Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it."


Chapter 17: Marie Melmotte hears a Love Tale


There never was a fellow more in earnest than I was.


I've come down here on purpose to say it again."


"I don't know whether you love me well enough."


She longed to be told by him that he loved her.

She longed to be told that he loved her.


He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore.

He had no objection to telling her so, but felt it to be a bore.


All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle.


He desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent.

He wanted her to accept him; and he wished that she could have gone to her father for his consent.


There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr. Melmotte which he almost feared.


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


I always liked you from the first moment I saw you.


It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed.


"Then I will love you," she said. "I will with all my heart."

"Then I will love you," she said, "with all my heart."


You know a great many men have asked me to love them."


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

"But I have never cared for any of them in the least."


She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears.

She looked up into his beautiful face, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears.


He thought at the moment that she was very common to look at.

He thought that she was very common to look at.


As regarded appearance only he would have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe.


There was indeed a certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him.

The brightness which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and tears was thrown away altogether upon him.


They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her.

They were walking in some shrubbery apart from the house; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm around her waist and kissed her.


"Oh, Felix," she said, giving her face up to him; "no one ever did it before."


He did not in the least believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him.

He did not believe her, nor did it matter to him.


"Say that you will be good to me, Felix.


"Men are not always good to their wives.


I don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this."


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


"He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both.


I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again now.

I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again.


"I would not do it if they were to kill me.


Then she leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face.

Then she leaned upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face.


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


She is more afraid of him than anybody;--more afraid of him than I am.


I thought the gentleman always did that."


He and I are very good friends, you know."


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

He made me a Director of one of his companies."


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


Then she put her face up towards his again.


"Of course I love you," he said, not thinking it worth his while to kiss her.


I suppose I had better go and see him in the city."


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


It wouldn't be the thing to do down here."
"Wouldn't it?"
"Not in the country,--in another person's house.

It wouldn't be the thing to do in another person's house.


"Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him.


But I'll tell you all that another time.


Of course I shall tell you everything now.


I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you."


Then he left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies.


Mr. Melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house, and Lord Alfred was still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer.

Mr. Melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house with Lord Alfred.


As Sir Felix passed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in London.

As Sir Felix passed the great man he told himself that it was much better to postpone the interview till they were in London.


Mr. Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour.


Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte.


Yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister on the following day.

Yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them on the following day.


He was aware that his cousin was not coming.


He believed that his cousin Roger never did go any where like any one else.

He believed that his cousin Roger never did go anywhere.


He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to-morrow.


Then he escaped, and got on his horse, and rode away.

Then he got on his horse, and rode away.


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


"He is going to get the heiress and all the money.


"I don't think it would have suited Dolly," said Lady Pomona.


"After all, why should not Dolly marry a lady?"


Very early the next morning, very early that is for London life, Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wanted to see him.

Very early the next morning, Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wanted to see him.


Then it immediately became a question with him whether he wanted to see Croll.

He was not sure whether he wanted to see Croll.


The man thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared his purpose of waiting when told that Mr. Melmotte was not as yet dressed.


This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning.


Melmotte longed to know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to ask a question.

He longed to know the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner, but he did not dare ask.


Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious.


"Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study."

"See if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study," he said.


But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment.


Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would meet his clerk.

Melmotte could not make up his mind whether to meet his clerk.


It might perhaps be well that he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding him wait for his return.

It might be well that he should first go into the City, telling Croll to wait for his return.


Over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he could not fly.

Over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but he knew that he could not fly.


And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he would do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might.

And if he stood his ground, he must not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts he may.


Of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Croll as well as another?

Of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt - and why not Croll as well as another?


He stood against a press in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself.

He stood in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself.


How easily might he put an end to it all!


Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be shown up into his room.


The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very long.

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed very long.


He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was still upon his face.


But he could not smother his anxiety. He was fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it.

But he could not conquer his anxiety, though he was fighting it at every turn.


When the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to support himself.


With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly.

Hoarsely he told the man to come in, and Croll opened the door very gently and slowly.


Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been forged!

Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw that Croll had the bag in his hand. He could see also by the shape of the bag that it contained the papers to which Croll's name had been forged.


There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll should be ignorant of what had been done.

There was no longer a hope that Croll was ignorant of what had been done.


"Well, Croll," he said with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?"


He was pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself from trembling.

He was pale as death, and could not stop himself from trembling.


"Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night," said Croll.


"And he thought I had better bring these back to you.

"He thought I had better bring these back to you.


Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.

Croll spoke in a very low voice, but with no threat in his manner.


[Illustration: "He thought I had better bring these back to you."]


Even though he might have saved himself from all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not assume it.


But it all flashed upon him at a moment.

It all flashed upon Melmotte in a moment.


Brehgert had seen Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents.

Brehgert had seen Croll, had discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents.


He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this.

He had known Brehgert to be the most good-natured of men, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this.


It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.


"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signature was wanting.


It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'd bring them to you in the morning."

It was very late, so I took them home, and said I'd bring them to you in the morning."


They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll; but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends had resolved together that they would not expose him?

They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll; but had resolved together that they would not expose him.


He had desired to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!

Melmotte had wished to get the documents back, and here they were.


Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him in forgery.


There were no words appropriate to such an occasion.


"It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll.


Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned.


"I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr. Melmotte."


De leetle money coming to me, you will send it.


And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after an intercourse which had lasted twenty years.

And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after twenty years.


We may imagine that Herr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by his patron's guilt.


He had merely remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was a "strong order."


Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one.

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined all the documents.


It had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries.


It had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but here the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested!

It had of course been necessary that each name should be witnessed; but here the forger had left one signature undone!


Again he had aided his own ruin by his own carelessness.

He had aided his own ruin by his carelessness.


One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool might do an honest business.


But fraud requires a man to be alive and wide awake at every turn!


Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and now he had them.


Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew the crime which he had committed?


Had they meant to take legal steps against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own hands.


Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll.

Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale; but he was by no means so sure of Croll.


Croll had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep the secret.

Croll would probably enter some rival service, and there could be no reason why he should keep the secret.


Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry favour by making it known.


But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him?


There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation.


Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm.

Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done.


But the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study.

But the evidence must be suppressed, so he took the bag and all the papers down with him to the study.


Then he ate his breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

Then he ate his breakfast - and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.


When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day.

When this was done he hesitated as to how to pass his day.


He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe.


He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands.

He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the gentlemen on the next day the fact that he must leave the matter in their hands.


For he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting.

For he had resolved not to evade the meeting.


Cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe.

He would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe.


Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another.


But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the City.

But he could do no good now by going into the City.


His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it.


He could hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert!


He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them.

He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and he would dine there, and stand about in the smoking-room, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators - and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them.


He was about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

He was about to have a crushing fall - but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.


About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study.


It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands.

It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who had ever received indulgence at his hands.


He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit.

He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her.


Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected.

Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by her obstinacy had driven him to acts of forgery.


He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for anger.


But he had almost forgotten the transaction.


He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence.

He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings.


He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.


"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday."

"Papa," she said, "I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday."


"Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now."

"Of course you were wrong; but it doesn't matter now."


I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether he does or not."

I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more.


"I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there.


I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more."


I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him.


Papa, is there something going to happen?"


Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?"


"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all.


Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him."


"Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?"


"Then what makes you think he would marry you?"


"He would if I got hold of him and told him.


And there would be plenty of money for us all.


"We could do that just as well without your marrying."


"But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody.


I don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me.


I like him, and I don't like anybody else."

"I like him, Papa, and I don't like anybody else."


"He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you."


I don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand.


I don't know that anybody is very grand.


There are other things to be thought of now than marriage."


But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours.


It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything.

It may be that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything.


Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter."


"I won't,--if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."

"I won't - if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."


Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry.


"I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question.


Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels?


Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly.

Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away if we have to leave suddenly.


You are an idiot to think of that young man.


As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst.

Maybe none of them are very good, but he is about the worst.


That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see Sir Felix.

That afternoon the servant in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir Felix.


At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud.

