the houses which she visited did not appal her by their splendour.
Many objections were made to her. A character from an aunt was
objectionable. Her ringlets were objectionable. She was a deal too
flighty-looking. She spoke up much too free. At last one happy mother
of five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at £12
a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This was
slavery;--abject slavery. And she too, who had been the beloved of a
baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better house than
that into which she was to go as a servant,--if she would only hold
up her finger! But the place was accepted, and with broken-hearted
sobbings Ruby prepared herself for her departure from Aunt Pipkin's
roof.

'I hope you like your place, Ruby,' Mrs Hurtle said on the afternoon
of her last day.

'Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you
ever 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 young
man and then to throw him over? All this has come because you wouldn't
keep your word to Mr Crumb. Only for that your grandfather wouldn't
have 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 becomes
engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word.' No
doubt Mrs Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought that the same
law might be laid down with propriety for the conduct of young men.
'Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry you don't
like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now.'

'I am agoing,--I suppose,' said Ruby, probably feeling that if she
could but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be open
for her a way of escape.

'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't
nothing 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 him
to know as I'm in service.'

'I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose you
care much now what he hears about you.'

'Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him to
know.'

'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 be
ashamed 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 what
he 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 all
out 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 no
good at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh,--he'll go and get
somebody else now.'

'Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better
tell 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 place
you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say the
word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs
Buggins'.' Ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at Mrs
Hurtle. 'I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you
did 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're
breaking 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't
good at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester man
in the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a woman
better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with
it? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metal
isn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't
think 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, you
have 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 a
very low whisper told Mrs Hurtle, that if she thought proper she might
bring 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 Hurtle
also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen circumstances
prevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement she had made; to
which a verbal answer was returned that Ruby Ruggles was an impudent
hussey. And then Mrs Hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to Mr
John 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 for
young women in my time,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'and I'm not at all so sure
that 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 patience
with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for you, Mrs
Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, Mrs
Hurtle, 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 Lane
immediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he had
consented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. This
was on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being Friday. He
had undertaken that, on his part, Squercum should be made to desist
from further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry out his
word by visiting Squercum. The trouble to him was very great, but he
began to feel that he almost liked it. The excitement was nearly as
good as that of loo. Of course it was a 'horrid bore,'--this having
to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a London July day. Of
course it was a 'horrid bore,'--this doubt about his money. And it went
altogether against the grain with him that he should be engaged in any
matter respecting the family property in agreement with his father and
Mr Bideawhile. But there was an importance in it that sustained him
amidst his troubles. It is said that if you were to take a man of
moderate parts and make him Prime Minister out of hand, he might
probably do as well as other Prime Ministers, the greatness of the
work elevating the man to its own level. In that way Dolly was
elevated to the level of a man of business, and felt and enjoyed his
own capacity. 'By George!' It depended chiefly upon him whether such a
man as Melmotte should or should not be charged before the Lord Mayor.
'Perhaps I oughtn't to have promised,' he said to Squercum, sitting in
the lawyer's office on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth.
He preferred Squercum to any other lawyer he had met because
Squercum's room was untidy and homely, because there was nothing awful
about it, and because he could sit in what position he pleased, and
smoke all the time.

'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 my
absence,' said Squercum indignantly. 'It was a very unprofessional
thing 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; but
I 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 quite
clear 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; but
they are generally specially honest to their own side. Bideawhile's
honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to prevent his
getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay the money on
Friday, 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. In
what 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 a
note to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should be
no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into
another. 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 any
more compromising.'

Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all
flattering to Dolly's vanity,--which might have caused offence had not
there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and the
young man. As it was, Dolly replied to everything that was said with
increased flattery. 'If I was a sharp fellow like you, you know,' said
Dolly, 'of course I should get along better; but I ain't, you know.'
It was then settled that they should meet each other, and also meet Mr
Longestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve o'clock on
Friday morning in Bruton Street.

Squercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in this
matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got to
the bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and had
managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ him.
As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject. Old
Longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by the
bribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican
Railway to give up the title-deeds of the property,--as far as it was
in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce Dolly to
do so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his work by
ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was perfectly
clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a most
attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It was
pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. He
regarded Melmotte as a grand swindler,--perhaps the grandest that the
world had ever known,--and he could conceive no greater honour than the
detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of so great
a man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as great
almost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been unfairly
hampered by his own client. He did not believe that the money would be
paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had heard a good
many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out of the
question that Melmotte should raise the money,--but there were various
ways in which a man might escape.

It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded
Melmotte into the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to sign
the deeds. He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that
things were not looking as well as they used to look. Croll had for
many years been true to his patron, having been, upon the whole,
very well paid for such truth. There had been times when things had
gone badly with him, but he had believed in Melmotte, and, when
Melmotte rose, had been rewarded for his faith. Mr Croll at the
present time had little investments of his own, not made under his
employer's auspices, which would leave him not absolutely without
bread for his family should the Melmotte affairs at any time take
an awkward turn. Melmotte had never required from him service that
was actually fraudulent,--had at any rate never required it by spoken
words. Mr Croll had not been over-scrupulous, and had occasionally
been very useful to Mr Melmotte. But there must be a limit to all
things; and why should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins
of a falling house,--when convinced that nothing he can do can
prevent the fall? Mr Croll would have been of course happy to
witness Miss Melmotte's signature; but as for that other kind of
witnessing,--this clearly to his thinking was not the time for such
good-nature on his part.

'You know what's up now;--don't you?' said one of the junior clerks to
Mr 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't
want 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 Mr
Cohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on the
continent somewhere,--half across France by this time; but nobody knows
what route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the old
boy;--eh, Croll?' Croll merely shook his head. 'I wonder what has
become of Miles Grendall,' continued the clerk.

'Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to
stay.'

'There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway
scrip.'

'Our governor knew noding about dat,' said Croll.

'He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been kept
up another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly a
million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the
bank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayor
about the Pickering title-deeds?' Croll declared that he knew nothing
about the matter, and settled himself down to his work.

In little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who thus
reached the City late in the afternoon. It was he knew too late to
raise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the way
for getting it on the next day, which would be Thursday. Of course the
first news which he heard was of the defection of Mr Cohenlupe. It was
Croll who told him. He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at first he
said 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 it
pours,' said Melmotte. 'Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been worse
than I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousand
pounds 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 damnably
jealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men will
say that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster there
has been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that affair
of 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 dealings
so large as mine.'

'Very hard, Mr Melmotte.'

'But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the real
stuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing that
comes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if the
stuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose I
shall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court.'

'I should say so, Mr Melmotte. Mr Brehgert never leaves much before
six.'

Then Mr Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he
usually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in its
usually jaunty air. But Croll as he went heard him mutter the name of
Cohenlupe between his teeth. The part which he had to act is one very
difficult to any actor. The carrying an external look of indifference
when the heart is sinking within,--or has sunk almost to the very
ground,--is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. In all mental
suffering the sufferer longs for solitude,--for permission to cast
himself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every feature
of his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. A grandly urbane
deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond the
physical strength of most men;--but there have been men so strong.
Melmotte very nearly accomplished it. It was only to the eyes of such
a one as Herr Croll that the failure was perceptible.

Melmotte did find Mr Brehgert. At this time Mr Brehgert had completed
his correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he had mentioned
the probability of great losses from the anticipated commercial
failure in Mr Melmotte's affairs. He had now heard that Mr Cohenlupe
had gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly sure that his
anticipation would be correct. Nevertheless, he received his old
friend with a smile. When large sums of money are concerned there is
seldom much of personal indignation between man and man. The loss of
fifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create personal wrath;--but fifty
thousand require equanimity. 'So Cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the City
to-day,' said Brehgert.

'He has gone,' said Melmotte hoarsely.

'I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for large
dealings.'

'Yes, you did,' said Melmotte.

'Well;--it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?' Then Melmotte
explained to Mr Brehgert what it was that he wanted then, taking the
various documents out of the bag which throughout the afternoon he had
carried in his hand. Mr Brehgert understood enough of his friend's
affairs, and enough of affairs in general, to understand readily all
that 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, that
the security offered was worth twice as much as that. 'You will leave
them with me this evening,' said Brehgert. Melmotte paused for a
moment, and said that he would of course do so. He would have given
much, very much, to have been sufficiently master of himself to have
assented without hesitation;--but then the weight within was so very
heavy!

Having left the papers and the bag with Mr Brehgert, he walked
westwards to the House of Commons. He was accustomed to remain in the
City later than this, often not leaving it till seven,--though during
the last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the House
in the afternoon. It was now Wednesday, and there was no evening
sitting;--but his mind was too full of other things to allow him to
remember this. As he walked along the Embankment, his thoughts were
very heavy. How would things go with him?--What would be the end of
it? Ruin;--yes, but there were worse things than ruin. And a short time
since he had been so fortunate;--had made himself so safe! As he looked
back at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass that he had
been driven out of the track that he had laid down for himself. He had
known that ruin would come, and had made himself so comfortably safe,
so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. But insane ambition had driven
him away from his anchorage. He told himself over and over again that
the fault had been not in circumstances,--not in that which men call
Fortune,--but in his own incapacity to bear his position. He saw it
now. He felt it now. If he could only begin again, how different
would his conduct be!

But of what avail were such regrets as these? He must take things as
they were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himself
to be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. And if the worst
should come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! There was a
certain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly in
his own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at this
time. Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside himself
and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to himself his
own shortcomings. If it were all to be done again he thought that he
could avoid this bump against the rocks on one side, and that terribly
shattering blow on the other. There was much that he was ashamed of,--
many a little act which recurred to him vividly in this solitary hour
as a thing to be repented of with inner sackcloth and ashes. But never
once, not for a moment, did it occur to him that he should repent of
the fraud in which his whole life had been passed. No idea ever
crossed his mind of what might have been the result had he lived the
life of an honest man. Though he was inquiring into himself as closely
as he could, he never even told himself that he had been dishonest.
Fraud and dishonesty had been the very principle of his life, and had
so become a part of his blood and bones that even in this extremity of
his misery he made no question within himself as to his right judgment
in regard to them. Not to cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live
more luxuriously than others by cheating more brilliantly, was a
condition of things to which his mind had never turned itself. In that
respect he accused himself of no want of judgment. But why had he, so
unrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon of
unrighteousness? Why had he not conciliated Lord Mayors? Why had he
trod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? Why had he been
insolent at the India Office? Why had he trusted any man as he had
trusted Cohenlupe? Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead of
going into Parliament? Why had he called down unnecessary notice on
his 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 Westminster
Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. 'Oh,
Wednesday! Of course it is,' he said, turning round and directing his
steps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the morning
he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not know
what better use to make of the present evening. His house could hardly
be very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep out of his way,
and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from his wife's
company. But in his own house he could at least be alone. Then, as he
walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on matters as
hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no, he asked
himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the money
which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that he
could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr Squercum could do
to him,--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? He
had heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes to
the multitude while their cases were in progress,--who had been fêted
from the beginning to the end though no one had doubted their guilt,--
and who had come out unscathed at the last. What evidence had they
against him? It might be that the Longestaffes and Bideawhiles and
Squercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge would
not produce a verdict. He, as member for Westminster, as the man who
had entertained the Emperor, as the owner of one of the most gorgeous
houses in London, as the great Melmotte, could certainly command the
best half of the bar. He already felt what popular support might do
for him. Surely there need be no despondency while so good a hope
remained to him! He did tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's
letter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. And he knew that
it was possible that other things might be adduced; but would it not
be better to face it all than surrender his money and become a pauper,
seeing, as he did very clearly, that even by such surrender he could
not cleanse his character?

But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr Brehgert!
Again he had acted in a hurry,--without giving sufficient thought to
the matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that also. But how
is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when no step that
he takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;--he had certainly put into
Brehgert's hands means of proving him to have been absolutely guilty
of forgery. He did not think that Marie would disclaim the signatures,
even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she should
understand that her father had written her name; nor did he think that
his clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of Croll's name
could not injure Croll. But Brehgert, should he discover what had been
done, would certainly not permit him to escape. And now he had put
these forgeries without any guard into Brehgert's hands.

He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. He
would see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on the
documents, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then he
would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper
that should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Having
done that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him
to gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could not
be admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all that.
If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that an end
might come. But how great was the chance that they might fail to
convict him! As to the dead man's letter, and as to Dolly
Longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence
could be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was to
have released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed that
he might still recover those documents. For the present it must be his
duty to do nothing,--when he should have recovered and destroyed those
documents,--and to live before the eyes of men as though he feared
nothing.

He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully went
through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes of
those ministers of the law who would probably before long have the
privilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thus
employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,--feeling himself greatly
comforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and look
men 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 been
imprisoned for fraud at Hamburg, and had come out of gaol a pauper;
friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he was
a member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of
perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an
established character for high finance,--a commercial giant whose name
was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres. Even
though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he would
not all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte might
be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.

In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every one
connected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of
awe,--every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times been
himself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife obeyed
him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came in now
and stood opposite him, while he spoke to her. She never sat in his
presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie kept their
jewelry;--for during the last twelve months rich trinkets had been
supplied 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 in
Grosvenor Square?'

'They are here.'

'Then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about
wool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if
you 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 work
is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothing
can hurt you.'

'Can they hurt you, Melmotte?'

'Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be
borne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft all
my 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 as
though that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you like
to 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 did
sit down, overcome by her feelings.

'I didn't ask you to come here for a scene,' said Melmotte. 'Do as I
bid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them
in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last
moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't stay
any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan't
answer them.' So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and
immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her
ornaments.

Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes sipping
brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work, and
hardly 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 to
see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether he
wanted to see Croll. 'Is it anything special?' he asked. The man
thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared his
purpose of waiting when told that Mr Melmotte was not as yet dressed.
This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte longed to
know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even the servant's
opinion 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 he
has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study.' But Mr
Croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment.

Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would
meet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well that
he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding him
wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will, the
question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he
discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he could
not fly. 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 what
thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner or later some man
must 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, and
steadied himself. How easily might he put an end to it all! Then he
rang 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 very
long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was
still upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was
fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When the
knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to
support himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and
Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly.
Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of
Mr Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bag
in his hand and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag
contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in his
own 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 be
ignorant of what had been done. 'Well, Croll,' he said with an attempt
at a smile, 'what brings you here so early?' He was pale as death, and
let him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself from
trembling.

'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's
face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.

'Eh!' repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from
all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not
assume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen
Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered the
forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged
documents. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the
most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature
such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

'Mr Brehgert came to me,' continued Croll, 'because one signature was
wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'd
bring 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 had
resolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired to
get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!
Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking in
a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him in
forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to such an
occasion. 'It vas a strong order, Mr Melmotte,' said Croll. Melmotte
tried to smile but only grinned. 'I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr
Melmotte.'

'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 after
an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that Herr
Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for business
to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by his
patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely
remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was
a 'strong order.'

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It had
been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times,
and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It had been
of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but here the
forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written five times;
but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again he had himself
been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his own
carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool
might do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and
wide awake at every turn!

Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and
now he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew
the crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps
against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own
hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale;--unless there
should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make
money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll
had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would
therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy
to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep the
secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry
favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was
his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been
his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of
peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of
what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the
knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be
suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag
and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his
breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he
would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money
for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would
explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a
little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not
exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he
had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone
since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on
Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one
merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the
burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the
City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of
certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security
could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do.
Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could
hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr Brehgert! He would stay at
home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he
would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand
about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the
lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and, if it
were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was
about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he had
fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can
hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she
was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received
indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also
often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his
opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now she
had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part
had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. He
had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for
anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate
forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its
occurrence. 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 that
perhaps 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 Lord
Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether
he 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. I
never 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 other
man?'

'He is a penniless adventurer.'

'But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there
would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if
you 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. And
there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in
Germany.'

'We could do that just as well without your marrying.'

'But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want
after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up
their 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's
anything 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 than
marriage.'

'You don't want me to sign the papers?'

'No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the
money 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 not
let 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. Why
cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your
jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your
hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of
that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very
good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I
bid you.'

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and
told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir
Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's house
had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously taken
away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands
through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his
face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with
which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when
they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questions
about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard,
had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special
description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady
Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own
presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. 'I dare say
you don't remember me, Lady Carbury,' Marie said. 'I am Marie
Melmotte.'

At first Lady Carbury had not recognized her visitor;--but she did so
before she replied. 'Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.'

'Yes;--I am Mr Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is
better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in
the street.'

'Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.' Now Lady Carbury had
heard within the last two days from Mr Broune that 'it was all over'
with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his
thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries,
that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a
ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the
very point of bursting. 'Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a
week is over.' That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury
about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

'I want to see him,' said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what
answer to make, was silent for a while. 'I suppose he told you
everything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? I
loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and
telling you.'

'I thought it was all off,' said Lady Carbury.

'I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was
very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but
perhaps 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 the
moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined,
was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable
amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affection
or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. 'I
am afraid,' she said, 'that it would not be suitable.'

'Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There
is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it is
mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great deal. We
should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell
you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have
thought it would be suitable.'

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage
after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it
was 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 up
the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare
to do it, why can't he?'

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it
impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she should
see Mr Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way
to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid
in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her life, the burden
that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but
persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,--as she
declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands were
there,--or even an income of a single thousand a year,--then what a
blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so low
that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a
connection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To get
any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative
safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. 'My son is
upstairs,' she said. 'I will go up and speak to him.'

'Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him
everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to
me, I will be true to him.'

'I couldn't go down to her,' said Sir Felix, 'with my face all in this
way.'

'I don't think she would mind that.'

'I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never
did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to
Liverpool.'

'I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to a
certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is
very fond of you.'

'What's the use of that, if he is ruined?' He would not go down to see
the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and was
ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As regarded
the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But the
fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off
and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene
with Marie would be immediate. 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 might
send 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. She
returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and
thinking what answer she would make. 'Miss Melmotte,' she said, 'my
son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last
met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance.'

'That is his message;--is it?' Lady Carbury remained silent. 'Then he
is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should
have loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will
think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not run
after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed of
thinking 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 you
please, and I will try to forget him.'

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going round
by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way. What
should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she endeavour
to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the last year
had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship which she
remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The servitude to
which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse
with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In these days
of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an
emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had
encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She had
really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made of the
basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was
she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away from her
and had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her
father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious
of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They
would 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 would
now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she succeeded in
forming 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 to
be a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs. As soon as Cohenlupe
had gone, no man doubted. The City men who had not gone to the dinner
prided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians who
had declined to meet the Emperor of China at the table of the
suspected Financier. They who had got up the dinner and had been
instrumental in taking the Emperor to the house in Grosvenor Square,
and they also who had brought him forward at Westminster and had
fought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defend
themselves against heavy attacks. No one now had a word to say in his
favour, or a doubt as to his guilt. The Grendalls had retired
altogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. Lord Alfred
had not been seen since the day of the dinner. The Duchess of Albury,
too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, as
the world said, by the general Melmotte failure. But this departure
had 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 feeling
prevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because of
Melmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted throughout
the morning that he would be put upon his trial for forgery in
reference to the purchase of the Pickering property from Mr
Longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown himself
anywhere on this day. People had gone to look at the house in
Grosvenor Square,--not knowing that he was still living in Mr
Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with the
impression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainly
to be seen upon it. 'I wonder where he is,' said Mr Lupton to Mr
Beauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House.

