'You wouldn't go on playing with him?'

'Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up.'

'But Dolly,—if you think of it!'

'That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it.'

'And you won't give me your advice.'

'Well—no; I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why did you pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nidderdale?'

'He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?'

'No, he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out for this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me such a story as this I wouldn't have come with you.'

'That's nonsense, Dolly.'

'Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a twitter already.'

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

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

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

'I suppose it's all right with him,' said Sir Felix.

'Oh yes;—it's all right. Thousands of pounds to him are only like half-crowns to us fellows. I should say it's all right. All the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you know.' Sir Felix already began to be unhappy about his thousand pounds.



CHAPTER XXIX - MISS MELMOTTE'S COURAGE

Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted. 'I have spoken to her father,' he said crossly.

'And what did Mr Melmotte say?'

'Say;—what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all he's an old screw.'

'Did he forbid you to come there any more?'

'Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let me alone I'll do the best I can.'

'She has accepted you, herself?'

'Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury.'

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

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

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

'I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it.'

'You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of them as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once. They say she is of age.'

'I shouldn't know where to take her,' said Sir Felix, almost stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. 'All that about Scotland is done with now.'

'Of course you would marry her at once.'

'I suppose so,—unless it were better to stay as we were, till the money was settled.'

'Oh no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come round, if—'

'The mother is nothing.'

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

Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But the prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so circumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought to take her, and what he ought to do with her;—and that he would then make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the man to tell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would be sure to tell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him. There would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate 'a fellow,'— if 'the fellow' paid him.

On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie,— but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of Auld Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair,—almost white. He was standing up supporting himself on two sticks when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hail one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then there had been for a moment a whispering behind a door,—in which he afterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a part;—and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the drawing-room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He had not had time to place himself, when the Marquis arranged things. 'Suppose we go downstairs,' said the Marquis.

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

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

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

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

'No,' said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. 'Why should he go? I want papa to know.'

'Il vous tuera,' said Madame Melmotte. 'My God, yes.'

'Then he shall,' said Marie, clinging to her lover. 'I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do it. Felix, you love me; do you not?'

'Certainly,' said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.

'Mamma,' said Marie, 'I will never have any other man but him;—never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me.'

'You know that, don't you, ma'am?' Sir Felix was a little troubled in his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.

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

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

Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavy sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the invitation. 'I don't think I have a right to do that,' he said, 'because it is Mr Melmotte's own house.'

'I wouldn't mind,' said Marie. 'I told papa to-day that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale.'

'Was he angry with you?'

'He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you.'

Madame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's waist listening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to them,—when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. 'C'est lui,' screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips. 'Now be brave,' she said, escaping from his arm, 'and I'll be brave.' Mr Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. 'Where are the others?' he asked.

'Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma.'

'Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale.'

'Sir Felix, I am not engaged—to—marry Lord Nidderdale,' said Marie. 'It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't do it.'

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

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

'Pooh!'

'It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life.'

Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out in the square. 'Jade,' said Melmotte, 'get to your room.'

'Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa.'

'I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me! Have you no idea of disgrace?'

'I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going.' He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.

'I am very sorry, Mr Melmotte,' said Sir Felix, 'to have had a hand in causing this disturbance.'

'Go away, and don't come back any more;—that's all. You can't both marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you,—if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city.'

After this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the door opened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which had just taken place. It ran as follows:

I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything.'

M.

Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name, if he could lay his bands on it. He did not know much of such transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure a portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. Whether, having so settled it, he could again resume it without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might possibly derive from it. Her proposition, put into plain English, amounted to this: 'Take me and marry me without my father's consent,— and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me.' He had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character of her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had had a will of her own when the mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked.

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

What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so easily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while of such a man as Mr Melmotte to make a trifling provision of this nature. It could hardly be less than L50,000,—might probably be very much more. But this was certain to him,—that if he and Marie were to claim this money as man and wife, there could then be no hope of further liberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr Melmotte would forgive even an only child such an offence as that. Even if it were obtained, L50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte might probably have means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deep waters.



CHAPTER XXX - MR MELMOTTE'S PROMISE

On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr Alf's paper, the 'Evening Pulpit,' a very remarkable article on the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing more remarkable than in this,—that it left on the mind of its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed,—that in the 'Evening Pulpit' was a matter of course,—and, above all things, ironical. Next to its omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to the 'Evening Pulpit.' There was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served Mr Melmotte. There was a little praise, given of course in irony, to Mr Melmotte's Board of English Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilizing Mexico by joining it to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there was something said of the universality of Mr Melmotte's commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercial splendour, no one could tell.