At this time Sir Felix still had plasters on his face, and was much subdued.


Lady Carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover.

Lady Carbury asked about the lady, suspecting that it was Ruby Ruggles.


The page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil.

The servant could say only that the young lady wore a black veil.


Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room.

Lady Carbury directed that she be shown up - and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room.


"I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," Marie said.

"I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," she said.


At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so before she replied.


They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street."


Now Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that "it was all over" with Melmotte.

Now Lady Carbury had heard from Mr. Broune that "it was all over" with Melmotte.


Broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting.

Broune believed that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, and was a ruined man.


"Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a week is over."


That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.


Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while.


"I suppose he told you everything;--didn't he?


You know that we were to have been married?


I loved him very much, and so I do still.


I am not ashamed of coming and telling you."


"I thought it was all off," said Lady Carbury.


Your daughter came to me and was very good to me.


She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong."


It shan't be all over if he will be true."


Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise.


It seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity.

It seemed to her that this young lady, knowing that her father was ruined, was boldly looking for another home.


She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly.

She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly.


"I am afraid," she said, "that it would not be suitable."


There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it is mine.

There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us; but it is mine.


It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great deal.


I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged.

I ain't ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged.


I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable."


It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable.


But how was she to find out whether it was true?


"I understand that your papa is opposed to it," she said.


"Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money.

"Yes, he is; but papa can't prevent me, and he can't make me give up the money."


It's ever so many thousands a year, I know.


Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision.

Lady Carbury was beside herself with doubt.


It would be necessary that she should see Mr. Broune.


What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back.

What to do with her son was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back.


Now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year.

Now this girl was not only willing but anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him with thousands a year.


If the thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand a year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be!

If the thousands were there - or even a single thousand a year - what a blessing would such a marriage be!


Sir Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen.


To get any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort.


"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him."

"Tell him I am here and that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him."


"I couldn't go down to her," said Sir Felix, "with my face all in this way."


Besides, I don't believe about her money.


That was the real reason why I didn't go to Liverpool."


"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix.


We could find out to a certainty about her fortune.


It is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you."


"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?"

"What's the use of that, if her father is ruined?"


He would not go down to see the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street.

He would not go down to see the girl - because he could not bear to expose his face, and was ashamed of his wounds.


As regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story.


But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate.

But getting the money would be a lot of trouble.


How could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

And how could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?


You might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again."


But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make.

Lady Carbury went very slowly back down to the drawing-room.


"Miss Melmotte," she said, "my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."

"Miss Melmotte," she said, "my son feels that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."


"Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him.


I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him.

I am not ashamed of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him.


I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together.


But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person.


I don't think you should be angry with me."


You can forget me now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him."


Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way.

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street.


What sort of life should she endeavour to prepare for herself?

What sort of life should she prepare for?


The life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched.


The poverty and hardship which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable.

The poverty and hardship of her early days had been more endurable.


The servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable.


In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her.

In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation.


She had really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay.

She had really loved; but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay.


She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!

She had declared that bad as the clay was she would still love it; but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!


She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father.


Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious of their coming.


But now the blow would be a very heavy blow.

But this blow would be a very heavy blow.


They would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city,--probably in some very distant part.

They would need to pack up and move to some other, distant city.


But go where she might, she would now be her own mistress.


That was the one resolution she succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.

That was the one resolution she formed before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.


When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune some years since,--he was not altogether lying.

When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to travel abroad with a clergyman, he was, for once, not lying.


There was indeed a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to his statements.


That he should have intended to produce a false impression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he should have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no one would believe.


He was going to Germany, and he was going in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain there for the next twelve months.

He was indeed going to Germany for the next twelve months.


A representation had lately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter.

The Bishop of London had recently decided that a small commercial town in north-eastern Prussia was in need of a minister.


A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the income suggested was very small. The Protestant English population of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. It had come to pass that the "Morning Breakfast Table" had interested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those concerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "Morning Breakfast Table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had been induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a consideration.