'They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in
Longestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. The
man has got his place in the country and his house in town. There's
Nidderdale. 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 understand
it all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was
certainly there.'

'And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago,' said Lupton,--'but
he isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in time
for you.' Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave.

'There's Brown,' said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to the
commercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr Melmotte on a
previous occasion had been anxious to correct. 'He'll be able to tell
us where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was
off to the continent after Cohenlupe.' But Mr Brown shook his head. Mr
Brown didn't know anything. But Mr Brown was very strongly of opinion
that the police would know all that there was to be known about Mr
Melmotte before this time on the following day. Mr Brown had been very
bitter against Melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him in
the House.

Even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary
question-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than upon
their own defence. 'Do you know anything about it?' asked the
Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for the Home
Department.

'I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is a
general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whether
they've got their evidence together.'

'He's a ruined man, I suppose,' said the Chancellor. 'I doubt whether
he ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;--he has been about
the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundred
thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal
expenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he learns the
truth.' Another minister sitting close to the Secretary of State was
of opinion that the Emperor of China would not care half so much about
it as our own First Lord of the Treasury.

At this moment there came a silence over the House which was almost
audible. They who know the sensation which arises from the continued
hum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the ear is
the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound. Everybody
looked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. An
Under-Secretary of State had just got upon his legs to answer a most
indignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings of
a certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was so
happy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. It is not
often that such a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and
he was intent upon his performance. But even he was startled into
momentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. Augustus Melmotte, the
member for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.

He had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of the
House as to know what to do with his hat,--when to wear it, and when to
take it off,--and how to sit down. As he entered by the door facing the
Speaker, 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 added
something to his powers of self-assertion. At this moment he was more
determined than ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or in
any feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew,
all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little
more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back a
little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore in his
shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was specially
conspicuous. He had come down in his brougham, and as he had walked up
Westminster Hall and entered the House by the private door of the
members, and then made his way in across the great lobby and between
the doorkeepers,--no one had spoken a word to him. He had of course
seen many whom he had known. He had indeed known nearly all whom he had
seen;--but he had been aware, from the beginning of this enterprise of
the day, that men would shun him, and that he must bear their cold
looks and colder silence without seeming to notice them. He had
schooled himself to the task, and he was now performing it. It was not
only that he would have to move among men without being noticed, but
that he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same plight. But
he was resolved, and he was now doing it. He bowed to the Speaker with
more than usual courtesy, raising his hat with more than usual care,
and seated himself, as usual, on the third opposition-bench, but with
more than his usual fling. He was a big man, who always endeavoured to
make an effect by deportment, and was therefore customarily
conspicuous in his movements. He was desirous now of being as he was
always, neither more nor less demonstrative;--but, as a matter of
course, he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that
there was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up the
House and took his seat. The Under-Secretary of State, who was on his
legs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facings
was lost to Parliament for ever.

That unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat next to
that on which Melmotte had placed himself. It had so happened three or
four times since Melmotte had been in the House, as the young lord,
fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had resolved that
he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. He understood that
countenance of the sort which he as a young aristocrat could give to
the man of millions who had risen no one knew whence, was part of the
bargain in reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingled
honesty and courage which together made him willing and able to carry
out his idea. He had given Melmotte little lessons as to ordinary
forms of the House, and had done what in him lay to earn the money
which was to be forthcoming. But it had become manifest both to him
and to his father during the last two days,--very painfully manifest to
his father,--that the thing must be abandoned. And if so,--then why
should he be any longer gracious to Melmotte? And, moreover, though he
had been ready to be courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable
man, he was not anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was
now assured, had been certainly guilty of forgery. But to get up at
once and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his
side, did not suit the turn of his mind. He looked round to his
neighbour on the right with a half-comic look of misery, and then
prepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be.

'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 shall
be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make
you comfortable.'

Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world was
united in accusing him of forgery? 'I'll tell you what it is,' said
Nidderdale. 'I think you had better see my governor again, Mr
Melmotte.'

'There's nothing wrong, I hope.'

'Well;--I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only just
came down to enter an appearance.' He had to cross Melmotte on his way
out, 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 that
which members generally allow themselves for conversation. Nidderdale
was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man in the
House who did not understand the whole thing. He rushed down through
the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step, and as he
escaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton, who, since his little
conversation with Mr Beauclerk, had heard further news.

'You know what has happened, Nidderdale?'

'About Melmotte, you mean?'

'Yes, about Melmotte,' continued Lupton. 'He has been arrested in his
own house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery.'

'I wish he had,' said Nidderdale, 'with all my heart. If you go in
you'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking to
me as though everything were all right.'

'Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken
under a warrant from the Lord Mayor.'

'The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisoner
himself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't on
his legs before long.'

Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the House
adjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then with a
slow step,--with almost majestic steps,--he descended to the dining-room
and ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and some little
difficulty about a seat. No one was very willing to make room for him.
But at last he secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate who
was there before him. It was impossible to expel him,--almost as
impossible to sit next him. Even the waiters were unwilling to serve
him;--but with patience and endurance he did at last get his dinner. He
was there in his right, as a member of the House of Commons, and there
was no ground on which such service as he required could be refused to
him. It was not long before he had the table all to himself. But of
this he took no apparent notice. He spoke loudly to the waiters and
drank his bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment. Since his
friendly intercourse with Nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor had
he spoken to any man. They who watched him declared among themselves
that he was happy in his own audacity;--but in truth he was probably
at that moment the most utterly wretched man in London. He would have
better studied his personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spent
his evening in groans and wailings. But even he, with all the world
now gone from him, with nothing before him but the extremest misery
which the indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to
spend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any
rate for audacity. It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his toga
around him before his death!

He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, taking
from his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded to
light a cigar about eight inches long. Mr Brown, from the City, was in
the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered Mr Brown one
of the same. Mr Brown was a short, fat, round little man, over sixty,
who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace set of
features an air of importance by the contraction of his lips and the
knitting of his brows. It was as good as a play to see Mr Brown
jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting on a
double frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. 'You needn't think
so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean any
offence.' So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarse
laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he were
enjoying his triumph.

He sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out into
a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;--as though
he were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all these
men around him were fools for believing the stories which they had
heard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. Soon after
nine 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, as
well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. There
was some debate going on in reference to the game laws,--a subject on
which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his housemaids,--but, as some
speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs. Another gentleman had also
risen, and when the House called to that other gentleman Melmotte gave
way. The other gentleman had not much to say, and in a few minutes
Melmotte was again on his legs. Who shall dare to describe the
thoughts which would cross the august mind of a Speaker of the House
of Commons at such a moment? Of Melmotte's villainy he had no official
knowledge. And even could he have had such knowledge it was not for
him to act upon it. The man was a member of the House, and as much
entitled to speak as another. But it seemed on that occasion that the
Speaker was anxious to save the House from disgrace;--for twice and
thrice he refused to have his 'eye caught' by the member for
Westminster. As long as any other member would rise he would not have
his eye caught. But Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be
put down. At last no one else would speak, and the House was about to
negative the motion without a division,--when Melmotte was again on his
legs, still persisting. The Speaker scowled at him and leaned back in
his chair. Melmotte standing erect, turning his head round from one
side of the House to another, as though determined that all should see
his audacity, propping himself with his knees against the seat before
him, remained for half a minute perfectly silent. He was drunk,--but
better able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in
his face none of those outward signs of intoxication by which
drunkenness is generally made apparent. But he had forgotten in his
audacity that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he
had not a word at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself,
then looked once more round the House with a glance of anger, and
after that toppled headlong over the shoulders of Mr Beauchamp
Beauclerk, who was sitting in front of him.

He might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he
remained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only
object, he could hardly have taken a surer course. The scene, as it
occurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performer
should have been carried away into enforced obscurity. There was much
commotion 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 drunken
man. But Melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping himself.
He quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his hat
on, 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 be
adopted with drunken members. But the member for Westminster caused no
further inconvenience. He remained in his seat for perhaps ten
minutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still with
capacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to the
doors. His exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxious
one for the Speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. Had he
fallen some one,--or rather some two or three,--must have picked him
up and carried him out. But he did not fall either there or in the
lobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard. Many were looking at him,
but none touched him. When he had got through the gates, leaning
against the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who was
waiting for him soon took him home to Bruton Street. That was the last
which the British Parliament saw of its new member for Westminster.

Melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-room
without difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. Between
eleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle of
brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case.
Neither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak of
them. Nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in the
mind of the servant. He was habitually left there at night, and the
servant as usual went to his bed. But at nine o'clock on the following
morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. Drunk as he
had been,--more drunk as he probably became during the night,--still
he was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties to
which the law might have subjected him by a dose of prussic acid.



CHAPTER LXXXIV - PAUL MONTAGUE'S VINDICATION


It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta Carbury
was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that duty
compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think
that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against
herself,--the offence against her own dignity as a woman,--was too
great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would all have been
forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had
reached her ears from any other source. Had he said to her,--when her
heart was softest towards him,--I once loved another woman, and that
woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her
history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after
this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that
fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has
never been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;--had
he told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening for
anger. And he doubtless would have so told it, had not Hetta's brother
interfered too quickly. He was then forced to exculpate himself, to
confess rather than to tell his own story,--and to admit facts which
wore the air of having been concealed, and which had already been
conceived to be altogether damning if true. It was that journey to
Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,--a journey as
to which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger Carbury
had thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it to herself.
Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable
intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacy worse than amicable, and had
been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he
had never passed a day without going there since the arrival of the
woman; and everybody would know what that meant. And during this very
hour 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 manner
such as could not but make her understand that he intended to make
love to her. Of course they had really understood it, since they had
met at Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she
could not allow herself to dance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen
times. Of course she had not intended him then to know that she would
receive his love with favour, but equally of course she had known that
he must so feel it. She had not only told herself, but had told her
mother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the man
during this very time was spending his hours with a--woman, with a
strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once
engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain
from telling him that everything must be over between them? Everybody
was against him,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she
felt that she had not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A
wretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her
that a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a
creature;--but that he should have come to her with a second tale of
love long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;--perhaps
with no intention of clearing himself from the first! Of course she
could not forgive him! No;--she would never forgive him. She would
break her heart for him. That was a matter of course; but she would
never forgive him. She knew well what it was that her mother wanted.
Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with Montague
she would force her also into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her
mother would find out that in that she was mistaken. She would never
marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge his
worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man. As she
made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it
would be a trouble to her mother;--for though she was altogether in
accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she was
not the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those
iniquities.

Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness
did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which Paul had
given her! It had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him for
it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she had
begged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her,--to
her dying day,--the one precious thing that had been given to her by
her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must be sent back;--and, no
doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered
over it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she
not told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her
solitude, by such a demonstration of affection. She had given her
answer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personal
correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a
request that it might be returned.

'Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing
else?'

'No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present.
You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that
back 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 understand
you.'

'I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that.'

'He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning,' said Lady
Carbury.

But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very
badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of his
misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very
well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only that he had
behaved so badly in taking Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards! 'It's
no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him
any 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 time
unhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time.
But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be
so sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people
to allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the
future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall
be forgotten at once.'

'Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say
any more.'

'But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is
before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of
course you must be married.'

'There is no of course at all.'

'Of course you must be married,' continued Lady Carbury, 'and of
course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best
done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe
money 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 told
me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall
not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--your cousin and
Mr Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out of London probably
abroad.'

'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 life
must 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 of
me always as though I were a burden?'

'Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But
you,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you
will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. You
have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of
making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother,
of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want.'

'Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?'

'Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown
nonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger.'

'This is horrid,' said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. 'Cannot you
understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from
my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in
pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly,--and
because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that
in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I
will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite--quite sure that I
shall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you go
away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. I
suppose 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 not
conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the
opportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the other
lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter,--as
she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--in order that her
child might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke
common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew
into tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to the
hard truths of the world. Deep as was the sorrow which her son brought
upon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy
for him than for the girl. If there was anything that she could not
forgive in life it was romance. And yet she, at any rate, believed
that she delighted in romantic poetry! At the present moment she was
very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her
daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable
roamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny.

In these days she thought a good deal of Mr Broune's offer, and of her
own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of
him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seen
or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy had
been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played at
being 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 misery
of her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her
son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and
true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to
him. There was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and
he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had
told her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The
consequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed him
to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost
prize, for she told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon,
after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came
to her. And, on the same evening, closeted with Mr Broune in her
back room, she told him of both occurrences. 'If the girl has got
the 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 be
sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that
way. 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.' It
was now between nine and ten in the evening. 'But as I came away from
my room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to
stand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I
imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of
the property.'

'What a wonderful career it has been!'

'Yes;--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclined
to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by
his reckless personal expenditure.'

'Why did he spend such a lot of money?'

'Because he thought he could conquer the world by it, and obtain
universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten
to 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 even
Melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in
want of assistance as her son. 'At any rate do not think of it any
more.' 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 a
fine gentleman.'

'But if she doesn't like him?'

'Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the
world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But
she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love.'

'A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that
nonsense.'

'Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any
other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And
those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the
ground like this Mr Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight
since we all thought him the greatest man in London.' Mr Broune only
smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never
held that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.

On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying,
as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr Longestaffe's room, a letter
was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr
Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily,
and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of
indifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the
room she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yet
to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her
dismissed 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. But
now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her
and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and she
ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for
thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were
or were not such as she ought to accept.


   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 the
performance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say,
disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all its
circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening, and
Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with
unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord
drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now
knew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were
to become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for the
City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery,
everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had
pretended to buy, and that actually he was a ruined man;--and yet he
had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord 'his
dear boy' before the whole House.

And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If he
had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the girl, he
had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had quarrelled with
one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentially
told his most intimate friends that in spite of a little vulgarity of
manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now to
back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes generally? He was engaged
to marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse her.
He acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his hands. Though
at this moment he hated the father most bitterly, as those odious
words, and the tone in which they had been pronounced, rang in his
ears, nevertheless he had some kindly feeling for the girl. Of course
he 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 be
married for her money, and now that bubble had been burst. But he felt
that he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the whole been
loyal to him, to have some personal explanation with herself. He
arranged 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 were
to 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's
out of the question. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you
very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well
together.' That was the kind of speech that he suggested to himself,
but he did not know how to find for himself the opportunity of making
it. He thought that he must put it all into a letter. But then that
would be tantamount to a written confession that he had made her an
offer of marriage, and he feared that Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on
his behalf, if the great man himself were absent, in prison,--might
make an ungenerous use of such an admission.

Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he saw
Dolly 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 sense
of his own importance. 'I wonder whether it's true,' he was saying to
Lord Grasslough. 'He has an appointment to meet me and my governor at
twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore
yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep his
appointment, you know, if he's in prison.'

'You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that,' said
Grasslough.

'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's
Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to speak to
him since he cut up so rough the other night.'

In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grasslough
asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte,
the latter answered out loud, 'Yes I left him in the House half an
hour ago.'

'People are saying that he has been arrested.'

'I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when I left
the House.' Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe's
shoulder, and spoke to him. 'I suppose you were about right the other
night and I was about wrong; but you could understand what it was that
I 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 think
you'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 had
tried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, and
that he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall.
'By George, I should like to have seen that!' said Dolly.

'I am very glad I was not there,' said Nidderdale. It was three
o'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte was
lying dead upon the floor in Mr Longestaffe's house.

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at
breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square.
From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a few
hundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with his
father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that something
might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage. The Marquis
was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in which he was
interested did not go exactly as he would have them. He could be very
cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the ladies of the
family, and others connected with him, for the most part, found it
impossible to live with him. But his eldest son had endured him;--
partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated with a
nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own extreme
good humour. What did a few hard words matter? If his father was
ungracious to him, of course he knew what all that meant. As long as
his father would make fair allowance for his own peccadilloes,--he
also would make allowances for his father's roughness. All this was
based on his grand theory of live and let live. He expected his father
to be a little cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himself
that there was cause for it.

He was a little late himself, and he found his father already
buttering his toast. 'I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment
sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it.'

'You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't
earn 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 at
him. '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 own
that. I suppose the whole thing is over?'

'I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own
money.' Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour
in the House on the preceding evening. 'What the devil does that
matter?' said the old man. 'You're not going to marry the man
himself.'

'I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now.'

'And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is
hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be
choosers. 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.' The
Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his
son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a
search. 'At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is
to 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 I
couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money.'

'Then you may just go to the devil,' said the old Marquis turning
himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the
newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect
equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. 'They tell
me,' said the old man, 'that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have
a 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 heard
any sum named, sir?'

The old man only grunted. 'There are two sisters and two brothers. I
don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each.'

'They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about
twenty thousand a year.'

'It's only for her life, sir.'

'She could insure her life. D--- me, sir, we must do something. If you
turn 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 would
be a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it.' The
old man growled again. 'You see, sir, I've been so much in earnest
about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any one
else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pity
there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of
money, 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 Nidderdale
that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not
always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the
servant whether he knew who the man was. 'I believe, my lord, he's one
of the domestics from Mr Melmotte's in Bruton Street,' said the
footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances
of Lord Nidderdale's engagement. 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 to
what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. 'Go and see
Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him you are ready
to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't
stir a step till it has been actually paid over.'

'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, a
ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But
the lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had
some story to tell. 'Is there anything the matter?'

'Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to
hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as
your lordship.'

'They've taken him to prison!' exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook
his head. 'What is it then? He can't be dead.' Then the man nodded his
head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. 'Mr
Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him
myself. How did he die?' But the fat, ponderous man was so affected by
the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any
account of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the note
which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, and
had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had
been brought to her of what had occurred. 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 to
the manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gathering from
a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that something
special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. 'Mr Melmotte is--
dead,' said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell back
against the wall. 'This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter
from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he--died?'

'It was--poison,' said the butler solemnly. 'There has been a doctor
already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himself
last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy
and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the
morning, when the young woman went in,--there he was,--poisoned! I see
him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that
smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the
same as when the doctor came and told us.'

Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation
between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which
Marie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his son
had better not go to Bruton Street. 'What's the use? What good can you
do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got
to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are.'

But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to this
advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abject
misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any rate for
the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he felt
willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get,--but
because she had so nearly been so near to him. 'I couldn't refuse
her,' 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 be
abominable.' Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the
butler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half an
hour.

'Don't you go and make a fool of yourself,' his father said to him
when he was alone. 'This is just one of those times when a man may
ruin himself by being softhearted.' Nidderdale simply shook his head
as 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 way
conveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether.
Marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stood
by the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps by
the necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman as
by her own superior strength of character, to save herself from that
prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow is apt
to produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidings
of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside.
But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame Melmotte
soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was not
only active but efficacious. 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 a
doctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below. The
necessity of throwing whatever responsibility there might be on to
other shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and they
had sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled with
persons fit to give directions in such an emergency. The officers from
the police station were already there when the woman who now filled
Didon's place in the house communicated to Madame Melmotte the fact
that she was a widow.