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

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

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

'Perhaps that is the best way of putting it,' said Mr Booker.

'If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?'

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

'At the expense of anything?' rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. 'One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule.'

'You would do evil to produce good?' asked Mr Booker.

'I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy.'

'You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury.'

'I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity,' said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. 'Did I hold your place, Mr Booker, in the literature of my country—'

'I hold no place, Lady Carbury.'

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

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

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

'There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see,' said Mr Melmotte.

'I was one of the unfortunates,' said Mr Alf.

'I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist room you would have found me.'

'Ah,—if I had but known!' said Mr Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. 'Mr Melmotte,' she said, whispering to him, 'I do so want to make you known to Mr Broune. Mr Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr Broune, as of course you know, manages the "Breakfast Table." There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr Broune. And they declare, you know,' she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, 'that his commercial articles are gospel,— absolutely gospel.' Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated;—but not out of hearing.

'Getting very hot,' said Mr Melmotte.

'Very hot indeed,' said Mr Broune.

'It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June.'

'Very hot indeed,' said Mr Broune again. Then the conversation was over. Mr Broune sidled away, and Mr Melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

But Mr Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. 'It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;— very good.' Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. 'And I came,' continued Mr Melmotte, 'because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter.' Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;—clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve.

'My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man.'

'You would not enslave her affections, Mr Melmotte?'

'I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board.'

'I did;—I did.'

'I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am.' Then Mr Melmotte took his departure without another word.

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

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

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

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

'I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr Melmotte,' she said smiling. He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. 'I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man.'

'I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me,—for if he said little, I said less.'

'It didn't just come off,' Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. 'But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend.'

'Certainly,' he said, putting out his hand for hers.

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,—finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord. 'Stupid old goose!' she said to herself. 'And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?' The editor nodded his head. 'He is engaged to marry that man's daughter.'

'Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?' Then Lady Carbury nodded her head. 'Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale.'

'She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him,— as is he with her.' She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;—but lying had become her nature. 'Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she would not have a penny.'

'Do you mean that he volunteered that as a threat?'

'Just so;—and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it.'

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

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

'That's bosh,' said Broune with decision.

'Do you think it must be so;—certainly?'

'Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held.'

'He did make it.'

'Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving.'

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

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

'No;—he has no capital.'

'Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that.'

'You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?'

Mr Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply. She wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an elopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time.

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

'That is a question very hard to answer.'

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

'Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion.'

'There would be nothing disgraceful.'

'I didn't say there would;—but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,—I think he would.'

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

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

'I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you,' said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. 'You have been so very kind.' Then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night.

'And now,' he said, 'I also have something to say to you.'



CHAPTER XXXI - MR BROUNE HAS MADE UP HIS MIND

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

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

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

'Oh, yes;—and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you.'

'I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,—a foolish truism.'

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

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

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

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

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

It was necessary that she should answer him;—and to her it was only natural that she should think what answer would best assist her own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table!' And then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was paid L3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her.

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

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

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

'Well?'

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

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

'You tell me so;—but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,—tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness.'

'Has it made you happy?'

'It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr Broune.'

'Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career.'

'Mr Broune, I love him better,—always shall love him better,—than anything in the world.' This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. 'Mr Broune,' she said, 'I am now so agitated that you had better leave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock.'

'When may I hope for an answer?'

'You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. I will write to you,—to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none ready.' He took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her without another word.

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

'Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh, I'm all right.' And so he tumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.

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

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

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

And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,—no romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together,—and Mr Broune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to the dogs, then would Mr Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter.

She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would only condescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions.

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

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

'Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is.'

'He always seems to me to like to have his own way.'

'Why shouldn't he like it?'

'He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;—as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness.'

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

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



CHAPTER XXXII - LADY MONOGRAM

Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for a fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had not much improved. Her brother had troubled her no further, and her family at Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any notice of Dolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold, dull letter from her mother,—such letters as she had been accustomed to receive when away from home; and these she had answered, always endeavouring to fill her sheet with some customary description of fashionable doings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have repeated for her mother's amusement,—and her own delectation in the telling of it,— had there been nothing painful in the nature of her sojourn in London. Of the Melmottes she hardly spoke. She did not say that she was taken to the houses in which it was her ambition to be seen. She would have lied directly in saying so. But she did not announce her own disappointment. She had chosen to come up to the Melmottes in preference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare her own failure. 'I hope they are kind to you,' Lady Pomona always said. But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the Melmottes were kind or unkind.