The income suggested was very small; but the Morning Breakfast Table interested itself in the matter, and appealed for subscriptions so successfully that it at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman.
And so the Rev. Septimus Blake, who took the post, was also induced to undertake the charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a further payment.


Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blake all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wish that Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy return to England of the young gentleman himself.

Mr. Broune gave Mr. Blake much counsel about the management of the baronet, who should see as much as possible of German life at modest expense; and Mr. Broune emphasised that the clergyman should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home early.


Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme.


Terribly difficult as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure the idea of driving him into exile.

She could not endure the idea of driving her son into exile.


But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart.

But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, and, she thought, hard-hearted.


For in those days the great editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into her eyes.

For in those days Mr. Broune no longer squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes.


His manner with her had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person.

His manner had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person.


She hardly dared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she really felt and thought.


"Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?"

"Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling?"


"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid things."

"Oh, my friend, do not say such horrid things."


"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself compelled to say anything on the subject.


What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia?


What better chance can he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?"


Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?"


Lady Carbury, you must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself.

Lady Carbury, if you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself.


Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented, it was almost impossible that she should not do so.


Perhaps Mr. Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels.

And Mr. Broune was equally firm in persuading Sir Felix to start upon his travels.


"Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months.

"Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "will not beggar herself to indulge you.


She cannot make you go to Germany of course.

She cannot make you go to Germany, of course.


But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so."


"I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune."


But I have said it for her in her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so.


You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so.


If you take her advice 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in England not a shilling further will be paid."

If you go, 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance; but if you remain in England you will not get a shilling."


Not a tradesman would give him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken away from him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes were becoming rusty.

No tradesman would give him credit, and his clothes were becoming rusty.


There was no prospect of amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for the better.

There was no prospect of amusement during the coming months; and he thought that any change must be for the better.


He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his departure.

He assented, therefore, and was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake.


Mr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass to grow under their feet.


Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother.

Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg - having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother.


"It will be just enough to bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told of this.


But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate. "It will be gone," she said, "long before they reach their destination."

But Lady Carbury assured him that Felix would have spent the sum long before they reached their destination.


"Then why the deuce should you give it him?"


Mr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.

said Mr. Broune, whose anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.


Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do.

Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury; and he came three or four evenings a week, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do.


"I wouldn't write another novel if I were you," he said.


This was hard, as the writing of novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good.

This was hard, as she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good.


Mr. Broune's own critic had declared it to be very good in glowing language. The "Evening Pulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the "Evening Pulpit" to abuse.

Mr. Broune's own critic had reviewed it in glowing language, although the Evening Pulpit had of course abused it.


So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come from malice.


After that article in the "Breakfast Table," it did seem hard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels.


She looked up at him piteously but said nothing.


"I don't think you'd find it would answer," said Mr. Broune.


Of course you can do it as well as a great many others.


"I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I don't, indeed.


"I think I would turn to something else."


"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."


To this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for a while, almost in silence, he took his leave.

To this Mr. Broune made no reply; but, after sitting for a while in silence, he took his leave.


On that very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son.


She was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad.


She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means permitted it.

She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself.


Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels.


After all, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other women around her!


That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the "Breakfast Table."

That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing her hopes on the review in the Breakfast Table.


Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to all of us, she was more than equally despondent.


He would not thus have crushed her without a reason.


Though he was hard to her now,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good.


It did not occur to her to rebel against him.


After what he had said, of course there would be no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"--and, equally of course, no novel of hers could succeed without that.

After what he had said, there would be no more praise in the Breakfast Table, - and no novel of hers could succeed without that.


The more she thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be.


The more she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve months ago.


On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone.

On the next day he did not come, and she sat idle and wretched.


She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her broken schemes.

She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage.


She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first chapter of a second novel.

She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of a second novel.


It was impossible now that she should even look at what she had written.

It was impossible now to even look at what she had written.


She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.

She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.


It was all "leather or prunello," as she said to herself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity!


What real enjoyment had she found in anything?


She had only taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet in truth found anything to like.

She had taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like; but she had never yet in truth found anything to like.


It had all been in anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end.

It had all been in anticipation, but now even her anticipations were at an end.


Mr. Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more novels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!
The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very wretched.