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 the
condemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly not
that which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters.
He had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whose
slightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become matters
of serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were
glorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed
would be missed with mourning. How should it have been so with her? In
all the intercourses of her family, since the first rough usage which
she remembered, there had never been anything sweet or gracious.
Though she had recognized a certain duty, as due from herself to her
father, she had found herself bound to measure it, so that more should
not be exacted from her than duty required. She had long known that
her father would fain make her a slave for his own purposes, and that
if she put no limits to her own obedience he certainly would put none.
She had drawn no comparison between him and other fathers, or between
herself and other daughters, because she had never become conversant
with the ways of other families. After a fashion she had loved him,
because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had never
respected him, and had spent the best energies of her character on a
resolve that she would never fear him. 'He may cut me into pieces, but
he shall not make me do for his advantage that which I do not think he
has a right to exact from me.' That had been the state of her mind
towards her father; and now that he had taken himself away with
terrible suddenness, leaving her to face the difficulties of the world
with no protector and no assistance, the feeling which dominated her
was no doubt one of awe rather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Those
who 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 most
cruel tormentors. Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it
could not probably be said of her with truth that she was crushed by
pure grief. There was fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of
sudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear of some necessary
movement she knew not whither, fear that she might be discovered to be
a poor wretched impostor who never could have been justified in
standing in the same presence with emperors and princes, with
duchesses and cabinet ministers. This and the fact that the dead body
of the man who had so lately been her tyrant was lying near her, so
that she might hardly dare to leave her room lest she should encounter
him dead, and thus more dreadful even than when alive, utterly
conquered her. Feelings of the same kind, the same fears, and the same
awe were powerful also with Marie;--but they did not conquer her. She
was strong and conquered them; and she did not care to affect a
weakness to which she was in truth superior. In such a household the
death of such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce that
tender sorrow which comes from real love.

She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and had
doubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had been
greater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to sign
those deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her
the truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means of
knowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. But she
had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her that it
would be of no avail,--and at that time had not been angry with her
as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin. She
took some comfort in thinking of that.

But what was she to do? What was to be done generally by that
over-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had been instructed
to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed the order. But
she herself at this moment cared but little for any property. How
ought she to behave herself? Where should she go? On whose arm could
she lean for some support at this terrible time? As for love, and
engagements, and marriage,--that was all over. In her difficulty she
never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury. Though she had been
silly enough to love the man because he was pleasant to look at, she
had never been so far gone in silliness as to suppose that he was a
staff upon which any one might lean. Had that marriage taken place,
she would have been the staff. But it might be possible that Lord
Nidderdale would help her. He was good-natured and manly, and would be
efficacious,--if only he would come to her. He was near, and she
thought that at any rate she would try. So she had written her note
and sent it by the butler,--thinking as she did so of the words she
would use to make the young man understand that all the nonsense they
had talked as to marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothing
now.

It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown
upstairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. As he
passed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open, he
saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of the
dead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without a
glance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen his
burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. And
now the man was dead,--having destroyed his own life. Surely the man
must have known when he uttered those words what it was that he
intended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie,
conscious as he was that every one was deserting him, he must even
then have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that it
was better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might be
their nature, must have been heavy on him then with all their weight;
and he himself and all the world had known that he was ruined. And yet
he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and had
spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be
accomplished!

Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Marie was
with him. He walked up to her, took her by both hands, and looked into
her face. There was no trace of a tear, but her whole countenance
seemed 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. You
won't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more of
all those things which he was planning?' She paused a moment, but he
was not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. 'You
know 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 that
I could be dead too.'

'Has your mother been told?'

'Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment. It
was better that it should be so;--better at last. But we have no
friends 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 and
timid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What ought we to do? It
is 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 Grosvenor
Square. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and the
policemen?'

'I will do that.'

'But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should I
ask you to do anything?'

'Because we are friends.'

'No,' she said, 'no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I have
been an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a person like
you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor papa,--poor
papa!' 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! As
for comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one trouble
after another,--one fear after another! And now we are friendless and
homeless. 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. His
own clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left him
yesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; but
now that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the name of
one of them. 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 papa
had a big house.' The young lord could not but feel that he was
included 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 her
strength 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 her
hands. He was standing close to her, still holding her arm, when he
heard a knock at the front door, which was immediately opened, as the
servants were hanging about in the hall. 'Who are they?' said Marie,
whose sharp ears caught the sound of various steps. Lord Nidderdale
went out on to the head of the stairs, and immediately heard the voice
of Dolly Longestaffe.

Dolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the care
of Mr Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had met
his father with Mr Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They were
all coming according to appointment to receive the money which Mr
Melmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. Of course they
had none of them as yet heard of the way in which the Financier had
made his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the door
had been intent only in reference to their own money. Squercum, who
had heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that the
money would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine of
success. 'Don't we wish we may get it?' Dolly had said, and by saying
so had very much offended his father, who had resented the want of
reverence implied in the use of that word 'we'. They had all been
admitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an old
acquaintance with some of the articles around him. 'I knew I'd got a
coat just like that,' said Dolly, 'and I never could make out what my
fellow had done with it.' This was the speech which Nidderdale had
heard, standing on the top of the stairs.

The two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who had
opened the door and from the presence of three or four servants in the
hall, that things were not going on in their usual course. Before
Dolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to Mr
Bideawhile that Mr Melmotte--'was no more.'

'Dead!' exclaimed Mr Bideawhile. Squercum put his hands into his
trousers pockets and opened his mouth wide. 'Dead!' muttered Mr
Longestaffe senior. 'Dead!' said Dolly. 'Who's dead?' The butler shook
his head. Then Squercum whispered a word into the butler's ear, and
the 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 the
millionaire had swallowed poison during the night.

It was known to the servants that Mr Longestaffe was the owner of the
house, and he was therefore, as having authority there, shown into the
room where the body of Melmotte was lying on a sofa. The two lawyers
and Dolly of course followed, as did also Lord Nidderdale, who had now
joined them from the lobby above. There was a policeman in the room
who seemed to be simply watching the body, and who rose from his seat
when the gentlemen entered. Two or three of the servants followed
them, 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 the
House on the previous night, and had there disgraced himself by
intoxication, they had known already. That he had been found dead that
morning had been already announced. They could only stand round and
gaze on the square, sullen, livid features of the big-framed man, and
each lament that he had ever heard the name of Melmotte.

'Are you in the house here?' said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in a
whisper.

'She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebody
to 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 will
be 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 he
was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything. I
believed him then. How it will go, I can't say.'

'That other thing is all over of course,' suggested Dolly. Nidderdale
intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing was all over,
and then returned to Marie. There was nothing further that the four
gentlemen could do, and they soon departed from the house;--not,
however, till Mr Bideawhile had given certain short injunctions to the
butler concerning the property contained in Mr Longestaffe's town
residence.

'They had come to see him,' said Lord Nidderdale in a whisper. 'There
was 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 her
face. 'I think the best thing I can do,' said Nidderdale, 'is to go to
Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom he
chiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, because
he has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find out
Croll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyer
to 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 be
the best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? And
couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr Longestaffe's
house?' Nidderdale promised that he himself would look for lodgings,
as soon as he had seen the lawyer. 'And now, my lord, I suppose that I
never 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 trouble
enough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't think
it has been my fault.'

'Nothing has ever been your fault.'

'Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindest
people I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for different
reasons, 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 Mr
Smith and Herr Croll. When he reached Abchurch Lane, the news of
Melmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known or
said to be known, of his circumstances than Nidderdale had as yet
heard. The crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been the
desertion of Cohenlupe,--that and the sudden fall in the value of the
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway shares, consequent on the
rumours spread about the City respecting the Pickering property. It
was asserted in Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touched
the Pickering property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood for
Westminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to do
any or all of those things without danger, simply as the result of the
money which would then have been realized by the railway. But he had
allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively small
sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one danger
to another, till at last the waters around him had become too deep
even for him, and had overwhelmed him. As to his immediate death, Herr
Croll expressed not the slightest astonishment. It was just the thing,
Herr Croll said, that he had been sure that Melmotte would do, should
his difficulties ever become too great for him. 'And dere vas a leetle
ting he lay himself open by de oder day,' said Croll, 'dat vas nasty,--
very nasty.' Nidderdale shook his head, but asked no questions. Croll
had alluded to the use of his own name, but did not on this occasion
make any further revelation. Then Croll made a further statement to
Lord Nidderdale, which I think he must have done in pure good-nature.
'Mylor,' he said, whispering very gravely, 'de money of de yong lady
is all her own.' Then he nodded his head three times. 'Nobody can toch
it, 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 he
took his leave.



CHAPTER LXXXVII - DOWN AT CARBURY


When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins in
Welbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself. That he
should be discontented generally with the circumstances of his life
was a matter of course. He knew that he was farther removed than ever
from the object on which his whole mind was set. Had Hetta Carbury
learned all the circumstances of Paul's engagement with Mrs Hurtle
before she had confessed her love to Paul,--so that her heart might
have been turned against the man before she had made her confession,--
then, he thought, she might at last have listened to him. Even though
she had loved the other man, she might have at last done so, as her
love would have been buried in her own bosom. But the tale had been
told after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his own
interests. Hetta had never heard Mrs Hurtle's name till she had given
herself away, and had declared to all her friends that she had given
herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. The more Roger
thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the more
convinced that that man had done him an injury which he could never
forgive.

But his grief extended even beyond that. Though he was never tired of
swearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul Montague, yet there
was present to him a feeling that an injury was being done to the man,
and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. He had
declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs Hurtle,--actuated
by a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust put in him by a man
who was at the time his friend; and he had told nothing. But no one
knew so well as he did the fact that all the attention latterly given
by Paul to the American woman had by no means been the effect of love,
but had come from a feeling on Paul's part that he could not desert
the woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness. If
Hetta could know everything exactly,--if she could look back and read
the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it,--then she would
probably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that there was
nothing for her to forgive. Roger was anxious that Hetta's anger
should burn hot,--because of the injury done to himself. He thought that
there were ample reasons why Paul Montague should be punished,--why Paul
should be utterly expelled from among them, and allowed to go his own
course. But it was not right that the man should be punished on false
grounds. It seemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to his
enemy 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 he
had to her happiness, I do not think that at the present moment he was
disturbed in that direction. It is hardly natural, perhaps, that a man
should love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make her happy by
giving her to another man. Roger told himself that Paul would be an
unsafe husband, a fickle husband,--one who might be carried hither and
thither both in his circumstances and his feelings,--and that it would
be better for Hetta that she should not marry him; but at the same
time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a
certain amount of deceit.

And yet he had said not a word. He had referred Hetta to the man
himself. He thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know,
the state of Hetta's mind. She was wretched because she thought that
while her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willingly
allowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, and
making to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her.
This was not true. Roger knew that it was not true. But when he tried
to quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out among
themselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance.

His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become
tired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never for
a moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. Roger had told him
once that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject of
further conversation between them. In answer to this, Father Barham
had declared that he would never consent to remain as an intimate
associate with any man on those terms. Roger had persisted in his
stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his host's
intention to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply,
and the priest had of course been banished. But even this added to his
misery. Father Barham was a gentleman, was a good man, and in great
penury. 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 with
himself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come back
to him. It was already being said of him among his neighbours, at
Eardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that he either had
become or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the priest's influence.
Mrs Yeld had even taken upon herself to write to him a most
affectionate letter, in which she said very little as to any evidence
that had reached her as to Roger's defection, but dilated at very
great length on the abominations of a certain lady who is supposed to
indulge in gorgeous colours.

He was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at Sheep's
Acre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry John
Crumb. Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and accused by his
neighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to that
source of consolation which he found to be most easily within his
reach. Since Ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was making
himself generally a scandal and a nuisance. His landlord had
interfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had always
declared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause of it all; for
now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the lover
as he did to the girl. John Crumb wasn't in earnest. If he had been in
earnest he would have gone after her to London at once. No;--he wouldn't
invite Ruby to come back. If Ruby would come back, repentant, full of
sorrow,--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 circumstances
in their present condition, he evidently thought that he could best face
the difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, early
in the day and all day long. This, too, was a grievance to Roger
Carbury.

But he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the present
moment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. He was
making hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river side; and
was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw John
Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since the
eventful journey to London; nor had he seen him in London; but he knew
well all that had occurred,--how the dealer in pollard had thrashed his
cousin, Sir Felix, how he had been locked up by the police and then
liberated,--and how he was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, as far as
arms were concerned, but as being very 'soft' in the matter of love.
The reader need hardly be told that Roger was not at all disposed to
quarrel with Mr Crumb, because the victim of Crumb's heroism had been
his own cousin. Crumb had acted well, and had never said a word about
Sir Felix since his return to the country. No doubt he had now come to
talk about his love,--and in order that his confessions might not be
made before all the assembled haymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meet
him. There was soon evident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of
delight. As Roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave
a bit of paper that he had in his hands. 'She's a coomin; she's a
coomin,' were the first words he uttered. Roger knew very well that in
his friend's mind there was but one 'she' in the world, and that the
name of that she was Ruby Ruggles.

'I am delighted to hear it,' said Roger. 'She has made it up with her
grandfather?'

'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 she
would.'

'Has she written to you, then?'

'Well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn't
the way they does it. But it's all as one.' And then Mr Crumb thrust
Mrs Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's hand.

Roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of Mrs
Hurtle. Since he had first known Mrs Hurtle's name, when Paul Montague
had told the story of his engagement on his return from America, Roger
had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman. It may, perhaps,
be confessed that he was prejudiced against all Americans, looking
upon Washington much as he did upon Jack Cade or Wat Tyler; and he
pictured to himself all American women as being loud, masculine, and
atheistical. But it certainly did seem that in this instance Mrs
Hurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity. 'She is a
lady,' Crumb began to explain, 'who do be living with Mrs Pipkin; and
she is a lady as is a lady.'

Roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he
explained that he, too, knew something of Mrs Hurtle, and that he
thought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true. 'True,
squoire,' said Crumb, laughing with his whole face. 'I ha' nae a doubt
it's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped into
t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was to
blame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into him
when 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 man
was nothing to him. Of course he would like to have the old man's
money; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed that
things would come right in time. But this he knew,--that he wasn't
going to cringe to the old man about his money. When Roger observed
that it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she
might at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all the
substantial comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea, that
on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to church and be
married to her out of hand. He had thrashed his rival, and what cause
could 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 to
yourself?'

'Not in the least, Mr Crumb.'

'That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, and
I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and Ruby's once spliced,
I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first day as he'll
come to Bungay.'

Roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation on
the part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on his
own part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in that matter of the
street encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate and
continued happiness of Mr and Mrs John Crumb.

'Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire,' said Crumb as he went exulting out
of the field.

On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed
him very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return any
answer, or what answer. It was from Paul Montague, and was written by
him but a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta with his
own hands, at the door of her mother's house. Paul's letter to Roger
was 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 first
feeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's letter. If Hetta had
received any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told
no stories against his rival, whether true or false. He had been so
scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And if any false
impression had been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances or
by untrue words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall
upon him? Though every word in Montague's letter might be true,
nevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him,
even should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous
impressions. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering
to make Mrs Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury.
Such, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as he thought over all
the circumstances. At any rate, it was no business of his to correct
these wrong impressions.

And yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. He did believe
that every word in Montague's letter was true. Though he had been very
indignant when he met Roger and Mrs Hurtle together on the sands at
Lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their coming
there had been precisely that which Montague had stated. It took him
two days to think over all this, two days of great discomfort and
unhappiness. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girl
did not care for him,--looked upon him as an old man to be regarded
in a fashion altogether different from that in which she regarded
Paul Montague. He had let his time for love-making go by, and now it
behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not to
lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could never
attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and
honest, without reference to his own feelings. And yet the passion
which dominated John Crumb altogether, which made the mealman so
intent on the attainment of his object as to render all other things
indifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with Roger
Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger, strong as his passion was, it was
embarrassed by other feelings. It never occurred to Crumb to think
whether he was a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having a
decided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him. But
with Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamper
him. John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should do. He had
to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her whatever she
might cost him. He was always confident though sometimes perplexed.
But Roger had no confidence. He knew that he should never win the
game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. The
people around him, from old fashion, still called him the young
squire! Why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years old,--so old
that he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile spirits as
those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend Hepworth. Could
he, 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,--and
he 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 spirit
of self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself; and so he
himself felt after the letter had been dispatched.



CHAPTER LXXXVIII - THE INQUEST


Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the
evening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to
lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead. Herr
Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance had
busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were made
instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale himself
had assisted them in their departure; and the German, with the poor
woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed according to
Melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took
the mother and the daughter. They did not start till nine o'clock in
the evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment would fain have been
allowed to rest one other night in Bruton Street. But Lord Nidderdale,
with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand that the inquest
would be held early on the following morning, and Marie was imperious
with her mother and carried her point. So the poor woman was taken
away from Mr Longestaffe's residence, and never again saw the grandeur
of her own house in Grosvenor Square, which she had not visited since
the night on which she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China.

On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest
doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The servants,
the doctor, and the inspector of police between them, learned that he
had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night,
that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned
by prussic acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in the
House of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very
much against his will, was called upon to testify. That he had
destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was there any doubt as to
the cause.

In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the
unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has
rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of
things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Surviving
friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in that
case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like any
other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was
mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have
been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their
verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the poor wretch has,
up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life; if he be
not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself specially
obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad.
Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by
horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no
escape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubt
to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? Who would
remit to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher
who has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself
powerless to do further good upon earth? Such, and such like, have of
course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangeness
may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with
their fellow-mortals. But let a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle
of prussic acid by his side--a man who has become horrid to the world
because of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be
rich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties without
paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to
friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to
wealth, a brute who had got into the House of Commons by false
pretences, and had disgraced the House by being drunk there,--and, of
course, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross
roads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have
killed themselves with their wits about them. Just at this moment
there was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as
much to his having tumbled over poor Mr Beauchamp in the House of
Commons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the
virtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been
responsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was felo de
se, and therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But it
may be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as
mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of
endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself
constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that
happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summons
to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There were
some, among them Croll and Mr Brehgert, who absolutely knew that he
had committed forgery. He had no money for the Longestaffes, and he
was well aware what Squercum would do at once. He had assured himself
long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not very long ago,--that he
would brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we can
bear, and what would break our backs. Melmotte's back had been so
utterly crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have
justified a verdict of temporary insanity.

But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his name
was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing took
place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made to the
manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious.
Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other
districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned
against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old
stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful
things. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with
affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his
ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while to
talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been
done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone alone
that spoke of a monument.

Mr Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of it
a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had been
no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town;
and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of
encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much for Mr
Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming a
question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their
connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not get
back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the
amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear
that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by
funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking upon
the stool in Mr Squercum's office, where he now passed a considerable
portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage.

'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 what
pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made
inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must be
property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it
impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. 'They say that the things in
the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that,
ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of
jewels, but the women have taken them,' said Squercum.

'By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever
hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down,--my house; and all
done without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a thing
was ever known before, since properties were properties.' Then he
uttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to whom
he declared his intention of 'making it very hot for them.'