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

But the nights were still worse. She could only go where Madame Melmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive people at home than to go out. And the people she did receive were antipathetic to Miss Longestaffe. She did not even know who they were, whence they came, or what was their nature. They seemed to be as little akin to her as would have been the shopkeepers in the small town near Caversham. She would sit through long evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of the vulgarity of her associates. Occasionally she was taken out, and was then, probably, taken to very grand houses. The two duchesses and the Marchioness of Auld Reekie received Madame Melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were open to her. And some of the most elaborate fetes of the season.—which indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travelling potentate,—were attained. On these occasions Miss Longestaffe was fully aware of the struggle that was always made for invitations, often unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. Even the bargains, conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty sister, were not altogether hidden from her. The Emperor of China was to be in London and it was thought proper that some private person, some untitled individual, should give the Emperor a dinner, so that the Emperor might see how an English merchant lives. Mr Melmotte was chosen on condition that he would spend L10,000 on the banquet;—and, as a part of his payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted with his family, to a grand entertainment given to the Emperor at Windsor Park. Of these good things Georgiana Longestaffe would receive her share. But she went to them as a Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe,—and when amidst these gaieties, though she could see her old friends, she was not with them. She was ever behind Madame Melmotte, till she hated the make of that lady's garments and the shape of that lady's back.

She had told both her father and mother very plainly that it behoved her to be in London at this time of the year that she might—look for a husband. She had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and that purpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appeared to them to be unreasonable. She wanted to be settled in life. She had meant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;—but lords are scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very highly gifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune. She had long made up her mind that she could do without a lord, but that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must be a man with a place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually to London. He must be a gentleman,—and, probably, in parliament. And above all things he must be in the right set. She would rather go on for ever struggling than take some country Whitstable as her sister was about to do. But now the men of the right sort never came near her. The one object for which she had subjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have vanished altogether in the distance. When by chance she danced or exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs whom she used to know, they spoke to her with a want of respect which she felt and tasted but could hardly analyse. Even Miles Grendall, who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted to patronize her in a manner that bewildered her. All this nearly broke her heart.

And then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which made her aware that, in the teeth of all Mr Melmotte's social successes, a general opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was rather gaining ground than otherwise. 'Your host is a wonderful fellow, by George!' said Lord Nidderdale. 'No one seems to know which way he'll turn up at last.' 'There's nothing like being a robber, if you can only rob enough,' said Lord Grasslough,—not exactly naming Melmotte, but very clearly alluding to him. There was a vacancy for a member of parliament at Westminster, and Melmotte was about to come forward as a candidate. 'If he can manage that I think he'll pull through,' she heard one man say. 'If money'll do it, it will be done,' said another. She could understand it all. Mr Melmotte was admitted into society, because of some enormous power which was supposed to lie in his hands; but even by those who thus admitted him he was regarded as a thief and a scoundrel. This was the man whose house had been selected by her father in order that she might make her search for a husband from beneath his wing!

In her agony she wrote to her old friend Julia Triplex, now the wife of Sir Damask Monogram. She had been really intimate with Julia Triplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had been achieved. Julia had been without fortune, but very pretty. Sir Damask was a man of great wealth, whose father had been a contractor. But Sir Damask himself was a sportsman, keeping many horses on which other men often rode, a yacht in which other men sunned themselves, a deer forest, a moor, a large machinery for making pheasants. He shot pigeons at Hurlingham, drove four-in-hand in the park, had a box at every race-course, and was the most good-natured fellow known. He had really conquered the world, had got over the difficulty of being the grandson of a butcher, and was now as good as though the Monograms had gone to the crusades. Julia Triplex was equal to her position, and made the very most of it. She dispensed champagne and smiles, and made everybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with her husband. Lady Monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and in that position had been, of course, invaluable to her old friend. We must give her her due and say that she had been fairly true to friendship while Georgiana—behaved herself. She thought that Georgiana in going to the Melmottes had not behaved herself, and therefore she had determined to drop Georgiana. 'Heartless, false, purse-proud creature,' Georgiana said to herself as she wrote the following letter in humiliating agony.

DEAR LADY MONOGRAM,

I think you hardly understand my position. Of course you have cut me. Haven't you? And of course I must feel it very much. You did not use to be ill-natured, and I hardly think you can have become so now when you have everything pleasant around you. I do not think that I have done anything that should make an old friend treat me in this way, and therefore I write to ask you to let me see you. Of course it is because I am staying here. You know me well enough to be sure that it can't be my own choice. Papa arranged it all. If there is anything against these people, I suppose papa does not know it. Of course they are not nice. Of course they are not like anything that I have been used to. But when papa told me that the house in Bruton Street was to be shut up and that I was to come here, of course I did as I was bid. I don't think an old friend like you, whom I have always liked more than anybody else, ought to cut me for it. It's not about the parties, but about yourself that I mind. I don't ask you to come here, but if you will see me I can have the carriage and will go to you.