The next day Mr. Broune came, and found her still very wretched.


"I can't afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it.


I don't in the least know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies.

I don't know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies.


"You wouldn't think of going out of London."


I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."


"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you," said Mr. Broune plaintively.


You have been more kind to me than anybody.


If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings.


I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help.

I know you tell me I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may help him when he needs help.


There is nobody else that I can do any good to."


"I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.


There is nothing makes one so good as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions.


You say you want me, because I have so sadly wanted you.

You say you want me, because I have so sadly needed you.


When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"


"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury.


Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife.


You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position.

You declined, chiefly, I understood, because of your son's position.


That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again.


I have quite convinced myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours."

I have convinced myself - not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have convinced myself that such a marriage will make me happy, and I think, dearest, you too."


This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at first brought themselves home to her.

This was said so quietly and placidly that the words hardly at first brought themselves home to her.


Of course he had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one.

She could not feel his offer was in earnest.


It was not that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment.


When she thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so.


Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife.

Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and pretences, that she could not understand that he should in truth want to make her his wife.


At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved.


She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her countenance.

She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face.


"Well," he said; "what do you think of it?


I never loved you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son."


"That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.


"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will accept me."


The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes.


The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it.

The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only for money, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned; the calumny which had made her miserable; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career - there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it.


Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest.


Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding to a firm bottom?

Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach?


Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted kiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose.

Then she remembered that first attempted kiss, when she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose.


She certainly had not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature.


Nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last.

She could not quite understand whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and even nature had since changed - or whether he had really loved her from first to last.


As he remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him.


"You can hardly have thought of it enough," she said.
"I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for six months at least."
"There is so much against me."

"There is so much against me," she said.


"I know all about that," replied Mr. Broune.


"I think I may say that I know all about that also."


"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money.

"I am not proposing to marry you for your money.


Luckily for me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I should do so."

Luckily it is not necessary that I should do so."


"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything.

"And then I seem to have fallen through in everything.


I don't know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to give to me."

I don't know what I've got to give in return for all that you offer me."


"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her.


And there he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without looking at him.

She found herself compelled to put her own, very slowly, into it.


Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees.


Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward.


They would certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that any one could have seen them.


But how many absurdities of the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes!


It is not that Age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the display of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, and which Age regrets.

But Age is not ashamed of feeling passion - it is only the public display of it which Age regrets.


On that occasion there was very little more said between them.


He had certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him.


As he went down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also.

As he went down to his office he told himself that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also.


And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.


She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a thorough reaction of spirit.

She, as she sat alone late into the night, underwent a reversal of spirit.


That morning the world had been a perfect blank to her.


There was no single object of interest before her.


This man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful.

This man, who had given her such proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world.


Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, and to shine with his reflected glory?


Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell; but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady Carbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her own resolve, took her husband's name.

Whether her hopes were realised, these pages cannot tell; but before winter was over, Lady Carbury became Mrs. Broune.


The house in Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.


Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very little avail, was not in a good humour.

Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after the Emperor's dinner, was not in a good humour.


Sir Damask, who had himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust.

Sir Damask put her and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust.


The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing.


He had been made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no Prince!


"They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats." That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.

"They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats," he thought, as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies.


"Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?"


This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it.


"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.


I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square."


Anywhere else it would have been early."


"You knew they did not mean to stay long.


I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it.

Yes; it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it.


"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"


Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?"

Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us tomorrow night?"


She could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.


"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming.


You desired me to ask him, and I did so."


The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are."


Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.


Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation.


That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first London circle!

That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex!


But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply.


She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep.

She was almost in tears, and yet anxious to fight rather than weep.


But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests.


"I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last.


"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram.


"Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else."

"Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out - unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else."


Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room.

Then Lady Monogram marched into the house, and went direct to her room.


Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother.

Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, prepared to write to her mother.


The letter to her mother must be written.


Mr. Brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr. Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the present moment.

Mr. Brehgert had twice suggested that he should, in the usual way, go to see Mr. Longestaffe, who was at present in London.