It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr Longestaffe that the
management of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively into
the hands of Mr Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings
with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as much
immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. But then
he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and he
was the man to whom Mr Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Then
there arose necessities for the presence of Mr Brehgert in the house
in which Melmotte had lately lived and had died. The dead man's papers
were still there,--deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not
chosen to destroy;--and these could not be moved quite at once. 'Mr
Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it
is necessary,--absolutely necessary,' said Mr Longestaffe in answer
to a message which was brought to him; 'but he will of course see the
expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible.'
But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected
suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and
forbearing after the injuries he had received.

All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr
Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of £300 due to him
for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became
known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty
per cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing by
Melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very
comfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the
parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before
the father took anything. Mr Longestaffe resolved during these weeks
that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and his own family,
the house in London should not only not be kept up, but that it should
be absolutely sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at
Caversham should be reduced in number and should cease to wear powder.
All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which
she was instructed to read to her daughters. 'I have suffered great
wrongs,' said Mr Longestaffe, 'but I must submit to them, and as I
submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from
what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature I
cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience.' From
what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at
Caversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there.
Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her
nuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a
combat. I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but
she said not a word even about that.

But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are
anticipated. Mr Longestaffe had remained in London actually over the
1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of the
year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been made.
In the meantime he saw much of Mr Brehgert, and absolutely formed a
kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of
his religion,--so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask Mr
Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This, too, was in
the early days of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when Mr
Longestaffe's heart had been softened by that arrangement with
reference to the rent. Mr Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat
singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together
over a bottle of Mr Longestaffe's old port wine. Hitherto not a word
had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been
proposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had said so
many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening Mr
Brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose
feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that
at first startled Mr Longestaffe. The subject was introduced by a
reference which Brehgert had made to his own affairs. His loss would
be, 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 near
his heart. 'Of course there's a difference between me and you,' he
said. Mr Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that
there was of course a very wide difference. 'In our affairs,'
continued Brehgert, 'we expect gains, and of course look for
occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property
he 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 took
upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London.
His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and
some 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 much
as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of our
house. The long and short of it is that I shall lose something about
sixty thousand pounds.'

'That's a large sum of money.'

'Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my
correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to
point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told
you.'

This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr
Longestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most
deserving of censure; but Mr Longestaffe did not know how to pronounce
his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present
time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the arrangement of
his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the
man. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he
asserted 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 enough
to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would
maintain a second house when we should be married.'

'It was impossible,' said Mr Longestaffe,--meaning to assert that such
hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question.

'It would have been quite possible as things were when that
proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which I
afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I
found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and
I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe.'

'There were other reasons,' muttered Mr Longestaffe, in a suppressed
voice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to convey
a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence.

'There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe
did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not the
slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine herself
almost exclusively to that reason.'

'Why mention this now, Mr Brehgert; why mention this now? The subject
is painful.'

'Just because it is not painful to me, Mr Longestaffe; and because I
wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is
not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman.' Mr
Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowed
it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from so
dubious an oracle. 'I am sure.' continued Brehgert, 'that I behaved
like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should be
passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself.'

'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.' Finishing
the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to take his
leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the
expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte
affairs.

As soon as he was gone Mr Longestaffe opened the door and walked about
the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse
himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told himself that
he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar had the man
been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little
grateful for the honour which Mr Longestaffe had conferred upon him by
asking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not all Jews
necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr Longestaffe was aware that in the
present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with Mr
Brehgert.



CHAPTER LXXXIX - 'THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE'


It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical work on
the Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and given to the
world. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was as far
back as in February that she had solicited the assistance of certain
of her literary friends who were connected with the daily and weekly
press. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more or less
zealous aid, so that the 'Criminal Queens' had been regarded in the
trade as one of the successful books of the season. Messrs. Leadham
and Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a fourth
and fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements to give
testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury's book was
about the greatest historical work which had emanated from the press
in the present century. With this object a passage was extracted even
from the columns of the 'Evening Pulpit,'--which showed very great
ingenuity on the part of some young man connected with the
establishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter. Lady Carbury had suffered
something in the struggle. What efforts can mortals make as to which
there will not be some disappointment? Paper and print cannot be had
for nothing, and advertisements are very costly. An edition may be
sold with startling rapidity, but it may have been but a scanty
edition. When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and Loiter
their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a fear on
their part that there would not probably be a third,--unless some
unforeseen demand should arise,--she repeated to herself those
well-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 further
attempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her
'Criminal Queens' before she was busy on another work; and although
the last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble, and
sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than once
forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her, still
she had persevered. From day to day, with all her cares heavy upon
her, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so many lines
should be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them be
what it might. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that they might
be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,--terms not very
high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the manuscript by
their reader. The smallness of the sum offered, and the want of
certainty, and the pain of the work in her present circumstances, had
all been felt by her to be very hard. But she had persevered, and the
novel was now complete.

It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special tale
to tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr Loiter had
told her that upon the whole novels did better than anything else. She
would have written a volume of sermons on the same encouragement, and
have gone about the work exactly after the same fashion. The length of
her novel had been her first question. It must be in three volumes,
and each volume must have three hundred pages. But what fewest number
of words might be supposed sufficient to fill a page? The money
offered 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 she
hoped, upon better terms,--when this should be finished. Then what
should be the name of her novel; what the name of her hero; and above
all 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 to
come by chance,--and they did come. 'Don't let it end unhappily, Lady
Carbury,' Mr Loiter had said, 'because though people like it in a
play, they hate it in a book. And whatever you do, Lady Carbury, don't
be historical. Your historical novel, Lady Carbury, isn't worth a--'
Mr Loiter stopping himself suddenly, and remembering that he was
addressing himself to a lady, satisfied his energy at last by the use
of the word 'straw.' Lady Carbury had followed these instructions with
accuracy.

The name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur to
the authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itself
and was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title,
altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellation
might best suit her work when its purpose should have declared itself.
A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which by any other
name will smell as sweet. 'The Faultless Father,' 'The Mysterious
Mother,' 'The Lame Lover,'--such names as that she was aware would be
useless now. 'Mary Jane Walker,' if she could be very simple, would
do, or 'Blanche De Veau,' if she were able to maintain throughout a
somewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. But as she considered
that she could best deal with rapid action and strange coincidences,
she thought that something more startling and descriptive would better
suit her purpose. After an hour's thought a name did occur to her, and
she wrote it down, and with considerable energy of purpose framed her
work in accordance with her chosen title, 'The Wheel of Fortune!' She
had no particular fortune in her mind when she chose it, and no
particular wheel;--but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her the
plot which she wanted. A young lady was blessed with great wealth, and
lost it all by an uncle, and got it all back by an honest lawyer, and
gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all again in a
third volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady
Carbury as never having been heard before either in the world of fact
or in that of fiction.

And now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son was still
hanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother's
heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regarded
all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finished her work,
and having just written the last words in which the final glow of
enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheel
had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand.
She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, and
had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat with her hand
near the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. Whether
the work might have been better done she never asked herself. I do not
think 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 induce
Mudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a month
should be so loaded with 'The Wheel of Fortune,' as to make it
necessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that it
had read the book,--then she would pride herself very much upon her
work.

As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr Alf
was announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight at
seeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a
time,--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 not
peculiarly occupied just at present. 'The Emperor has left Europe at
last,' he said. 'Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the
inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interest
to-day.' Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book, rather even
than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. Oh, if
she could only get Mr Alf! She had tried it before, and had failed
lamentably. She was well aware of that; and she had a deep-seated
conviction that it would be almost impossible to get Mr Alf. But then
she had another deep-seated conviction, that that which is almost
impossible may possibly be done. How great would be the glory, how
infinite the service! And did it not seem as though Providence had
blessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr Alf to her just
at the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of her
novel without seeming premeditation?

'I am so tired,' she said, affecting to throw herself back as though
stretching her arms out for ease.

'I hope I am not adding to your fatigue,' said Mr Alf. 'Oh dear no. It
is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. Just as
you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have been
working, 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 of
the 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 loves
the loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion those
who are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one is
tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own
pathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's
own sagacity and knowledge.'

'How very nice!'

'But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the
coin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. The
heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found
to-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so cheery
on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading.
Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument,' and she put her hand
upon the manuscript; 'to-day I feel it to be only too heavy for a
gravestone!'

'One's judgement about one's self always does vacillate,' said Mr Alf
in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.

'And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly
of one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which
is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics.'

'Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carbury,--at
least not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. In
what little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I have
striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker;
but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. I
think that when I gave up the "Evening Pulpit," I left upon it a staff
of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business.'

'You given up the "Pulpit"?' asked Lady Carbury with astonishment,
readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any
and if so what advantage might be taken of Mr Alf's new position. He
was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility
would no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. Might he not
be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeed
if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before
him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor
struggling woman?

'Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course that
I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member
has 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 scruples
of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime
against the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while I
was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I
know where it came from.'

'Where did it come from?'

'Where should it come from but the "Breakfast Table"? Broune and I
have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know
he is the most jealous.'

'That is so little,' said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of Mr
Broune, 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 in
Parliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capable
as 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. I
almost regret it.'

'I dare say you do,' said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious to
talk about her own affairs instead of his. 'I suppose you still retain
an 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-tongued
man! Of course he knew at the moment what was the favour Lady Carbury
intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would
not do as he was asked.

'Will you?' And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she poured
forth the words of her prayer. 'I never asked you to do anything for
me as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it
right, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am
sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I
never complained. Did I?'

'Certainly not.'

'But now that you have left it yourself,--if you would have the "Wheel
of Fortune" done for me,--really well done!'

'The "Wheel of Fortune"!'

'That is the name of my novel,' said Lady Carbury, putting her hand
softly upon the manuscript. 'Just at this moment it would be the
making of a fortune for me! And oh, Mr Alf, if you could but know how
I want such assistance!'

'I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady
Carbury.'

'Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it
certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I
have 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 is
like,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before
it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it
done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred
copies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore.' Mr Alf
looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. 'The paper stands
so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is
asking you, Mr Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The
thing 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 of
the "Pulpit" to cry down novels?'

'I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I
would be so thankful;--so grateful.'

'My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing
to 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 the
justice of my successor.'

'I shall never know your successor.'

'But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling
with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my
sister.' Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. 'Send the book out, and
let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it
praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been
eulogized as a mark of friendship.'

'No, I shan't,' said Lady Carbury. 'I don't believe that anything like
real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I
don'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 a
dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the "New
Cleopatra" is a very handsome woman.' Lady Carbury must have been
worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose
her temper as to bring against Mr Alf the double charge of being too
fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the
justice of his columns to that improper affection.

'At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you
allude,' said Mr Alf, getting up to take his leave; 'and I am quite
sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be any such
lady 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 Mr
Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attempt
and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She had
degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible good
result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to live
was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over her
sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr Alf and his
conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told
her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. But the assumed
honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubt
the 'Pulpit' had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probably
had but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friends
and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the 'Pulpit.' There
was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors,--as
crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done
in public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatible
with that Aristidean justice which Mr Alf arrogated to himself and to
his paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr Alf would spend a
great deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat.

On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs
Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect
which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work of
six months; her very blood and brains,--the concentrated essence of
her mind,--as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own
performances; and Mr Leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparently
perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel
unceremoniously under the counter. An author feels that his work
should be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands,
and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited within
the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it
should be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! Those scraps of paper, so
easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be
acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their
weight in gold! If 'Robinson Crusoe' had been lost! If 'Tom Jones' had
been 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, and
perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and amount of
her 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're
packed.'

'Packed!'

'There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's down
in 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 the
expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this
time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the
winter.' Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by
long sea to Glasgow!

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr Browne came to
her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed
between Lady Carbury and the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table,'
which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further
literary favour. She fully recognized,--no woman perhaps more fully,--
the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come
within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before
her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But
this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to
beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in
truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for
which,--though she had refused him,--she felt infinitely grateful. And
though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supported
her in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to do
this thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees,--but
even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other
favours. Her first word to him was about Mr Alf. 'So he has given up
the paper?'

'Well, yes;--nominally.'

'Is that all?'

'I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody
likes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As
for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch
Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the
forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a
candidate as they'll get now?'

'He was here yesterday.'

'And full of triumph, I suppose?'

'He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new
book,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing
further 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 we
can'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 her
new 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. I
can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go
to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God
bless you.' And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though
the old susceptibility were returning to him.

As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all,--thinking of
her own circumstances and of his kindness,--it did not occur to her to
call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken her
man when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which he
had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which
she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat
sacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have really
loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how
had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected him
when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?



CHAPTER XC - HETTA'S SORROW


When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was given
to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any way
to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over half-a-dozen
times, she could not bring herself to think it possible that she could
be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had sinned against
her by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any rate
been engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becoming
engaged to her,--but also that he had done this in such a manner as to
make his offence known to all her friends. Perhaps she had been too
quick;--but there was the fact that with her own consent she had acceded
to her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. The man had
been rejected, and even Roger Carbury knew that it was so. After this
it was, she thought, impossible that she should recall him. But they
should all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carbury should
certainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on the
matter. She would never deny it; and though she knew that the man had
behaved 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 that
he could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his letter with
entreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his reproaches moved her
more than any prayer would have done. It was too late now to remedy
the evil; but she was not quite sure within her own bosom that she had
not been unjust to him. The more she thought of it the more puzzled
her mind became. Had she quarrelled with him because he had once been
in love with Mrs Hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding Mrs
Hurtle as her present rival? She hated Mrs Hurtle, and she was very
angry with him in that he had ever been on affectionate terms with a
woman she hated;--but that had not been the reason put forward by her
for quarrelling with him. Perhaps it was true that he, too, had of
late loved Mrs Hurtle hardly better than she did herself. It might be
that he had been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go with
the woman to Lowestoft. Having so gone with her, it was no doubt right
that he should be rejected;--for how can it be that a man who is
engaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another woman
to whom also he was engaged a few months back? But still there might be
hardship in it. To her, to Hetta herself, the circumstances were very
hard. She loved the man with all her heart. She could look forward to
no 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 herself
if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course he
had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to Mrs
Hurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or four
days,--unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it from
herself was possible,--and had been read and re-read till she knew
every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could hear
the story as it might be told by Mrs Hurtle, a good deal that was now
dark might become light to her. As she continued to read the letter,
and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from her
lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger. Paul had of
course behaved badly, very badly,--but had it not been for them she
might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had driven her on
to 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 first
dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story of the American
woman,--which had, at the moment, struck her with a horror which was now
becoming less and less every hour,--she had fallen head foremost into
the trap laid for her. She acknowledged to herself that it was too late
to recover her ground. She was, at any rate, almost sure that it must
be too late. But yet she was disposed to do battle with her mother and
her cousin in the matter--if only with the object of showing that she
would not submit her own feelings to their control. She was savage to
the point of rebellion against all authority. Roger Carbury would of
course think that any communication between herself and Mrs Hurtle
must be improper,--altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago she
thought so herself. But the world was going so hard with her, that she
was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and
delicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom she
altogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly still
loved her,--of that she was beginning to have no further doubt,--accused
her of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for a corroboration
of his story. She would appeal to Mrs Hurtle. The woman was odious,
abominable, a nasty intriguing American female. But her lover desired
that 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 great
difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither
too little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrained
by no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about
herself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for
its 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 very
much afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in a
newspaper! She had heard that everything was put into newspapers in
America. What if this Mrs Hurtle should send back to her some horribly
insolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother, instead of
herself! And then, again, if the American woman consented to receive
her, would not the American woman, as a matter of course, trample upon
her with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter aside, and
almost determined that it should not be sent;--but at last, with
desperate 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 been
cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and made her wretched for
ever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy in her present
distress. There was no friend who would sympathize with her. She must
do everything alone.

Mrs Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she
would retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted. It
is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half
resolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mind
before she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she had
assured herself that this should be the conclusion,--after she had told
Paul Montague that it should be so,--there came back upon her at times
other half resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written a letter
to the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then abstained from
sending it, and had then shown it to the man,--not intending to give it
to him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that she
might ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that he
had not deserved it. Then she had parted with him, refusing either to
hear or to say a word of farewell, and had told Mrs Pipkin that she
was no longer engaged to be married. At that moment everything was done
that could be done. The game had been played and the stakes lost,--
and she had schooled herself into such restraint as to have abandoned
all idea of vengeance. But from time to time there arose in her heart
a feeling that such softness was unworthy of her. Who had ever been
soft to her? Who had spared her? Had she not long since found out that
she must fight with her very nails and teeth for every inch of ground,
if she did not mean to be trodden into the dust? Had she not held her
own among rough people after a very rough fashion, and should she now
simply retire that she might weep in a corner like a love-sick
schoolgirl? And she had been so stoutly determined that she would at
any rate avenge her own wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs
into triumph! There were moments in which she thought that she could
still seize the man by the throat, where all the world might see her,
and dare him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean.

Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, written
at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and Hetta, in
which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to Hetta
Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story.
It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had so long been
her own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion should
write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to increase either
her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that it was so, and
at certain times she had told herself that it was only natural,--had
almost told herself that it was right. She and this young Englishman
were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking a tame, sleek
household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild,--fitter for the
woods than for polished cities. It had been one of the faults of her
life that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feeling
to this soft over-civilised man. The result had been disastrous, as
might have been expected. She was angry with him,--almost to the extent
of tearing him to pieces,--but she did not become more angry because he
wrote to her of her rival.

Her only present friend was Mrs Pipkin, who treated her with the
greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about
the lost lover. 'That letter was from Mr Montague?' said Mrs Pipkin on
the morning after it had been received.

'How can you know that?'

'I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come
frequent.'

'It was from him. And why not?'

'Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of his
life, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me
so 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, and
there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on
Saturday week.'

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle!'

'I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came over
here for a certain purpose and that has--gone by. Now I may just go
back 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 mind
out 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 the
gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never speak of
it again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs Pipkin, and I
shall be sorry to leave you.'

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't only
my feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings only, as
their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a godsend
you'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 word
about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being
better 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 apron
up to her eyes.

It was after this that Mrs Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had as
yet returned no answer to Paul Montague,--nor had she intended to send
any written answer. Were she to comply with his request she could do
so 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 words
she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she would
have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve
whether she would tell the tale,--if she told it at all,--in a manner
to suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly to
shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were
she 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 to
Mrs Hurdle's feelings. A pistol or a horsewhip, a violent seizing by
the neck, with sharp taunts and bitter-ringing words, would have made
the fitting revenge. If she abandoned that she could do herself no
good by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman.

Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,--so like the letter
of an Englishwoman, as Mrs Hurtle said to herself. Mrs Hurtle smiled
as she read the letter. 'I make this proposition not thinking that
anything you can say to me can change my mind.' Of course the girl's
mind would be changed. The girl's mind, indeed, required no change.
Mrs Hurtle could see well enough that the girl's heart was set upon
the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt but that she could tell the
story after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girl
should marry him,--if she chose to do so.