Yours, as ever,

GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.

It was a troublesome letter to get written. Lady Monogram was her junior in age and had once been lower than herself in social position. In the early days of their friendship she had sometimes domineered over Julia Triplex, and had been entreated by Julia, in reference to balls here and routes there. The great Monogram marriage had been accomplished very suddenly, and had taken place,—exalting Julia very high,—just as Georgiana was beginning to allow her aspirations to descend. It was in that very season that she moved her castle in the air from the Upper to the Lower House. And now she was absolutely begging for notice, and praying that she might not be cut! She sent her letter by post and on the following day received a reply, which was left by a footman.

DEAR GEORGIANA,

Of course I shall be delighted to see you. I don't know what you mean by cutting. I never cut anybody. We happen to have got into different sets, but that is not my fault. Sir Damask won't let me call on the Melmottes. I can't help that. You wouldn't have me go where he tells me not. I don't know anything about them myself, except that I did go to their ball. But everybody knows that's different. I shall be at home all to-morrow till three,—that is to-day I mean, for I'm writing after coming home from Lady Killarney's ball; but if you wish to see me alone you had better come before lunch.

Yours affectionately,

J. MONOGRAM.

Georgiana condescended to borrow the carriage and reached her friend's house a little after noon. The two ladies kissed each other when they met—of course, and then Miss Longestaffe at once began. 'Julia, I did think that you would at any rate have asked me to your second ball.'

'Of course you would have been asked if you had been up in Bruton Street. You know that as well as I do. It would have been a matter of course.'

'What difference does a house make?'

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

'Who asks you?'

'You are with them.'

'Do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house without asking everybody that lives with that person? It's done every day.'

'Somebody must have brought you.'

'I would have come with the Primeros, Julia.'

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

'I don't see it at all, Julia.'

'I'm very sorry, my dear, but I can't go against my husband.'

'Everybody goes to their house,' said Georgiana, pleading her cause to the best of her ability. 'The Duchess of Stevenage has dined in Grosvenor Square since I have been there.'

'We all know what that means,' replied Lady Monogram.

'And people are giving their eyes to be asked to the dinner party which he is to give to the Emperor in July;—and even to the reception afterwards.'

'To hear you talk, Georgiana, one would think that you didn't understand anything,' said Lady Monogram. 'People are going to see the Emperor, not to see the Melmottes. I dare say we might have gone only I suppose we shan't now,—because of this row.'

'I don't know what you mean by a row, Julia.'

'Well;—it is a row, and I hate rows. Going there when the Emperor of China is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than going to the play. Somebody chooses to get all London into his house, and all London chooses to go. But it isn't understood that that means acquaintance. I should meet Madame Melmotte in the park afterwards and not think of bowing to her.'

'I should call that rude.'

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

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

'How'd you do, Miss Longestaffe? She doesn't know them.' And Sir Damask, folding his hands together, raising his eyebrows, and standing on the rug, looked as though he had solved the whole difficulty.

'She knows me, Sir Damask.'

'Oh yes;—she knows you. That's a matter of course. We're delighted to see you, Miss Longestaffe—I am, always. Wish we could have had you at Ascot. But—.' Then he looked as though he had again explained everything.

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

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

'No, thank you.'

'Now you're here, you'd better,' said Lady Monogram.

'No, thank you. I'm sorry that I have not been able to make you understand me. I could not allow our very long friendship to be dropped without a word.'

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

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

'Good-bye, my dear. If you will quarrel, it isn't my doing.' Then Sir Damask led Miss Longestaffe out, and put her into Madame Melmotte's carriage. 'It's the most absurd thing I ever knew in my life,' said the wife as soon as her husband had returned to her. 'She hasn't been able to bear to remain down in the country for one season, when all the world knows that her father can't afford to have a house for them in town. Then she condescends to come and stay with these abominations and pretends to feel surprised that her old friends don't run after her. She is old enough to have known better.'

'I suppose she likes parties,' said Sir Damask.

'Likes parties! She'd like to get somebody to take her. It's twelve years now since Georgiana Longestaffe came out. I remember being told of the time when I was first entered myself. Yes, my dear, you know all about it, I dare say. And there she is still. I can feel for her, and do feel for her. But if she will let herself down in that way she can't expect not to be dropped. You remember the woman;—don't you?'