Of course it was proper that Mr. Brehgert should see her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two.

But she had asked him to postpone his visit for a day or two.


Those few words about "various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended.


Mr. Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty.


But she already repented of what she had done.

But she already repented of accepting him.


If it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house?

If it were really necessary to go down into another, much lower world, a world composed of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her to be the mistress of a gorgeous house?


She had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position.


Caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world.

Caversham had been dull; but it was a home to be acknowledged before the world.


Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in Grosvenor Square.

Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set - miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes.


She would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.

She would write one letter tonight; but she did not know whether to write to her mother telling her the horrid truth - or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.


I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match.

She might have decided on the latter had so many people not already heard of the match.


The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide.

The Monograms had talked of it far and wide.


The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it.


It was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season.


Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.

Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham.


She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again.

She had spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again.


She had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and Mr. Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes.


She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr. Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr. Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte.

She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, for ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte.


They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!


If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face.

If the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than face to face.


But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how should she face her family after such a declaration?

But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat - and how should she face her family?


She had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice.


Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her.


Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her?

Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself?


Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for the following morning:--

Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother as follows:


I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed.


I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.


I may as well tell you the worst at once.


(This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.)


He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance.

He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and finance.


I understand they are among the most leading people in the City.

I understand they are among the leading people in the City.


He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham.


I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up.


I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements.


He has offered to have a house in London if I like,--and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country.

He has offered to have a house in London if I like, and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else a place somewhere in the country.


Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country.


He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.


I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied.


I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer.

I am not going to remain as I am all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer.


It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert.


Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr. Melmotte is.


It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens.


If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.


I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, Wednesday.

I hope you won't mind having me back on Wednesday.


There is a party here to-night, and Mr. Brehgert is coming.

There is a party here tonight, and Mr. Brehgert is coming.


But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes.

But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not want to go back to the Melmottes.


I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.


Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort.

Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London - and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics.


Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again.

Of course it isn't all nice, but things will never be nice again.


I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.


When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer be in her way.

When the morning came she asked the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that she could not be tempted to stop it.


About one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's.


The two ladies had breakfasted up-stairs, and had only just met in the drawing-room when he came in.


Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert.

Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert.


She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day.


"And so am I," said Mr. Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.


"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming."

"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have only one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming.


Georgiana, who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a thing.


"We have a few friends coming to-night, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana."

We have a few friends coming tonight, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come and see Georgiana.


Mr. Longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner.


"Mr. Brehgert will be here," continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile.

Mr. Brehgert will be here," she continued with a peculiar smile.


The name was not at first familiar to Mr. Longestaffe.


"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr. Longestaffe.


He had been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face, that Mr. Brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover.

He was certain from Lady Monogram's manner that Mr. Brehgert was an accepted lover.


Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have understood her tone.

Lady Monogram had meant him to understand.


As she said afterwards to Sir Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr. Longestaffe's knowledge.


"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all about it."


"Mr. Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman.

"Mr. Brehgert is a - very wealthy gentleman.


Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father."


But now the poor girl was forced to speak,--though she could not speak as boldly as she had written.

But now the poor girl was forced to speak.


"Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow."

"Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you tomorrow."


"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"


"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte;--a man old enough to be your father!"

"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte; a man old enough to be your father!"


The poor girl's condition now was certainly lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with her father.

The poor girl thought that she would try to brazen it out.


But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to be bold.

But she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin.


She only looked at him as though imploring him to spare her.


demanded Mr. Longestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice.


"He is that fat man?"
"Yes, papa."
"And nearly as old as I am?"


"No, papa,--not nearly as old as you are.


He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder.


On this occasion she condescended to make no further reply.


"If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him.


Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him.


You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."


"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."


that it should be possible that you should think of it!


You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in yourself!

You - my daughter - that used to take such pride in yourself!


I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible.


I will take you down home myself to-morrow.


What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way?"


The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that morning.


"You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."

You had better leave this house today, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."


If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house.


Mr. Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair.

Mr. Longestaffe walked about the room in despair.


She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her.

She knew that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her.


She had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away.

So she had her things packed up, and allowed herself to be carried away.