At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. What
was it to her? Let them fight their own lovers' battles out after
their 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 to
him. It would require no interference of hers. But after a while she
thought that she might as well see this English chit who had
superseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she had
condescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was to
be abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all
the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word so
as to smooth away the existing difficulties? Wild cat as she was,
kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wrote
to 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 her
daughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Hetta, thinking that
she was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to her
mother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carbury watching her, but
not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl's
silence. She had assured herself, when she found that Hetta was
disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch,
that 'things would come round,' that Paul would be forgotten quickly,--
or laid aside as though he were forgotten,--and that Hetta would soon
perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With such a
prospect before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a
mother to show no tendency to sympathize with her girl's sorrow. Such
heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them. Who
were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, nor
poverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifle
and trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed. She
had never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within the
last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she really
liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her
shoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be
a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body,
her heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the
procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hope
to be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chance
now offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was so
devoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her by
harsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not
spend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of a
fair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion that
she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain
her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe and
hard. But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response
to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation,--she
was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not known
how 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 to
visit Mrs Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention
to any one. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew her
mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be no
deceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she
had done. But she considered herself to be emancipated from control.
Among them they had robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to the
robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. 'Hetta, why don't you
speak to me?' said Lady Carbury.

'Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making
each other unhappy.'

'What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to
interest 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 to
allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!'

'How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I
had 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, and
then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as
though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to
you if Felix were to die. It crushes me.'

There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the
mother felt,--as she was intended to feel it,--but to which she could
make no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her son
to feel any real affection for her daughter. 'You are ignorant of the
world, 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? In
what little you see around you do you think that girls are generally
able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?' She paused,
but Hetta made no answer to this. 'Marie Melmotte was as warmly
attached 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 is
you 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 for
yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat dry
bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she thinks of
giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has a
fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none she
must allow herself to be chosen.'

'Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she
likes the man or not?'

'She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be
suitable. 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 believe
me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It
is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that
I love that other man with my whole heart.'

'How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost
contumely?'

'I know nothing of any contumely. What reasons have I to be offended
because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It
has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that I
have any right whatever to be angry with Mr Paul Montague.' Having so
spoken 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 had
driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague's
sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier
which she had striven to construct between them. But that which pained
her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded all
Hetta's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world who could not
be taught the folly of such idle dreams?

That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the
Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King's
Cross. She had studied her geography, and she walked from thence to
Islington. She knew well the name of the street and the number at
which Mrs Hurtle lived. But when she reached the door she did not at
first dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on to the end of
the silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts,
striving to find and to arrange the words with which she would
commence her strange petition. And she endeavoured to dictate to
herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her.
Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of replying
to a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the worst come
to the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure.
Having gone to the end of the street, she returned with a very quick
step and knocked at the door. It was opened almost immediately by Ruby
Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.

'Oh laws,--Miss Carbury!' said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's
face. Yes,--sure enough she must be Felix's sister. But Ruby did not
dare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her that Sir
Felix should not be her lover any more, and that John Crumb should be
allowed to return. But, nevertheless, her heart twittered as she
showed Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room.

Though it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil down. She
adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fear
of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs Hurtle rose from her chair and came
forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. She
was dressed with the most scrupulous care,--simply, and in black,
without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a
flower. But with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired
herself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought that she
would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or that
she was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman might
have graces of her own? As she came forward she was gentle and soft in
her movements, and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. Hetta, at
the first moment, was almost dumbfounded by her beauty,--by that and by
her ease and exquisite self-possession. 'Miss Carbury,' she said with
that low, rich voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as much
as her loveliness, 'I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing
you. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at
each other fairly?' Hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a
word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. She had
had no personal description of Mrs Hurtle, but had expected something
very different from this! She had thought that the woman would be
coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they
were both of the same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black,
with eyes of the same colour. Hetta thought of all that at the
moment,--but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to
beauty such as that which this woman owned. 'And so you have come to
see me,' said Mrs Hurtle. 'Sit down so that I may look at you. I am
glad 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 should
have declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to
see you. It is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming
playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving
badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me
freely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were an
American I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is an
Englishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do, or
what 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. You
have 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 know
him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be
full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the
next. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such caution
with 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 first
asked 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 had
once promised to marry you.'

'That is certainly true.'

'And you were here, and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should have
been 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 ask
you. I have not been unjust.'

'I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that
he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is
no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. To me he
has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved
misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to
decide.'

'Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?'

'Because I asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be
ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not
to have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, Miss
Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had
been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long
before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own
part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I
followed 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 had
told me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and I
hoped 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-hearted
woman, for I will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with
a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven
him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough
to punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him,--or
I would; or a bullet,--or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by
his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myself
that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my
wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is
not for me to set you against such an act of justice.' Then she paused
and looked up to Hetta as though expecting a reply.

But Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come to
hear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort
to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in order
that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She had
believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she
had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however false
her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely
true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul,--had seemed to
intend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so spoken
as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta. What was it to Hetta that her
lover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to her
to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that
bead. Mrs Hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether she
would take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs. In saying that,
Mrs Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs
which she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thank
the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, she
could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She
had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to Paul
Montague. She had only told herself that, within her own breast, she
was bound to forgive him. 'You have been very kind,' she said at
last,--speaking only because it was necessary that she should say
something.

'It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so
much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to
you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his
wife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have
told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself
have declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my
account of his treachery to me.'

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, do not say that of me!'

'But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that
account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned
there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman,--and he
likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world,
which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the
touch. 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 to
acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enough
to forgive all his treachery.' Hetta was now holding the woman by the
hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. 'I am so glad to have seen
you,' 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 you
will ever be troubled further by Winifred Hurtle. Tell him that if he
will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to
him than I can help.'

When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she must
have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again,--and
to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She now
got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom
she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the
street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the face
of that American female,--how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a
slight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and above all how powerful
and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! That
she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta, but
that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her,
and then have been willing to part from her, was wonderful. And yet
Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paul
had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the
younger lady to the elder.

Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been unjust
to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance and
confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she
brought 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 doubt
she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched her
lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with
unrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man she
loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has
trodden. But, in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should be
true to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work. As
to the 'now,' she felt that Mrs Hurtle had given her sufficient
assurance.

She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she
re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be
silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with
favour,--but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose.
She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy at
the 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 I
have been unjust to him.'

'Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind,' said Lady Carbury, rising
from 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 will
come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be
friends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me my
love?'

'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 that
American 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 nothing
in 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 never
behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will
show 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 for
myself.' Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the
room without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that the
letter might be written.



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, but
in which she had received no reply,--when two gentlemen met each other
in a certain room in Liverpool, who were seen together in the same room
in the early part of this chronicle. These were our young friend Paul
Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. Melmotte
had died on the 18th of July, and tidings of the event had been at
once sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks before this
Montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the South
Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company,--describing its condition
in England as he then believed it to be,--and urging Fisker to come
over to London. On receipt of a message from his American correspondent
he had gone down to Liverpool, and had there awaited Fisker's arrival,
taking counsel with his friend Mr Ramsbottom. In the meantime Hetta's
letter was lying at the Beargarden, Paul having written from his club
and having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to his
lodgings. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well
managed. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that
letter,--which would have had for him charms greater than those of any
letter ever before written.

'This is a terrible business,' said Fisker, immediately on entering
the room in which Montague was waiting him. 'He was the last man I'd
have 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'd
known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled
him 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 big
thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of
course, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte
would have had spirit.'

'There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the
dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself.'

'I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took him
to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself
because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with
a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the
better 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 like
Melmotte 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'm
going to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are
at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I
wired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and
I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm sorry for
him because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done'll just be
the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come
back to Frisco with me?'

In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would not
return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his
partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great
railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do
with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at the
proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly,--nay, generously,--by
his partner, having recognized the wisdom of that great commercial
rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a
certain class; but he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montague
was not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not only
unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in
others. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine
men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man
predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealth
because he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too,
as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do he would
do, if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should be
good, and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind in
gross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty,
but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man so
great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague? 'And
now 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 that
he'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 him
yet.'

'But she divorced him.'

'She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to
say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly
neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put it
so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways,
you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of
the 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 heard
Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was
here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these
days.' To this Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both
heard enough and said enough about Mrs Hurtle.

On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went
together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the
arrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He put himself into communication
with Mr Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane and
the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examined
Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be
mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up
to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day or
two before Melmotte's death,--having probably perceived that there was
no further occasion for their services. To Fisker's appeal Lord Alfred
was proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should call
upon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not every one
know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases?
Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker's
letter;--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 careful
father, '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 sedulously
paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one
had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the
clerk. Mr Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had
become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be
alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do
no more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good
taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had
been domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir Felix
would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to the
daughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he went
out to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence,--and
he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of
all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of a
large fortune.

In regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been induced
to abstain from interfering,--giving up the right to all the man's
plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of the
coroner's verdict,--not from tenderness to Madame Melmotte, for whom no
great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poor
Mr Longestaffe and his son. But Marie's money was quite distinct from
this. She had been right in her own belief as to this property, and
had been right, too, in refusing to sign those papers,--unless it may
be that that refusal led to her father's act. She herself was sure that
it was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offered
to sign the papers before her father's death. What might have been the
ultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no one
could 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 that
peculiar cleverness which belonged to him.

Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief to
her in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that which is
and 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 so
heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it an
additional trouble, and this is felt also in acute bodily pain, and in
periods of terrible mental suffering. It may also be, and, no doubt,
often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect such
overbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain, because even such
affectation has its own rights and privileges. But Madame Melmotte was
neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. She had
been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. The
man who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed to
her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed, and shown
himself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman
of very few words, and had spoken almost none on this occasion even
to her own daughter; but when Fisker came to her, and told her more
than she had ever known before of her husband's affairs, and spoke
to her of her future life, and mixed for her a small glass of
brandy-and-water warm, and told her that Frisco would be the fittest
place for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to be
intrusive.

And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won
both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much, at
least more than her mother, of the life to which she had been
introduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for her
father. She was prone to love,--though, perhaps, not prone to deep
affection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he had
also been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially grateful
for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other.
Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she had never
known, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillating
between knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel the
next, as the condition of things which was natural to her. When her
father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the
knickknacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she was not beyond
consolation, and she also found consolation in Mr Fisker's visits.

'I used to sign a paper every quarter,' she said to Fisker, as they
were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.

'You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to
any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money
for yourself.'

'And can that be done over in California?'

'Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you
without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it, if
you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss
Melmotte.'

'And what's that?'

'After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how
you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess.
Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make
up in the flavour.' This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as
though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco
would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss
Melmotte had been used.

'I hate swells,' said Marie, flashing round upon him.

'Do you now?'

'Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they
say,--and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than
half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London.'

'Do you now?'

'Oh, don't I?'

'I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?'

'I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place.'

'Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?'

'Mr Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?'

'But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do
come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know.' Then he took
her gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade
him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and Mr
Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm
brandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the whole
Madame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been
either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly
not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.

'I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know,' Fisker said to
Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the South
Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's
advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement
at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his
performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this,
and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present.
He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord
Nidderdale, and Mr Longestaffe, who were all Directors;--but none of
them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter.
Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. 'Dear Mr
Fisker,--I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale.' Mr
Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with
his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be
troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to
the end. 'Upon my word,' continued Fisker, 'it's astonishing to me
that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose
you understand something of business, Mr Croll?'

'It vas not my department, Mr Fisker,' said the German.

'Nor anybody else's either,' said the domineering American. 'Of course
it's on the cards, Mr Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a
witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at.' Miles
was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would
pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and
that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few
days;--or perhaps hours might suffice.

But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater the
confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the
prospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory
on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had
certainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go to
Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be
comfortable to him in more respects than one,--and need not be heard
of again in these pages.

When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be
nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Very
many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been
robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been
robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob
others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr Brehgert, had
speculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily
without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able
to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our
excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able,
under Mr Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having
paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers, he
assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely
new leaf. 'I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I
shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he
will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like
Squercum.'

'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 to
be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'll
only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can
get along.' Let us hope that Mr Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly
was 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, was
protracted till a day much later than he anticipated before he had
become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte's
affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture and
plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte was
allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own
property;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was
made to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up,
assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for
her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow would
willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. It
was agreed between her and Fisker that they were to be taken to New
York. 'You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part with
them; and nobody'll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell a
locket or chain here without all the world talking about it.'

In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands
with the most absolute confidence,--and, indeed, with a confidence that
was justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman that
Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's thinking,
Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met,--so infinitely
pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had
been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than Miles
Grendall, understanding her so much better than any man had ever
done,--especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of
sweet brandy-and-water. 'I shall do whatever he tells me,' she said to
Marie. '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 very
well without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry
anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything
else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you
think 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 her
mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full
of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all the
details of her meeting with Mrs Hurtle, and bidding him come back to
her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had
unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to her
from that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through
the demoralization of that once perfect establishment, the letter
never reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he was
justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal.
He was, however, determined that he would still make further
struggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs
Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all
inimical to him. Mrs Hurtle, though she had declared that she would
not rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. Roger
had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor.
And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would be
opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, had
submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration. And
Paul, though he did not probably analyse very carefully the character
of his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailed
with such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. And
yet how should he continue the struggle? With what weapons should he
carry on the fight? The writing of letters is but a one-sided,
troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will
not answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant has
been instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes disagreeable,--
if not degrading,--after a time.

But Hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to one
who received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly and
with precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at once
communicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her
cousin Roger. Though she would not recognize Roger as a lover, she did
acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special
friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself
did, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote to
her cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that
she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute
sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and
most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on to
declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in
this world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her
dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend
her an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters never
affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do
read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury was
certainly 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 weight
with him. He did not try to convince himself that all this was the
verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained
to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. To him now, as
he read and re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not
at any rate further hope for himself. Though he was altogether
unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change,--
though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even
a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved,--yet
he told himself what he believed to be the truth. At last he owned
directly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must do
without her. He had let time slip by with him too fast and too far
before he had ventured to love. He must now stomach his
disappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken,
ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if he acknowledged
this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashion should he in future
treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?

At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it were
possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself to
think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself that
the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive the
man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that in
comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly be
worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once
able to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should
still be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware that
such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it were
to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be to
him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. In her favour he
must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred
that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spite
of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All this must be
changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to
the marriage. In such case Carbury must be the home of the married
couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. There must be
born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking
forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find
comfort. In such case, though he should never again be able to love
Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for her
sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether,--as
though there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive the
man'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 be
just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to no extent
ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to
the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself
whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such
trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless,
when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta should be
pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated as though
he were pardoned. As for himself,--the chances of the world had been
unkind 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 such
a letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter to
himself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demand
any answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain
reasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the
conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had asked
for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, was
to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any
positive action, Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance
which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly be
given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all this, Roger
determined that he would again go up to London. He would have the
vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, and
tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to
agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people, and perhaps
learn something further from their manner and their words, before he
finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the
completion of theirs.

He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours served
him much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the
world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn over
things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probably
by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of
ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought. But to follow
out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached
the commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process was
hardly within the compass of Roger's mind,--who when he was made
wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of
objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his
charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked
lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking
up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the
heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere
with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself and
much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath, and had got rid
of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.

The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he
knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady
Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether 'the ladies'
were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was at
once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried
up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He had
never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand.
Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her
after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such a
greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her
wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearest
relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was
certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love,--
if he would only consent not to be her lover. 'Oh, Roger, I am so glad
to 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 or
unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been
all the world to me.'

'Do not reproach me,' she said.

'No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I
should 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 bear
it, and there shall be an end of it.' As he said this he took her by
the 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 his
arm round her waist. 'As you will not be my wife, you shall be my
daughter.'

'I will be your sister, Roger.'

'My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will
hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the
young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child.' As he
thus spoke her tears were renewed. 'I have planned it all out in my
mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your
happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that to make
you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life.'

It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to
whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended
to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her.
And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her
cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did
not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. 'Have you
seen 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 am
here.'

'But you will be his friend?'

'Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault
shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly as such
things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had
seen you.' At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered
the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her
daughter and then at Roger. 'I have come up,' said he, 'to signify my
adhesion to this marriage.' Lady Carbury's face fell very low. 'I need
not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last
that 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 with
which to go on with her prayer.

'I do not know that it need be so at all,' continued Lady Carbury. 'I
think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to
press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own
wishes.'

'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 to
him.'

'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 Montague
himself.'

'Mamma!'

'Paul Montague!' ejaculated Roger Carbury. 'The consent of Paul
Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no
doubt 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 what
had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. 'The
marriage is on every account objectionable,' she said at last, 'His
means are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been
very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who
destroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without
my sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no notice
of 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 resentment
may be continued.'

Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger
stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady
Carbury 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,' he
replied. '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 an
accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may be managed. His
connection with Mr Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault
of his.' At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's great
anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous
to say a word on that head. 'I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I
will come to you again.'

Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see
Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into the scale
against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was too powerful
in his honesty and greatness of character,--and had been too often
admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family,--for her to
stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, Hetta
would have become his wife.

It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had
only then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,--whose subsequent doings
have 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 was
one which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, and
had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard
from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with Mrs
Hurtle.' Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not
understanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendly
mission.

'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 this
also;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she
does wish to see.'

'Is that true?' exclaimed Paul, jumping up.

'I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly
come on such a message if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and
need have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of
her 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 Roger
Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not
communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had
been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul,
remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had
written him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would probably
say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all the
patience which he could summon to his assistance.

'You know my what feelings have been,' Roger began, 'and how deeply I
have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections.
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 anger
between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to
interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better
than all the rest of the world put together.'

'I do,' said Paul.

'And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She
shall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shall
be my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent
to make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, too
well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have from
me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this
because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of
mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present.
By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more
equable temper.' Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving
Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to
him.



CHAPTER XCIV - JOHN CRUMB'S VICTORY


In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for
the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had
been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had
submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the
world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future
husband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs Hurtle, and almost
munificent in liberality to Mrs Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple
silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former
occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby,
and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs
Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed
to be still 'all one mash of gore,' he blandly smiled, remarking that
no man could be much worse for a 'few sich taps as them.' He only
stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled
everything. When Mrs Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from
her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with
thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued
gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the
old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care
the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's
fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the
marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the feast being spread at
Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and
if not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that
this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of
the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the
peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world
might be suspended. 'It ain't jist like other folks, after all as
we've been through,' said,--he meaning probably to imply that having
had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the
occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the
bride's grandfather or by himself he was determined that there should
be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs
Pipkin and Mrs Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs Hurtle to
promise that she would bring Mrs Pipkin down to Bungay, for the
occasion.

Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of
course essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion
as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies
would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She
was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired
again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--
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 his
proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to
eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. 'That's
out of the question,' Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder
ladies had supported her Mr Crumb yielded with a good grace. He did
not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked,
gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs Pipkin told him
with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14th
of August was named he only scratched his head and, muttering
something about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again,
allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would have
suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to
combine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs Pipkin told him that
he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He
merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the
policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk,
revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph
which he had at last achieved.

Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive
his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When
John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that he
had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups and
downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all
Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr Daniel
Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging
that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run
away with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong a
torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of
his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on
Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to
take away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact in
Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any
man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had, at any period of her life,
done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong
was the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of
general eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps some
slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be
whispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in
favour of Mr Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular,
that the grandfather could not stand against it. 'I don't see why I
ain't to do as I likes with my own,' he said to Joe Mixet, the baker,
who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations sent by
the municipality of Bungay.