'What woman?'

'Madame Melmotte?'

'Never saw her in my life.'

'Oh yes, you did. You took me there that night when Prince—danced with the girl. Don't you remember the blowsy fat woman at the top of the stairs;—a regular horror?'

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

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



CHAPTER XXXIII - JOHN CRUMB

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

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

'John Crumb coming here, grandfather? He's welcome to stay away then, for me.'

'That be dommed.' The old man thrust his old hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well understood by Ruby. 'Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband? Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this. John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said.'

'The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his saying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm willing.'

'And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?'

'You've been a'drinking, grandfather.'

He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;— nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which she was well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. 'Look ye here, Ruby,' he said, 'out o' this place you go. If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay.'

'Who cares for all Bungay,—a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;—and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb.'

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

'It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb, I knows him.'

'Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise?'

'If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,—and I shan't be the last.'

'You means you won't have him?'

'That's about it, grandfather.'

'Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,—for you won't have me.'

'There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather.'

'Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings.'

'What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. You don't know nothing ag'in me.'

'He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;—he ain't.'

'Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait.'

'If you can't make it up wi' him—'

'Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways.'

'Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,—let alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;—you don't. If you don't like to take it,—leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too.'

'Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the stoopidest place in all England.'

'Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind. I'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. Stoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's Acre, afore you've done.'

In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr Crumb, Miss Ruggles went about her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her grandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's house. But as she did this, she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. Upon that she was now fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among them. And she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the mealman, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;—and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other! 'It's no good going against love,' she said to herself, 'and I won't try. He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me.' And then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. She would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of Sheep's Acre.

Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did he come alone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at his marriage. John Crumb's character was not without any fine attributes. He could earn money,—and having earned it could spend and keep it in fair proportion. He was afraid of no work, and,—to give him his due,— was afraid of no man. He was honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. He was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all forms of expression. He knew good meal from bad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair profit at the selling. He knew the value of a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in truth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all Bungay. His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her acknowledged lover,—and he did not hide his light under a bushel. Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted. Now when he came to settle the day,—having heard more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,—he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. 'If here isn't Joe Mixet,' said Ruby to herself. 'Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb? There's no end to his being stoopid.'

The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests. 'What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's stewing o' something for us to eat a bit. Don't e' smell it?'—John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed and grinned.

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

'The more the merrier;—the more the merrier. Ruby'll have enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;—is he? The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away.'

The lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he was instigated to ask a question. 'Where be she, Muster Ruggles?' They were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man and his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the back kitchen. As John Crumb asked this question she could be heard distinctly among the pots and the plates. She now came out, and wiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men. She had enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was in hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover. 'Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr Mixet.'

'You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try ever so. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?'

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

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

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

'You've got it all afore you,' said the farmer,—leaving the lover to draw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition.

'And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;—that I don't,' said John.

'That's the chat,' said Joe Mixet. 'There ain't nothing wanting in his house;—is there, John? It's all there,—cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed.' This he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back kitchen.

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

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

There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said. John Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously picking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage. He did not ask for more beer, but took it as often as Ruby replenished his glass. When the eating was done, Ruby retired into the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some bone or merry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence reserved, sharing her spoils however with the other maiden. This she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes. The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while Ruby went through her domestic duties. So matters went on for half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolution of going to bed. She began her operations in fear and trembling, not being sure that her grandfather would bring the man upstairs to her. As she thought of this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door. She knew well that there was no bolt there. It would be terrible to her to be invaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer. And, she declared to herself, that should he come he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him. So she paused and listened.

When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his granddaughter, but called of course in vain. 'Where the mischief is the jade gone?' he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen. The maid, as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the yard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the back door. 'The devil's in them. They're off some gates,' he said aloud. 'She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way.' Then he returned to the two young men. 'She's playing off her games somewheres,' he said. 'Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr Crumb, and I'll see after her.'

'I'll just take a drop of y'ell,' said John Crumb, apparently quite unmoved by the absence of his sweetheart.

It was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He was not bound to give the girl a home at all. She was not his own child. And he had offered her L500! 'Domm her,' he said aloud as he made his way back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading Ruby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to appear in public. She had acknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell John Crumb the truth. For she was still determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife. 'You can answer him as well as I, grandfather,' she had said. Then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. 'Oh, if it comes to that,' said Ruby, 'I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather.' 'I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate,' he had said. But she had consented to come down, and they entered the room together.