She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went.


"Tell him that I was called away suddenly."


The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy.

The poor girl had not enough spirit to upbraid her friend.


For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything.


She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham.

She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham.


She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert on the morning of that day;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.

She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert that morning; but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him.


That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party.


Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, Mr. Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance.

Early in the evening, Brehgert, elegantly dressed, made his appearance.


Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile.


"Miss Longestaffe," she said, "has left me and gone to her father."

"Miss Longestaffe has left me and gone to her father."


"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived.

"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head.


Nor did she condescend to speak another word to Mr. Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband.

She did not say another word to Mr. Brehgert.


He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed.

He stood for about ten minutes in the drawing-room, and then he departed.


But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man.


When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probably change her acquaintance.

When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different; or else she would probably change her acquaintance.


It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster.


For many years it has been considered a great thing both in the House and out of the House to "catch" Roman Catholic votes.


There are two modes of catching these votes.


This or that individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people of the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the nation.


The first measure is the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away.


The promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy.


But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious.


It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation is coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same conviction has been made to grow.


To catch the Protestant,--that is the peculiarly Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends.

To catch the Protestant and the Roman Catholic vote at the same time is difficult; but it was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends.


It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large.

It was perhaps thought that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be reported.


During all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the "Evening Pulpit," with a special question asked at the head of it, "For Priest or Parson?"

No article at that time created so much interest as that which appeared in the Evening Pulpit, under the heading "For Priest or Parson?"


In this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man, who did that business, declared that it was really important that the nation at large and especially the electors of Westminster should know what was the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith.

In this delightfully pungent article, Mr. Alf's writer declared that it was really important that the nation should know the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith.


That he was a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence.

That he was a highly religious man was most certain, from his two recent donations - doubtless part of a regular flow of Christian benevolence.


The "Evening Pulpit" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to the approaching election.


Far be it from the "Evening Pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity.

The Evening Pulpit did not imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his generosity.


But still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.

But still, as Protestants naturally wish to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and Roman Catholics by a Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.


This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any way.

This was biting; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to influence them.


He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St. Fabricius with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must leave the results to take care of themselves.


If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him.


Any enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of Mr. Alf's newspaper.


It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society did have much effect.

It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society had much effect.


It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion and torpid as to politics.

It may perhaps have induced a few religiously-minded men to go to the poll.


But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results.


It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome.

It was made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome.


These manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good.

These manuvres require delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good.


On the second afternoon after the question had been asked in the "Evening Pulpit," an answer to it appeared, "For Priest and not for Parson."

On the second day after the question had been asked in the Evening Pulpit, an answer to it appeared: "For Priest and not for Parson."


Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together, so as to show that Mr. Melmotte really had at last made up his mind on this important question.

Therein, various assertions made by Roman Catholic journals were brought together, to show that Mr. Melmotte really had made up his mind on this important question.


All the world knew now, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic,--the Great Financier was the name which Mr. Alf had specially invented for Mr. Melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative.

All the world knew, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic, he had doubted whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative.


And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced.

And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and a golden certainty had been produced.


The world of Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic.


Now nothing was clearer than this,--that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned.

Now it was clear that no real Roman Catholic could hope to be elected.


This last article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to send a letter to the "Breakfast Table" asserting that he adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors.

This article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends that they send a letter to the Breakfast Table asserting that he kept to the Protestant faith of his ancestors.


But, as it was suspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong.

But, as it was suspected by many that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong.


"Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk.


"If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a Protestant.

"If anyone asks you, say you are a Protestant.


But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people. Don't go writing letters."


But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well.

Unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that priests around the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well.


I think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome.


The fervent Romanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready to believe.


And they have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it.


Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his health, his money when he had any, and his life.

Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything in the good cause of returning the country to the Catholic faith - his time, his health, and his money when he had any.


Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion.


But the dropping of water might hollow the stone.


If the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault.


In that fixed resolution Father Barham was admirable.

In his resolution Father Barham was admirable.


But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as to the facts which he would proclaim.

