'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 eclat 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 fete. 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 L2,000 or L3,000 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 L112 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 L625,—that sum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price of L100 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 L100 each, and L12 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 L7,000 or L8,000 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 L10,000 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.