'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 Mrs
Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs Pipkin give 'em a
breakfast.'

'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, Mr
Ruggles.'

'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 his
opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at
the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no
authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the
bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr Ruggles pay the
five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He
was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was
altogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he
was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of
her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not
contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to
earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was
not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as
much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in
return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at
last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death,--
an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost
as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption
of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded
to receive Mrs Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to
the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr Mixet's
mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the
inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an
old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely
shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had
promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which
were thought to be necessary for Mrs Pipkin on the evening preceding
the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the
special accommodation of Mrs Hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady
of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm.

On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the
bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be
among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover,
had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give
consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories
as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend,
although he devoted much study to the matter. 'You could come in
behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it,' suggested
Crumb.

'Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be
sure. 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 was
only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should
object 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 just
because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's
Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing
about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe
Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the
best friends in Bungay before six months are gone.'

'Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must
know 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 in
his 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 subsidiary
wedding garments, with great delight. 'Ain't she bootiful now?' he
said aloud to Mrs Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half
Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her
praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs
Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within
a yard or two could hear her: 'He is such a fool!' Then he conducted
Mrs Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove
Mrs Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of all
which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass
buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. 'Thou'rt come
back 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 I
ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that
girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that.'

'Grandfather, that ain't true,' said Ruby with energy. The old man
made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the
bedroom which they were both to occupy. 'Now, Mrs Pipkin, just you
say,' pleaded Ruby, 'how was it possible for any girl to live with an
old man like that?'

'But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man
instead 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, 'I
hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor
a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain.'

On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and
half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He
himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs Pipkin into
the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring
them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any
disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He
smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his
whip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as
though he would have said, 'see, I've got her at last in spite of all
difficulties.' Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would
have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was
altogether 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 a
room at the Inn just before they entered the church. 'Drat it,--you
make 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. He
means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners.'

Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by
outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was
standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his
button-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain
of her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself to
utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch
the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they
were heard throughout the whole building. 'I, John,--take thee Ruby,--
to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for
better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer'; and so on to the end. And
when he came to the 'worldly goods' with which he endowed his Ruby, he
was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employed
all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now
hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughly
enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over
again, every day for a week, had it been possible.

And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up
the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs Hurtle on one arm and
Mrs Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take his
wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a
good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil
to Mrs Hurtle and Mrs Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that,
in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the
marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten the
order which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiring
that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her
pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward
circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near
her who knew how to behave himself. 'Mrs Crumb, you have my best
wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness,' said Joe Mixet in a
whisper.

'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 one
as 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 he
can hold his own.' Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by
her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many
people should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to think
so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance.

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 knowing
John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted
with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have
said Mrs John Crumb,--ever since she was a child.' 'That's a downright
story,' said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs Hurtle. 'And he'd never known
two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to
one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus
always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company
would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two
'eathen gods and goddesses. 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. He
didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young
family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of
young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as
his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say
so, Mrs Crumb.' The speech, of which only a small sample can be given
here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with
the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and locked
herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be
brought back again.

In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her
back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His
honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When
she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and
thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife,
she did learn to respect him. 'Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as
though you meant it,' he said, when the first fitting occasion
presented itself.

'Oh, John,--what nonsense!'

'It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from
you 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 the
next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her
duty by him as his wife.



CHAPTER XCV - THE LONGESTAFFE MARRIAGES


In another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was a lady
whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's friends
had done for Ruby. Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the early days of
August was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with Mr
George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, a day which in
Suffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined energies of
the houses of Caversham and Toodlam were being devoted to that happy
event. Poor Georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but its
misery was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals. It
was but the other day that she had looked down from a very great
height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of
Toodlam. And at that time, still so recent, this contempt from her had
been accepted as being almost reasonable. Sophia had hardly ventured
to rebel against it, and Mr Whitstable himself had been always afraid
to encounter the shafts of irony with which his fashionable future
sister-in-law attacked him. But all that was now changed. Sophia in
her pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable, petted
in the house with those sweetmeats which are always showered on embryo
bridegrooms, absolutely gave himself airs. At this time Mr Longestaffe
was never at home. Having assured himself that there was no longer any
danger of the Brehgert alliance he had remained in London, thinking
his presence to be necessary for the winding up of Melmotte's affairs,
and leaving poor Lady Pomona to bear her daughter's ill humour. The
family at Caversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and was
enlivened by daily visits from Toodlam. It will be owned that in this
state of things there was very little consolation for Georgiana.

It was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her sister,--to
the point of absolutely refusing to act as bridesmaid. The reader may
remember that there had been a watch and chain, and that two of the
ladies of the family had expressed an opinion that these trinkets
should be returned to Mr Brehgert who had bestowed them. But Georgiana
had not sent them back when a week had elapsed since the receipt of Mr
Brehgert's last letter. The matter had perhaps escaped Lady Pomona's
memory, but Sophia was happily alive to the honour of her family.
'Georgey,' she said one morning in their mother's presence, 'don't you
think Mr Brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any more
delay?'

'What have you got to do with anybody's watch? The watch wasn't given
to you.'

'I think it ought to go back. When papa finds that it has been kept
I'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 happen
then.'

This was unbearable! That George Whitstable should interfere in her
affairs,--that he should talk about her watch and chain. 'I never will
speak 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 the
unhappy mother.

'I do say it. What has George Whitstable to do with me? A miserably
stupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over
the whole family.'

'I think Mr Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back,' said
Sophia.

'Certainly he ought,' said Lady Pomona. 'Georgiana, it must be sent
back. It really must,--or I shall tell your papa.'

Subsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and chain
to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them,
and explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa as
soon as he should have returned to Caversham. Lady Pomona was now
empowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to the
hands of the odious George Whitstable, who about this time made a
journey to London in reference to certain garments which he required.
But Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with
her sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak to
George Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the day of the
marriage.

She did think herself to be very hardly used. What was there left in
the world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? And
what did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriage
had ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition of
things to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure
the idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting till
some fitting suitor might find her out. She had struggled and
struggled, struggling still in vain,--till every effort of her mind,
every thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that as
she grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more intense.
The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of his
skill and confident in his strength, can make his way through the
water with the full command of all his powers. But when he begins to
feel that the shore is receding from him, that his strength is going,
that the footing for which he pants is still far beneath his feet,--
that there is peril where before he had contemplated no danger,--then
he begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and to
waste in anxious gaspings the breath on which his very life must
depend. So it was with poor Georgey Longestaffe. Something must be done
at once, or it would be of no avail. Twelve years had been passed by
her since first she plunged into the stream,--the twelve years of her
youth,--and she was as far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if she
believed her eyes. She too must strike out with rapid efforts, unless,
indeed, she would abandon herself and let the waters close over her
head. But immersed as she was here at Caversham, how could she strike
at all? Even now the waters were closing upon her. The sound of them
was in her ears. The ripple of the wave was already round her lips;
robbing her of breath. Ah!--might not there be some last great
convulsive effort which might dash her on shore, even if it were upon
a rock!

That ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same as
drowning she never for a moment doubted. It had never occurred to her
to consider with equanimity the prospect of living as an old maid. It
was beyond the scope of her mind to contemplate the chances of a life
in which marriage might be well if it came, but in which unmarried
tranquillity might also be well should that be her lot. Nor could she
understand that others should contemplate it for her. No doubt the
battle had been carried on for many years so much under the auspices
of her father and mother as to justify her in thinking that their
theory of life was the same as her own. Lady Pomona had been very open
in her teaching, and Mr Longestaffe had always given a silent
adherence to the idea that the house in London was to be kept open in
order that husbands might be caught. And now when they deserted her in
her real difficulty,--when they first told her to live at Caversham
all the summer, and then sent her up to the Melmottes, and after that
forbade her marriage with Mr Brehgert,--it seemed to her that they
were unnatural parents who gave her a stone when she wanted bread, a
serpent when she asked for a fish. She had no friend left. There was
no one living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not. She
took to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many things
with a grim earnestness which had not hitherto belonged to her
character.

'Mamma,' she said one morning when all the care of the household was
being devoted to the future comforts,--chiefly in regard to linen,--of
Mrs George Whitstable, 'I wonder whether papa has any intention at all
about 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 nun
does it by her own consent and I don't! Mamma, I won't stand it. I
won't indeed.'

'I think, my dear, that that is nonsense. You see company here, just
as other people do in the country;--and as for not standing it, I don't
know what you mean. As long as you are one of your papa's family of
course you must live where he lives.'

'Oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!--It is horrible--horrible! As
if you didn't know! As if you couldn't understand! Sometimes I almost
doubt whether papa does know, and then I think that if he did he would
not 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 going
about here by myself, without any prospect of anything? Should you
have liked at my age to have felt that you had no chance of having a
house of your own to live in? Why didn't you, among you, let me marry
Mr Breghert?' As she said this she was almost eloquent with passion.

'You know, my dear,' said Lady Pomona, 'that your papa wouldn't hear
of it.'

'I know that if you would have helped me I would have done it in spite
of papa. What right has he to domineer over me in that way? Why
shouldn't I have married the man if I chose? I am old enough to know
surely. You talk now of shutting up girls in convents as being a
thing quite impossible. This is much worse. Papa won't do anything to
help 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 he
came. 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 who
loves any one else. You won't tell me that Sophy is going to marry
that idiot because she loves him. Did Julia Triplex love that man with
the large fortune? When you wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte you
never thought of his loving her. I had got the better of all that kind
of 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 does
indeed. When one has been going on for a dozen years trying to do
something,--and I have never had any secrets from you,--then that you
should turn round upon me and talk about love! Mamma, if you would
help me I think I could still manage with Mr Brehgert.' Lady Pomona
shuddered. '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. I
should have a house of my own at least, and I should know what I had
to expect for the rest of my life. If I stay here I shall go mad or
die.'

'It is impossible.'

'If you will stand to me, mamma, I am sure it may be done. I would
write 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't
know that all that is changed now! What possible difference can it
make about a man's religion? Of course I know that he is vulgar, and
old, and has a lot of children. But if I can put up with that, I don't
think that you and papa have a right to interfere. As to his religion
it cannot signify.'

'Georgiana, you make me very unhappy. I am wretched to see you so
discontented. If I could do anything for you, I would. But I will not
meddle about Mr Brehgert. I shouldn't dare to do so. I don't think you
know how angry your papa can be.'

'I'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me. What can he
do? I don't suppose he'll beat me. And I'd rather he would than shut
me 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 so
proud 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 you
fairly, mamma, that I shall write to Mr Brehgert and tell him that I am
quite 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 just
what I say.'

All this made Lady Pomona very miserable. She did not communicate her
daughter's threat to Mr Longestaffe, but she did discuss it with
Sophia. Sophia was of opinion that Georgiana did not mean it, and gave
two or three reasons for thinking so. In the first place had she
intended it she would have written her letter without saying a word
about it to Lady Pomona. And she certainly would not have declared her
purpose of writing such letter after Lady Pomona had refused her
assistance. And moreover,--Lady Pomona had received no former hint of
the information which was now conveyed to her,--Georgiana was in the
habit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in the
park.

'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 his
curacy! And he's a celibate! I heard the bishop laughing at him
because he called himself a celibate.'

'It doesn't signify, mamma. I know she is with him constantly. Wilson
has 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, would
be better than the Jew.' To this latter proposition Lady Pomona gave a
cordial assent. 'Of course it is a come-down to marry a curate,--but a
clergyman is always considered to be decent.'

The preparations for the Whitstable marriage went on without any
apparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between Mr
Batherbolt and Georgiana. There was no room to apprehend anything
wrong on that side. Mr Batherbolt was so excellent a young man, and so
exclusively given to religion, that, even should Sophy's suspicion be
correct, he might be trusted to walk about the park with Georgiana.
Should he at any time come forward and ask to be allowed to make the
lady his wife, there would be no disgrace in the matter. He was a
clergyman and a gentleman,--and the poverty would be Georgiana's own
affair.

Mr Longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest daughter's
marriage, and with him came Dolly. Great trouble had been taken to
teach him that duty absolutely required his presence at his sister's
marriage, and he had at last consented to be there. It is not
generally considered a hardship by a young man that he should have to
go into a good partridge country on the 1st of September, and Dolly
was an acknowledged sportsman. Nevertheless, he considered that he had
made a great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by Lady
Pomona as though he were a bright example to other sons. He found the
house not in a very comfortable position, for Georgiana still
persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to Mr
Whitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at Caversham,
gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money affairs had
been comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to squabble with his
father. It was a great thing that one of the girls should be married,
and Dolly had brought down an enormous china dog, about five feet
high, as a wedding present, which added materially to the happiness of
the meeting. Lady Pomona had determined that she would tell her
husband of those walks in the park, and of other signs of growing
intimacy which had reached her ears;--but this she would postpone until
after the Whitstable marriage.

But at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage, they
were all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away with Mr
Batherbolt. She had been up before six. He had met her at the park
gate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at Stowmarket.
Then it appeared, too, that, by degrees, various articles of her
property had been conveyed to Mr Batherbolt's lodgings in the adjacent
village, so that Lady Pomona's fear that Georgiana would not have a
thing to wear was needless. When the fact was first known it was
almost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the Whitstable
marriage must be postponed. But Sophia had a word to say to her mother
on that head, and she said it. The marriage was not postponed. At
first Dolly talked of going after his younger sister, and the father
did dispatch various telegrams. But the fugitives could not be brought
back, and with some little delay,--which made the marriage perhaps
uncanonical but not illegal,--Mr George Whitstable was made a happy
man.

It need only be added that in about a month's time Georgiana returned
to Caversham as Mrs Batherbolt, and that she resided there with her
husband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. At the end of
that time they removed to a small living, for the purchase of which Mr
Longestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money.



CHAPTER XCVI - WHERE 'THE WILD ASSES QUENCH THEIR THIRST'


We must now go back a little in our story,--about three weeks,--in
order that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at the
Beargarden. That establishment had received a terrible blow in the
defection of Herr Vossner. It was not only that he had robbed the
club, and robbed every member of the club who had ventured to have
personal dealings with him. Although a bad feeling in regard to him
was no doubt engendered in the minds of those who had suffered deeply,
it was not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom over the
club. The sorrow was in this,--that with Herr Vossner all their
comforts had gone. Of course Herr Vossner had been a thief. That no
doubt had been known to them from the beginning. A man does not consent
to be called out of bed at all hours in the morning to arrange the
gambling accounts of young gentlemen without being a thief. No one
concerned with Herr Vossner had supposed him to be an honest man. But
then as a thief he had been so comfortable that his absence was
regretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love even by those who
had suffered most severely from his rapacity. Dolly Longestaffe had
been robbed more outrageously than any other member of the club, and
yet Dolly Longestaffe had said since the departure of the purveyor that
London was not worth living in now that Herr Vossner was gone. In a
week the Beargarden collapsed,--as Germany would collapse for a period
if Herr Vossner's great compatriot were suddenly to remove himself from
the scene; but as Germany would strive to live even without Bismarck,
so did the club make its new efforts. But here the parallel must cease.
Germany no doubt would at last succeed, but the Beargarden had
received a blow from which it seemed that there was no recovery. At
first it was proposed that three men should be appointed as trustees,--
trustees for paying Vossner's debts, trustees for borrowing more
money, trustees for the satisfaction of the landlord who was beginning
to be anxious as to his future rent. At a certain very triumphant
general meeting of the club it was determined that such a plan should
be arranged, and the members assembled were unanimous. It was at first
thought that there might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship.
The club was so popular and the authority conveyed by the position
would be so great, that A, B, and C might feel aggrieved at seeing so
much power conferred on D, E, and F. When at the meeting above
mentioned one or two names were suggested, the final choice was
postponed, as a matter of detail to be arranged privately, rather from
this consideration than with any idea that there might be a difficulty
in finding adequate persons. But even the leading members of the
Beargarden hesitated when the proposition was submitted to them with
all its honours and all its responsibilities. Lord Nidderdale declared
from the beginning that he would have nothing to do with it,--pleading
his poverty openly. Beauchamp Beauclerk was of opinion that he himself
did not frequent the club often enough. Mr Lupton professed his
inability as a man of business. Lord Grasslough pleaded his father.
The club from the first had been sure of Dolly Longestaffe's
services;--for were not Dolly's pecuniary affairs now in process of
satisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all men that his
courage never failed him in regard to money? But even he declined. 'I
have spoken to Squercum,' he said to the Committee, 'and Squercum won't
hear of it. Squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the club very
shaky.' When one of the Committee made a remark as to Mr Squercum which
was not complimentary,--insinuated indeed that Squercum without
injustice might be consigned to the infernal deities Dolly took the
matter up warmly. 'That's all very well for you, Grasslough; but if you
knew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight without
preaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise Squercum. I've tried to
go alone and I find that does not answer. Squercum's my coach, and I
mean to stick pretty close to him.' Then it came to pass that the
triumphant project as to the trustees fell to the ground, although
Squercum himself advised that the difficulty might be lessened if three
gentlemen could be selected who lived well before the world and yet
had nothing to lose. Whereupon Dolly suggested Miles Grendall. But the
committee shook its heads, not thinking it possible that the club
could be re-established on a basis of three Miles Grendalls.

Then dreadful rumours were heard. The Beargarden must surely be
abandoned. 'It is such a pity,' said Nidderdale, 'because there never
has been anything like it.'

'Smoke all over the house!' said Dolly.

'No horrid nonsense about closing,' said Grasslough, 'and no infernal
old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing.'

'Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That's
what I liked,' said Nidderdale.

'It's an old story,' said Mr Lupton, 'that if you put a man into
Paradise he'll make it too hot to hold him. That's what you've done
here.'

'What we ought to do,' said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of his
own good fortune in regard to Squercum, 'is to get some fellow like
Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his
regular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really think
that might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt.' But Mr
Lupton 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 that
the club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless some new
heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation,
Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the hall and the
steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner, when Sir
Felix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a creeping,
hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. He had nearly recovered
from his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court plaster on his
upper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak as though he
had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had heard little or
nothing of what had been done at the Beargarden since Vossner's
defection, It was now a month since he had been seen at the club. His
thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but latterly
his existence had been almost forgotten. Now, with difficulty, he had
summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so completely had he
been cowed by the latter circumstances of his life; but he had
determined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to his old
associates as though no evil thing had befallen him. He had still
money enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber of
whist. 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's
Carbury!' said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, and
walked upstairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to have their
hands shaken by the stranger.

'Thought you were out of town,' said Nidderdale, 'Haven't seen you for
the last ever so long.'

'I have been out of town,' said Felix,--lying; 'down in Suffolk. But
I'm back now. How are things going on here?'

'They're not going at all;--they're gone,' said Dolly. 'Everything is
smashed,' 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 know
that there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We close
altogether 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 the
cellar.'

'That don't matter,' said Nidderdale, 'as Vossner took care that there
shouldn't be any wine.'

'He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we
have 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 been
anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been the
affair of Melmotte, you know;--though, I suppose, you do know all about
that.'

'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 like
that takes poison, I can't understand. Last year the only day I
managed to get down in February, the hounds didn't come because some
old cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I call
it rot.'