But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments and facts he would use.


With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope.

With mingled ignorance and faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope.


He believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in all quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by "The Surplice," that the man was at heart a Catholic.

He believed in the man's enormous wealth and power, and believed that he was at heart a Catholic.


That a man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing.

That he should profess the Protestant religion was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing.


Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration.


By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire.


There was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young priest's mind.


But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something.


He had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius.

He had for some time been preparing for a trip to London in order to spend a week in retreat at the cells of St. Fabricius.


And so, just at this season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made a journey to London.


He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr. Melmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or two as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country.

He had conceived the great idea of having a word with Mr. Melmotte himself; he wished to meet a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country.


On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services of the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of Mr. Melmotte.

On Saturday night - that night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office - Father Barham took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent the Sunday at various church services; and on the Monday morning he sought Mr. Melmotte.


Having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane.


But on this day, and on the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in Bruton Street.

But on this day, and the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was told that he might be in Grosvenor Square.


There he was told that the great man might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barham was at last successful. Mr. Melmotte was there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.

There he found Mr. Melmotte superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.


The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in giving the priest admittance.


But in truth the house was in great confusion.


The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and cloaks.

Wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being hung up, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pillars, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs moved.


The hall was chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on.

The hall was in chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word about the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive why these operations were carried on.


But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.

But through the chaos he made his way, and found himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.


Mr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son.

Mr. Melmotte was with Lord Alfred and his son.


He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed.

He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, and he was very angry indeed.


He had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial One himself.

He had been given to understand, when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite his guest - which he thought meant immediately in front of the Emperor of Emperors.


It was now explained to him that this could not be done.


In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must also be so indulged.

In front of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty could look down the hall; and the same for the royal princesses and princes who sat by him.


And in this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure.

In this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure.


Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it.


"It's that fellow from 'The Herald' office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion.

"It's that fellow from The Herald office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion.


"I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard.

"I'm d___ if I'm going to be treated this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard.


And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty.

And as Father Barham walked towards him, Mr. Melmotte was trying, in vain, to move his own seat nearer to the Imperial Majesty.


A bar had been put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall.

A bar had been put up that kept him from the centre of his own hall.


he asked, when the priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce.

he demanded of the priest, who was clothed in his usual very rusty brown black.


In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man.


A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.


Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off.


He was a man of infinite pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise,--was the rule of his life.

Outward humility - at any rate at the start of an enterprise - was the rule of his life.


"I am the Rev. Mr. Barham," said the visitor. "I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk.

"I am the Reverend Mr. Barham," he said, "the priest of Beccles in Suffolk.


I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."


I don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this?


Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"


"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest.


Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission.


Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself.


"Certainly it is business," said Father Barham with a smile.

"Certainly," said Father Barham with a smile.


"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the City," said his lordship.

"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane," said his lordship.


I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."


"See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred."


"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others."

"Not mad, sir, only enthusiastic for the souls of others."


Or send somebody; you'd better not go away."


"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the priest.


"If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--"

"If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes-"


I am very busy, and if you will not go away you'll have to be taken away.


"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."


Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?"


"Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow;--but just go."

"Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow; just go."


"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing wrathful.

"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, growing angry.


"I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants.

"I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your servants.


Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?"


"It's a piece of gross impertinence," said Melmotte.

"It's gross impertinence," said Melmotte.


"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?"

"Will you not tell me whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps are in the right path; or as one still in error and darkness?"


"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.


almost screamed Melmotte;--whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.

almost screamed Melmotte - whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.


"That's a remarkable thing," said Melmotte,--"very remarkable."


Even this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation.


"But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially?

"But why did he come to me in his madness?


There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant.

There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as I am.


I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion."

I wonder whether the Morning Pulpit people sent him here to find out my real religion."


"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again;--"just that and no more."

"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again; "just that and no more."


"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. The truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend that they shall.

"My dear fellow, the truth is they don't know what to make of me; and I don't intend that they shall.


I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em understands it except myself.


How am I to get at you if I want anything?"