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.'