'Melmotte's death was rather awful,' said Nidderdale.

'Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. And now they say
the girl is going to be married to Fisker. I don't know how you and
Nidderdale like that. I never went in for her myself. Squercum never
seemed to see it.'

'Poor dear!' said Nidderdale. 'She's welcome for me, and I dare say she
couldn't do better with herself. I was very fond of her;--I'll be shot
if 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 have
come off. I should have had her safe enough to America, if I'd cared
about it.' This was Sir Felix's view of the matter.

'Come into the smoking-room, Dolly,' said Nidderdale. 'I can stand
most things, and I try to stand everything; but, by George, that
fellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him. You and I are bad
enough,--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 to
everybody that is good-natured to me,--and to a great many people who
ain't. I'm going all the way down to Caversham next week to see my
sister married, though I hate the place and hate marriages, and if I
was to be hung for it I couldn't say a word to the fellow who is going
to be my brother-in-law. But I do agree about Carbury. It's very hard
to be good-natured to him.'

But, in the teeth of these adverse opinions Sir Felix managed to get
his dinner-table close to theirs and to tell them at dinner something
of his future prospects. He was going to travel and see the world. He
had, according to his own account, completely run through London life
and 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 never
heard the words. But that was the burden of his present story. It was
his determination to seek new scenes, and in search of them to travel
over 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 a
deal 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 be
nice,--travelling about Europe with a clergyman. I shouldn't get enough
advantage out of it to make it pay, but I fancy it will just suit
you.'

'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 of
life;--and then that railway Board coming to an end, and the club
smashing up, and--'

'Marie Melmotte marrying Fisker,' suggested Dolly.

'That too, if you will. But I want a change, and a change I mean to
have. I've seen this side of things, and now I'll have a look at the
other.'

'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, though
he was sitting near them, had not yet joined in the conversation, and
who had not before addressed a word to Sir Felix. 'We heard something
about it, but we never got the right story.' Nidderdale glanced across
the table at Dolly, and Dolly whistled. Grasslough looked at the man
he addressed as one does look when one expects an answer. Mr Lupton,
with whom Grasslough was dining, also sat expectant. Dolly and
Nidderdale 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 a
question,--ill-natured, insolent, and obtrusive. But the question
demanded an answer of some kind. 'Yes,' said he; 'a fellow attacked me
in the street, coming behind me when I had a girl with me. He didn't
get 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 very
much the business of any of us.'

'I was speaking to my friends, Lord Nidderdale and Mr Longestaffe, and
not to you.'

'I quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction,' said Lord
Grasslough, 'and am sorry for Lord Nidderdale and Mr Longestaffe.'

'What do you mean by that?' said Sir Felix, rising from his chair. His
present opponent was not horrible to him as had been John Crumb, as
men in clubs do not now often knock each others' heads or draw swords
one upon another.

'Don't let's have a quarrel here,' said Mr Lupton. 'I shall leave the
room if you do.'

'If we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness,' said
Nidderdale.

'Of course, if there is to be a fight, I'm good to go out with
anybody,' said Dolly. 'When there's any beastly thing to be done, I've
always got to do it. But don't you think that kind of thing is a
little slow?'

'Who began it?' said Sir Felix, sitting down again. Whereupon Lord
Grasslough, who had finished his dinner, walked out of the room. 'That
fellow is always wanting to quarrel.'

'There's one comfort, you know,' said Dolly. 'It wants two men to make
a 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 in
the card-room. The other men who had been together had quickly
followed him, leaving Sir Felix alone, and they had collected
themselves there not with the hope of play, but thinking that they
would be less interrupted than in the smoking-room. 'I don't suppose
we shall ever any of us be here again, and as he did come in I thought
I would tell him my mind.'

'What's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?' said Dolly. 'Of
course he's a bad fellow. Most fellows are bad fellows in one way or
another.'

'But he's bad all round,' said the bitter enemy.

'And so this is to be the end of the Beargarden,' said Lord Nidderdale
with a peculiar melancholy. 'Dear old place! I always felt it was too
good to last. I fancy it doesn't do to make things too easy;--one has
to pay so uncommon dear for them. And then, you know, when you've got
things easy, then they get rowdy;--and, by George, before you know
where you are, you find yourself among a lot of blackguards. If one
wants to keep one's self straight, one has to work hard at it, one way
or the other. I suppose it all comes from the fall of Adam.'

'If Solomon, Solon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were rolled into
one, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom,' said Mr Lupton.

'Live and learn,' continued the young lord. 'I don't think anybody has
liked the Beargarden so much as I have, but I shall never try this
kind of thing again. I shall begin reading blue books to-morrow, and
shall dine at the Carlton. Next session I shan't miss a day in the
House, and I'll bet anybody a flyer that I make a speech before
Easter. I shall take to claret at 20s. a dozen, and shall go about
London 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 of
you fellows will believe me, but, upon my word, I liked that girl; and
I'd've stuck to her at last,--only there are some things a fellow can't
do. He was such a thundering scoundrel!'

After a while Sir Felix followed them upstairs, and entered the room
as though nothing unpleasant had happened below. 'We can make up a
rubber 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. Lord
Grasslough didn't condescend to say a word. Sir Felix sat down with
his cigar in his mouth, and the others continued to smoke in silence.

'I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall,' asked Sir Felix. But no
one made any answer, and they smoked on in silence. 'He hasn't paid me
a 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 is
the biggest scoundrel I ever met,' said Sir Felix.

'I know one as big,' said Lord Grasslough,--'or, at any rate, as
little.'

There was another pause of a minute, and then Sir Felix left the room
muttering something as to the stupidity of having no cards;--and so
brought to an end his connection with his associates of the
Beargarden. 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, although
there 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 whispered
sad things in low voices, consoling themselves simply with tobacco. 'I
never felt so much like crying in my life,' said Dolly, as he asked
for a glass of brandy-and-water at about midnight. 'Good-night, old
fellows; good-bye. I'm going down to Caversham, and I shouldn't wonder
if I didn't drown myself.'

How Mr Flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture, and
threatened everybody, and at last singled out poor Dolly Longestaffe
as his special victim; and how Dolly Longestaffe, by the aid of Mr
Squercum, utterly confounded Mr Flatfleece, and brought that ingenious
but unfortunate man, with his wife and small family, to absolute ruin,
the reader will hardly expect to have told to him in detail in this
chronicle.



CHAPTER XCVII - MRS HURTLE'S FATE


Mrs Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs Pipkin and John
Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to Bungay and
grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for the
persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to witness a phase
of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness towards Paul
Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, but she could
with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which he was
living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She had
consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to her,--
and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken her
place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all her
very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met, she
never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return to
her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid
tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the rough tempests
of her past days. Mrs Pipkin, she thought, was less intellectual than
any American woman she had ever known; and she was quite sure that no
human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable of two concurrent
ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the United States;--but,
nevertheless, she liked Mrs Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb. How
different would her life have been could she have met a man who would
have been as true to her as John Crumb was to his Ruby!

She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself
for loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to seize
glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples and
prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of apprehension
and readiness of action! But yet she loved him for his very faults,
telling herself that there was something sweeter in his English
manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land. The man
had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and had broken
his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything blank before
her by his treachery! But then she also had not been quite true with
him. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had he. They had
played a game against each other; and he, with all the inferiority of
his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he was a man. She
had much time for thinking, and she thought much about these things. He
could change his love as often as he pleased, and be as good a lover
at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his defection. He could
look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she
could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been rifled.
She was not quite sure that such mourning would not be more bitter to
her in California than in Mrs Pipkin's solitary lodgings at Islington.

'So he was Mr Montague's partner,--was he now?' asked Mrs Pipkin a day
or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr Fisker had
called on Mrs Hurtle, and Mrs Hurtle had told Mrs Pipkin so much. 'To
my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr Montague.' Mrs Pipkin
perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she might be
anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it might be well
to 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 this
was very far gone in tenderness.

'Indeed now!' said Mrs Pipkin, who did not in the least understand the
meaning of her friend's last remark.

'Mr Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had not
heard before, and has offered to take me back with him.' Mrs Pipkin's
apron 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 wish
I could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been. There hasn't been
a week without everything settled; and most ladylike,--most ladylike!
You seem to me, Mrs Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your
pocket.' All this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to speak
the absolute truth.

'Mr Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine, but I hear that
he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as well
join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer
company just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first
of September.' As this was said about the middle of August there was
still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs Pipkin. A fortnight gained
was something; and as Mr Fisker had come to England on business, and
as business is always uncertain, there might possibly be further
delay. Then Mrs Hurtle made a further communication to Mrs Pipkin,
which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on the
door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs Hurtle had desired to say.
'By-the-bye, Mrs Pipkin I expect Mr Montague to call to-morrow at
eleven. Just show him up when he comes.' She had feared that unless
some such instructions were given, there might be a little scene at
the door when the gentleman came.

'Mr Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs Hurtle,--of course. I'll see to it
myself.' Then Mrs Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had made
a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr Montague, if, after
all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.

On the following morning Mrs Hurtle dressed herself with almost more
than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual
care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk,
nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as
though she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write a
word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course she
was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself absolute
quiescence.

She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him. She
had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had seen the
girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity had been
satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She had no plan
arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she at this
moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she was about
to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not know that she
had anything else to say. Then came the knock at the door. Her heart
leaped 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 Mr
Montague was announced by Mrs Pipkin herself. Mrs Pipkin, however,
quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not once
look in through the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at the
keyhole. 'I thought you would come and see me once again before I
went,' said Mrs Hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but putting out her
hand to greet him. 'Sit there opposite, so that we can look at one
another. 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 quarrel
as to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she
forgiven your sins?'

'We are friends,--if you mean that.'

'Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell
her 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 was
sufficient 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 not
want 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 serviceable
to 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 her
know that from the moment you had seen her, you had thrown me to the
winds.'

'It was not so, my friend.'

'What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you
know! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies. I
could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing
interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your love
for me by English propriety even before you had seen her beautiful
eyes. 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 sure
to be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly you had
spared 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 Roger
Carbury, 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 that
he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with the
flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our
having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact
that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had
become the one stumbling-block on your path to happiness.'

'He never said a word to her of our being there.'

'Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only means
of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and how
heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return of
friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder
than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr Carbury on the sands. Perhaps
I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been arranged
as 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 conduct
had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve some
thanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her that
your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. I
confessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a
woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed to
avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate and
hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on your
behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot wheels. And
now 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 I
make. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed
bones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you I
have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into your
heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny,
spiritless English girl?' All this time she was still seated, looking
at him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow.
'But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not
because they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that
comfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for a
moment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking
that you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and then
will you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round her
waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of my
words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prick
will last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happiness
and joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only on
retrospects?'

'I wish I could say a word to comfort you.'

'You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that
you have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfort
again. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you all
that I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify
your treatment of me. He is not dead.'

'You mean Mr Hurtle.'

'Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce which
was declared between us was no divorce. Mr Fisker came here to me with
tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I know
that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to San
Francisco.'

'I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's
daughter.'

'So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see why
we 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's
attentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one to
whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I may
have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of some
friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I have
travelled 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 being
kind, 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 that
poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I used to
think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that should
be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should smell of lavender
instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair, feminine women,--of
women who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die rather
than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my dreams
should come true. I ought to have known that it could not be so. I did
not dare quite to tell you all the truth. I know I was wrong, and now
the punishment has come upon me. Well;--I suppose you had better say
good-bye to me. What is the good of putting it off?' Then she rose
from her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging listlessly
by 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 they
who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil
cursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself now not
to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I should care
nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least nothing now,
for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look here;--will you
have this back?' As she asked this she took from out her bosom a small
miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in New York, and
held it towards him.

'If you wish it I will,--of course,' he said.

'I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing on
earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another man,--as
I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I live it shall be
next my heart. As you know, I have little respect for the proprieties
of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man I
love because he becomes the husband of another woman. Having once said
that I love you I shall not contradict myself because you have
deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love you,--oh, with my very
heart of hearts.' So speaking she threw herself into his arms and
covered 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 was
an 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 while
you 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 to
see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be his
fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of moderate
resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood with his
arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he
did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill they
were. 'There,' she said, smiling through her bitter tears,--'there; you
are released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon you
again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you must
forgive me.'

'No;--but you cut me to the heart.'

'That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools of
themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment. Yours
will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the first of
next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr Fisker, and
I shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to Mrs
Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me again. Indeed it will
be better that you should not. Good-bye.'

He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while
she smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pull
her towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsed
him, still smiling the while. 'No, sir; no; not again; never again,
never,--never,--never again.' By that time she had recovered her hand
and stood apart from him. 'Good-bye, Paul;--and now go.' Then he turned
round and left the room without uttering a word.

She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step
down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Then
hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain
she watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned the
corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment
with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone
upon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that she
had loved him with all her heart.

But that evening she bade Mrs Pipkin drink tea with her and was more
gracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but still
curious landlady asked some question about Mr Montague, Mrs Hurtle
seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to
speak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, she
said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each of
them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part. On
that evening Mrs Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant,
having the children up into her room, and giving them jam and
bread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed to
take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs Pipkin and her
family. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon
Mrs Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr Fisker came and
took her away with him to America; and Mrs Pipkin was left,--a desolate
but grateful woman.

'They do tell bad things about them Americans,' she said to a friend
in the street, 'and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I only
wish 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 eating
pudding just as if they was her own.'

I think Mrs Pipkin was right, and that Mrs Hurtle, with all her
faults, was a good-natured woman.



CHAPTER XCVIII - MARIE MELMOTTE'S FATE


In the meantime Marie Melmotte was living with Madame Melmotte in
their lodgings up at Hampstead, and was taking quite a new look out
into the world. Fisker had become her devoted servant,--not with that
old-fashioned service which meant making love, but with perhaps a
truer devotion to her material interests. He had ascertained on her
behalf that she was the undoubted owner of the money which her father
had made over to her on his first arrival in England,--and she also had
made herself mistress of that fact with equal precision. It would have
astonished those who had known her six months since could they now
have seen how excellent a woman of business she had become, and how
capable she was of making the fullest use of Mr Fisker's services. In
doing him justice it must be owned that he kept nothing back from her
of that which he learned, probably feeling that he might best achieve
success in his present project by such honesty,--feeling also, no doubt,
the girl's own strength in discovering truth and falsehood. 'She's her
father's own daughter,' he said one day to Croll in Abchurch Lane;--for
Croll, though he had left Melmotte's employment when he found that his
name had been forged, had now returned to the service of the daughter
in some undefined position, and had been engaged to go with her and
Madame Melmotte to New York.

'Ah; yees,' said Croll, 'but bigger. He vas passionate, and did lose
his 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness.' Whereupon Croll made an
action as though he were a frog swelling himself to the dimensions of
an ox. ''E bursted himself, Mr Fisker. 'E vas a great man; but the
greater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'E ate so much that
he became too fat to see to eat his vittels.' It was thus that Herr
Croll 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 eat
alvays.' Thus too he analysed the character of his young mistress.

At first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between Madame
Melmotte and Marie. The reader will perhaps remember that they were in
no 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 knowing
even what had been her mother's name,--not even knowing what was her
father's true name, as in the various biographies of the great man
which were, as a matter of course, published within a fortnight of his
death, various accounts were given as to his birth, parentage, and
early history. The general opinion seemed to be that his father had
been a noted coiner in New York,--an Irishman of the name of Melmody,--
and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent was argued from
Melmotte's skill in forgery. But Marie, though she was thus isolated,
and now altogether separated from the lords and duchesses who a few
weeks since had been interested in her career, was the undoubted owner
of the money,--a fact which was beyond the comprehension of Madame
Melmotte. She could understand,--and was delighted to understand,--that
a very large sum of money had been saved from the wreck, and that she
might therefore look forward to prosperous tranquillity for the rest
of her life. Though she never acknowledged so much to herself, she
soon learned to regard the removal of her husband as the end of her
troubles. But she could not comprehend why Marie should claim all the
money as her own. She declared herself to be quite willing to divide
the spoil,--and suggested such an arrangement both to Marie and to
Croll. Of Fisker she was afraid, thinking that the iniquity of giving
all the money to Marie originated with him, in order that he might
obtain it by marrying the girl. Croll, who understood it all
perfectly, told her the story a dozen times,--but quite in vain. She
made a timid suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, and
was only deterred from doing so by Marie's ready assent to such an
arrangement. Marie's equally ready surrender of any right she might
have to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had perhaps some
effect in softening the elder lady's heart. She thus was in possession
of a treasure of her own,--though a treasure small in comparison with
that of the younger woman; and the younger woman had promised that
in the event of her marriage she would be liberal.

It was distinctly understood that they were both to go to New York
under Mr Fisker's guidance as soon as things should be sufficiently
settled to allow of their departure; and Madame Melmotte was told,
about the middle of August, that their places had been taken for the
3rd of September. But nothing more was told her. She did not as yet
know whether Marie was to go out free or as the affianced bride of
Hamilton Fisker. And she felt herself injured by being left so much in
the dark. She herself was inimical to Fisker, regarding him as a dark,
designing man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her husband
had left behind him,--and trusted herself entirely to Croll, who was
personally attentive to her. Fisker was, of course, going on to San
Francisco. Marie also had talked of crossing the American continent.
But Madame Melmotte was disposed to think that for her, with her
jewels, and such share of the money as Marie might be induced to give
her, New York would be the most fitting residence. Why should she drag
herself across the continent to California? Herr Croll had declared
his purpose of remaining in New York. Then it occurred to the lady
that as Melmotte was a name which might be too well known in New York,
and which it therefore might be wise to change, Croll would do as well
as any other. She and Herr Croll had known each other for a great many
years, and were, she thought, of about the same age. Croll had some
money saved. She had, at any rate, her jewels,--and Croll would probably
be able to get some portion of all that money, which ought to be hers,
if his affairs were made to be identical with her own. So she smiled
upon Croll, and whispered to him; and when she had given Croll two
glasses of Curaçao,--which comforter she kept in her own hands, as
safeguarded 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 way
submissive. 'My dear,' she said one day, asking the question in
French, without any preface or apology, 'are you going to be married
to Mr Fisker?'

'What makes you ask that?'

'It is so important I should know. Where am I to live? What am I to
do? What money shall I have? Who will be a friend to me? A woman ought
to know. You will marry Fisker if you like him. Why cannot you tell
me?'

'Because I do not know. When I know I will tell you. If you go on
asking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more.'

And this was true. She did not know. It certainly was not Fisker's
fault that she should still be in the dark as to her own destiny, for
he had asked her often enough, and had pressed his suit with all his
eloquence. But Marie had now been wooed so often that she felt the
importance of the step which was suggested to her. The romance of the
thing was with her a good deal worn, and the material view of
matrimony had also been damaged in her sight. She had fallen in love
with Sir Felix Carbury, and had assured herself over and over again
that she worshipped the very ground on which he stood. But she had
taught herself this business of falling in love as a lesson, rather
than felt it. After her father's first attempts to marry her to this
and that suitor because of her wealth,--attempts which she had hardly
opposed amidst the consternation and glitter of the world to which she
was suddenly introduced,--she had learned from novels that it would be
right that she should be in love, and she had chosen Sir Felix as her
idol. The reader knows what had been the end of that episode in her
life. She certainly was not now in love with Sir Felix Carbury. Then
she had as it were relapsed into the hands of Lord Nidderdale,--one of
her early suitors,--and had felt that as love was not to prevail, and
as it would be well that she should marry some one, he might probably
be as good as any other, and certainly better than many others. She
had almost learned to like Lord Nidderdale and to believe that he
liked her, when the tragedy came. Lord Nidderdale had been very
good-natured,--but he had deserted her at last. She had never allowed
herself to be angry with him for a moment. It had been a matter of
course that he should do so. Her fortune was still large, but not
so large as the sum named in the bargain made. And it was moreover
weighted with her father's blood. From the moment of her father's death
she had never dreamed that he would marry her. Why should he? Her
thoughts in reference to Sir Felix were bitter enough;--but as against
Nidderdale they were not at all bitter. Should she ever meet him again
she would shake hands with him and smile,--if not pleasantly as she
thought 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. She
had over a hundred thousand pounds of her own, and, feeling conscious
of her own power in regard to her own money, knowing that she could do
as she pleased with her wealth, she began to look out into life
seriously.

What could she do with her money, and in what way would she shape her
life, should she determine to remain her own mistress? Were she to
refuse Fisker how should she begin? He would then be banished, and her
only remaining friends, the only persons whose names she would even
know in her own country, would be her father's widow and Herr Croll.
She already began to see Madame Melmotte's purport in reference to
Croll, and could not reconcile herself to the idea of opening an
establishment with them on a scale commensurate with her fortune. Nor
could she settle in her own mind any pleasant position for herself as
a single woman, living alone in perfect independence. She had opinions
of women's rights,--especially in regard to money; and she entertained
also a vague notion that in America a young woman would not need
support so essentially as in England. Nevertheless, the idea of a fine
house for herself in Boston, or Philadelphia,--for in that case she
would have to avoid New York as the chosen residence of Madame
Melmotte,--did not recommend itself to her. As to Fisker himself,--she
certainly liked him. He was not beautiful like Felix Carbury, nor had
he the easy good-humour of Lord Nidderdale. She had seen enough of
English gentlemen to know that Fisker was very unlike them. But she
had not seen enough of English gentlemen to make Fisker distasteful to
her. He told her that he had a big house at San Francisco, and she
certainly desired to live in a big house. He represented himself to be
a thriving man, and she calculated that he certainly would not be
here, in London, arranging her father's affairs, were he not possessed
of commercial importance. She had contrived to learn that, in the
United States, a married woman has greater power over her own money
than in England, and this information acted strongly in Fisker's
favour. On consideration of the whole subject she was inclined to
think that she would do better in the world as Mrs Fisker than as
Marie Melmotte,--if she could see her way clearly in the matter of
her own money.

'I have got excellent berths,' Fisker said to her one morning at
Hampstead. At these interviews, which were devoted first to business
and 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 a
cabin for you. Everything will be comfortable. And there is another
lady 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 all
that a husband should be.'

'Did she not come over here to marry some one else?'--For Marie in the
days of her sweet intimacy with Sir Felix Carbury had heard something
of Mrs Hurtle's story.

'There is a story, and I dare say I shall tell you all about it some
day. But you may be sure I should not ask you to associate with any
one you ought not to know.'

'Oh,--I can take care of myself.'

'No doubt, Miss Melmotte,--no doubt. I feel that quite strongly. But
what I meant to observe was this,--that I certainly should not
introduce a lady whom I aspire to make my own lady to any lady whom a
lady oughtn't to know. 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 ship
as your accepted lover, I could do a deal more to make you
comfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere friend,
Miss Melmotte. You can't doubt my heart.'

'I don't see why I shouldn't. Gentlemen's hearts are things very much
to 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 past
experiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold country in
which passion is no longer allowed to sway. On those golden shores
which the Pacific washes man is still true,--and woman is still
tender.'

'Perhaps I'd better wait and see, Mr Fisker.'

But this was not Mr Fisker's view of the case. There might be other
men desirous of being true on those golden shores. 'And then,' said
he, pleading his cause not without skill, 'the laws regulating woman's
property there are just the reverse of those which the greediness of
man has established here. The wife there can claim her share of her
husband's property, but hers is exclusively her own. America is
certainly the country for women,--and especially California.'

'Ah;--I shall find out all about it, I suppose, when I've been there a
few months.'

'But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such much
better auspices,--if I may be allowed to say so,--as a married lady or
as 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'm
spending 30,000 dollars a year,--at that rate,--in my own house. You'll
see it all. If we put them both together,--what's yours and what's
mine,--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 seen
something of that already, Mr Fisker. You shouldn't put your foot out
farther than you can draw it in again.'

'You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte. I shouldn't be able to
touch a dollar of your money. It would be such a triumph to go into
Francisco as man and wife.'

'I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a while and
looked about me.'

'And seen the house! Well;--there's something in that. The house is all
there, I can tell you. I'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like the
house. But if we were engaged, I could do everything for you. Where
would you be, going into San Francisco all alone? Oh, Miss Melmotte, I
do admire you so much!'

I doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy. But the
arguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certain
extent. '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 put
his arm round her waist.

'Not like that, Mr Fisker,' she said, withdrawing herself. 'It shall
be in this way. You may consider yourself engaged to me.'

'I'm the happiest man on this continent,' he said, forgetting in his
ecstasy that he was not in the United States.

'But if I find when I get to Francisco anything to induce me to change
my mind, I shall change it. I like you very well, but I'm not going to
take a leap in the dark, and I'm not going to marry a pig in a poke.'

'There you're quite right,' he said,--'quite right.'

'You may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and I'll
tell Madame Melmotte the same. She and Croll don't mean going any
farther 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'll
have 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 the
ropes in California shan't make me do it. Well--yes; you may give me a
kiss 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 and
wife.

After that Mr Fisker's remaining business in England went very
smoothly with him. It was understood up at Hampstead that he was
engaged to Marie Melmotte,--and it soon came to be understood also that
Madame Melmotte was to be married to Herr Croll. No doubt the father
of the one lady and the husband of the other had died so recently as
to make these arrangements subject to certain censorious objections.
But there was a feeling that Melmotte had been so unlike other men,
both in his life and in his death, that they who had been concerned
with him were not to be weighed by ordinary scales. Nor did it much
matter, for the persons concerned took their departure soon after the
arrangement was made, and Hampstead knew them no more.

On the 3rd of September Madame Melmotte, Marie, Mrs Hurtle, Hamilton
K. Fisker, and Herr Croll left Liverpool for New York; and the three
ladies were determined that they never would revisit a country of
which their reminiscences certainly were not happy. The writer of the
present chronicle may so far look forward,--carrying his reader with
him,--as to declare that Marie Melmotte did become Mrs Fisker very
soon after her arrival at San Francisco.



CHAPTER XCIX - LADY CARBURY AND MR BROUNE


When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that
he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign
travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant
divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune some
years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeed a sounder
basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to his
statements. That he should have intended to produce a false impression
was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he should have made
his attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no one
would believe. He was going to Germany, and he was going in company
with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain there
for the next twelve months. A representation had lately been made to
the Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certain
commercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were without
pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter. A
clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the income
suggested was very small. The Protestant English population of the
commercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. It had
come to pass that the 'Morning Breakfast Table' had interested itself
in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner not
unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those concerned in the
matter had fully understood that if the 'Morning Breakfast Table'
could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done.
The heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon
Mr Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that
could be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus Blake,--a
brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had been induced to undertake
the maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a
consideration. Mr Broune imparted to Mr Blake all that there was to
know about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management of
the young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he should
on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home. It was
evidently Mr Broune's anxious wish that Sir Felix should see as much
as possible of German life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure,
and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if not
absolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his own
comfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should not
admit of the speedy return to England of the young gentleman himself.

Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult as
was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure the
idea of driving him into exile. But Mr Broune was very obstinate, very
reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart. 'What is to
be the end of it then?' he said to her, almost in anger. For in those
days the great editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed very
much from that Mr Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into
her eyes. His manner with her had become so different that she
regarded him as quite another person. She hardly dared to contradict
him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she really
felt and thought. 'Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have
to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?'

'Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid
things.'

'It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself
compelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be
in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can
he do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the
life he is leading?'

'If he could only be married!'

'Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw
herself away upon him?'

'He is so handsome.'

'What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me
tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him
here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He
has agreed to go;--let him go.'

She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented, it
was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr Broune's
greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which he
persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. 'Your mother,' said Mr
Broune, 'has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your
sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for
a few months. She cannot make you go to Germany of course. But she can
turn 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 take
my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take her advice £175
a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in England
not a shilling further will be paid.' He had no money. His last
sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would give him credit for
a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken away
from him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes were
becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement for him during the
coming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement in
Eastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for
the better.

He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr Broune, was duly
introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last
sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions
for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no
doubt mourn his departure.

Mr Blake and Mr Broune between them did not allow the grass to grow
under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr and Mrs
Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg,--having
extracted at the very hour of parting a last five pound note from his
foolish mother. 'It will be just enough to bring him home,' said Mr
Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury,
who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained in
his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate.
'It will be gone,' she said, 'long before they reach their
destination.'

'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's
allowance in advance to Mr Blake out of his own pocket. Indeed, he had
paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman
would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great
editor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times a
week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions
as to all that she should do. 'I wouldn't write another novel if I
were you,' he said. This was hard, as the writing of novels was her
great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which
she had written was good. Mr Broune's own critic had declared it to be
very good in glowing language. The 'Evening Pulpit' had of course
abused it,--because it is the nature of the 'Evening Pulpit' to abuse.
So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was
all true, whereas the censure had come from malice. After that article
in the 'Breakfast Table,' it did seem hard that Mr Broune should tell
her to write no more novels. She looked up at him piteously but said
nothing. 'I don't think you'd find it answer. Of course you can do it
as 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;--I
don'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 a
while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning Lady
Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from her
daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep up
that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means permitted
it. What should she do with herself? Whither should she take herself?
Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of Mr
Broune forbidding her to write more novels. After all, then, she was
not a clever woman,--not more clever than other women around her!
That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a
novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the 'Breakfast
Table.' Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to all
of us, she was more than equally despondent. He would not thus have
crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her now,--he who
used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occur to her to rebel
against him. After what he had said, of course there would be no more
praise in the 'Breakfast Table,'--and, equally of course, no novel of
hers could succeed without that. The more she thought of him, the more
omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she thought of herself, the more
absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes
with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve
months ago.

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 coming
marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her
broken 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 a
second novel. It was impossible now that she should even look at what
she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent the evening
quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin's
friend, Mrs Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life
past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see
something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.
It was all 'leather or prunello,' as she said to herself;--it was all
vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real enjoyment had she found
in anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some day
something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet
in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation,--but
now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr Broune had sent her son
away, had forbidden her to write any more novels and had been refused
when he had asked her to marry him!

The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very
wretched. 'I shall give up this house,' she said. 'I can't afford to
keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know
where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will
be 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 see
you,' said Mr Broune plaintively.

'So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But
what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable
lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong;
but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I
may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want
me. 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 as
goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance
from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so
sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily
trouble, but where shall I find a friend?'

'When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two
or 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 has
been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced
myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I
have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute
to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar
yours.'

This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that
the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at
first brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his
offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her
feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not that
she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid
compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that it could
not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was
so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses
and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this
should in truth want to make her his wife. At this moment she thought
less of herself and more of Mr Broune than either perhaps deserved.
She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept
his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her
countenance. 'Well,' he said; 'what do you think of it? I never loved
you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that
you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by
your son.'

'That was the reason,' she said, almost in a whisper.

'But I shall love you better still for accepting me now if you will
accept me.'

The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition
of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome
maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run
from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to
him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never
confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, her
literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's
career;--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 firm
bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted kiss,--when,
with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that
the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly had not thought
then that his susceptibility was of this nature. Nor could she quite
understand now whether she had been right then, and that the man's
feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,--or whether he had
really loved her from first to last. As he remained silent it was
necessary that she should answer him. 'You can hardly have thought of
it enough,' she said.

'I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for
six 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 for
me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I should
do so.'

'And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't know
what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to
give to me.'

'Yourself,' he said, stretching out his right hand to her.

And there he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself
compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very
absolute words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him
without looking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment
she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees.
Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was
awkward. They would certainly have thought so themselves had they
imagined that any one could have seen them. But how many absurdities
of the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long
as they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that
Age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the
display of it is without the graces of which Youth is proud, and which
Age regrets.

On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He had
certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he went
down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not
only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won
him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.

She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a
thorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfect
blank to her. There was no single object of interest before her. Now
everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound her to him,
who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, was
one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,--so
she told herself,--were greater or more powerful. Was it not a career
enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his
friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are
realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell;
but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady
Carbury became the wife of Mr Broune and, in furtherance of her own
resolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street was
kept, and Mrs Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by
the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.



CHAPTER C - DOWN IN SUFFOLK


It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjusting
his affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from Roger
Carbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck
Street, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carbury
kept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to throw
in fact very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understood perfectly
that she was in this matter stronger than her mother and that she need
fear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was on her side. 'I don't know
what you mean to live on,' Lady Carbury said, threatening future evils
in a plaintive tone. Hetta repeated, though in other language, the
assurance which the young lady made who declared that if her future
husband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quite
satisfied with the potato-peelings; while Paul made some vague
allusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with the
house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. 'I don't see anything like an
income,' said Lady Carbury; 'but I suppose Roger will make it right.
He takes everything upon himself now it seems.' But this was before
the halcyon day of Mr Broune's second offer.

It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the time
fixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. When this was
finally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home,
conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass the
autumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that she
might get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill;
and with that object he induced Mrs Yeld, the Bishop's wife, to invite
her down to the palace. Hetta accepted the invitation and left London
before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement with Mr
Broune.

Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not brought himself
to determine that he would recognize Paul and Hetta as acknowledged
lovers,--without a fierce inward contest. Two convictions had been
strong in his mind, both of which were opposed to this recognition,--
the first telling him that he would be a fitter husband for the girl
than Paul Montague, and the second assuring him that Paul had
ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness would be both
foolish and unmanly. For Roger, though he was a religious man, and
one anxious to conform to the spirit of Christianity, would not allow
himself to think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who
did the injury repented of his own injustice. As to giving his coat to
the thief who had taken his cloak,--he told himself that were he and
others to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked in
order that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed. If any one
stole his cloak he would certainly put that man in prison as soon as
possible and not commence his lenience till the thief should at any
rate affect to be sorry for his fault. Now, to his thinking, Paul
Montague had stolen his cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in this
matter of his love, he would be giving Paul his coat also. No! He was
bound after some fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him
before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence
of punishment might be at least pronounced. 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 appearance
in England had been distressing to him. But still he had gone down
with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's thinking, a man
who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of Hetta Carbury.
He would himself tell no tales against Montague on that head. Even
when pressed to do so he had told no tale. But not the less was his
conviction strong that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be
induced by that knowledge to reject her younger lover.

But then over these convictions there came a third,--equally strong,--
which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love
him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove
his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As he walked up and
down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back,
stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall,--walking there,
mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea,--he schooled
himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. What did
love mean if not that? What could be the devotion which men so often
affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the
beloved one? A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject
himself to any toil,--would even die for her! But if this were done
simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of
which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? So,
by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. The man, though
he had been bad to his friend, was not all bad. He was one who might
become good in good hands. He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too
honest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the
man's unfitness. What right had he to think that he could judge of that
better than the girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been
walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering
it he crushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the
energies of his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs Paul
Montague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolve
when last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from
Paul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.

When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and of
assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival's wife,
he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit than he
had been during these months in which there had still been doubt. The
sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself could
certainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quite sure.
Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy on
condition that such boy should take the old name. He would never have
a child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he could induce
these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a part
of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he
thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interest
in the property. But as a first step to this he must learn to regard
himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too far for
the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself to
make happy the homes of others.

So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his story
to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those revelations
Mrs Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Roger felt that he had
still much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could be
said in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teach
her to regard Suffolk as the county to which she should be attached
and in which she was to find her home. The day before she came he was
over at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come and
see his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of
talking about Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for
sympathy in his trouble. 'As to settling your property on her or her
children,' said the Bishop, 'it is quite out of the question. Your
lawyer would not allow you to do it. Where would you be if after all
you were to marry?'

'I shall never marry.'

'Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speak
with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that
respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your
property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked.'

'I think you hardly understand just what I feel,' said Roger, 'and I
know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act
exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if
she had a son, would be my natural heir.'

'But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir
as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might
have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which
properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly
belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very
highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than
well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human
nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your
own disposal should have some effect in producing the more complete
observance of your wishes.'

'I do not believe it in the least, my lord,' said Roger somewhat
angrily.

'That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present
moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not,
perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their
daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the
folly of the old king. "Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown," the
fool said to him, "when thou gav'st thy golden one away." The world, I
take it, thinks that the fool was right.'

The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of
settling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not on
that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself
and his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he came
over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and
walked there with her for a couple of hours. 'I hope all our troubles
are 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 best
thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr Broune, and Mr
Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself, I
hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to Felix
and 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. I
was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--when I
was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought not
to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should have
known 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, and
have got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly and
stronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's
life, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainly
marked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn
from them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is done
now. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I
look forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the
source of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as though
he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I ask
of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there.' She only
answered him by a close pressure on his arm. 'That is what I wanted to
say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your best and
closest 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, and
already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and
foolish.'

'You never were foolish.'

'Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me
this. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his
residence.'

'We have no plans as yet at all, Roger.'

'Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my
plan. 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 as
settled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should
learn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your home
really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire of
Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to
fill that exalted position.' With all his love to her and his
good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul
Montague should be Squire of Carbury.

'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 quite
made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to dictate to
you,--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.' He
threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to the
air. 'I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right
that you should know that I hold my property as steward for those who
are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will
be infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share the
interest which I shall take in the matter. It is the only payment
which 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,' he
said very solemnly, 'I will not say a word against her brother; but on
that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment.
It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered
much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need
not pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hope
we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. The
disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as
mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in
accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections. He
owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his
country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes
a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly
wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their
descendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I am
in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but I do so
under a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best
perform the duties to which I have alluded. 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, she
did not venture to dispute his will any further. He did not endeavour
to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes,
kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and
rode home without going into the house.

Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same
thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was
received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all
anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kept
his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. As to his
love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so
nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival.
Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion
should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed made a solemn
resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the
girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time,
probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his
fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and the
labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the
necessity of so living that the income might always be more than
sufficient for the wants of the household.

When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop
at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the
bride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had
not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was
there with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, having
occupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old Daniel
Ruggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own.
'John, what a fool you are!' Ruby said to her spouse, when this
opinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. 'Yes, I be,' said
John,--'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 when
the bairn's born,' said John,--equally aloud. Then Ruby held her
tongue. Mrs Broune, and Mr Broune, were also at Carbury,--thus doing
great honour to Mr and Mrs Paul Montague, and showing by their
presence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix was not
there. Happily up to this time Mr Septimus Blake had continued to
keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the German
town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.





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