Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were receiving. "Damn that kind of nonsense," he said. "Call people by their proper names." Then he left the house without a further word to the master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially of Marie's conduct. "Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "had behaved well, but had certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men." Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself. Sir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was in possession.

That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and of Marie's conduct.
"Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "behaved well, but certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men."
Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though he was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one in possession of a title. Sir Felix was only a baronet; but


He had discovered also that Sir Felix's son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. He was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girl in such words as Felix had in truth used when they parted. "You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than any one else in the world."
"Nobody does;--don't, Sir Felix."
"I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.

 his son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. Melmotte was not disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet.
He did not, however, imagine that the young baronet had addressed his girl in the way Felix had when they parted.
"You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than anyone else in the world."
"Nobody does; don't, Sir Felix."
"I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.


Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was stronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress all the children without complaint. Mrs. Pipkin was forced to own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be told about marriage.

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But in the morning she was miserable. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she had not intended to become maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight - like a dance with Felix at the Music Hall.
But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not like to be told about marriage.


If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter.


Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the Tuesday. As at this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.

Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him, and her regret at vexing him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday?
Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on Tuesday. As he planned to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.


Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send and receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's visit Mrs. Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs. Pipkin's mind was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's behests. She had already hinted something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,--should she find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening,--that she should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck Mrs. Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless,--had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it.

Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. But since Roger Carbury's visit she had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing with exemplary care, and washed the cups and saucers diligently.
But Mrs. Pipkin was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's requests. She decided to tell Ruby most solemnly, if she found her preparing to leave the house in the evening, that she should be kept out the whole night. On the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, she had been careless - she had left her lover's scrap of a note behind when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it.


It was nine o'clock when Ruby went up-stairs,--and then Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day. "You won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" said Mrs. Pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs. Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home all the evening. "If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am."
"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?"

It was nine o'clock when Ruby went upstairs; and Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day.
"You won't be wanting to go out tonight, will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" Mrs. Pipkin asked her. Mrs. Hurtle declared her intention of remaining at home all evening.
"If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am."
"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?"


"She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come next." Mrs. Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thus took her lodger into her confidence.
Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made her usual little speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite quiet."
"Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs. Pipkin.
"Won't what, aunt?"

"She'll be wanting to go out, and it isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's coming next."
Ruby came down in her silk frock, and made her usual speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time tonight. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quiet."
"Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs. Pipkin.


"Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'll stay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't come back here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that I should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England."
"They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin."

"If you go out tonight you'll stay out. That's all. You won't come back here any more. I won't have it. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England."
"They tell lies then, Aunt Pipkin."


"Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take off again."
Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition,--what she would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It seemed to her that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by hard work. Nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat. "I've a right to go if I like," she said.

"Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's it. You'd better take your finery off again."
Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. Nor did she believe her aunt would be as hard as her threat.
"I've a right to go if I like," she said.


"That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, any way."
"Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl down-stairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a right to come back;--and go I shall."
"You'll be no better than you should be, if you do."
"Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all day till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not once in a week?"
"Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me."

"You haven't a right to come back again."
"Yes, I have. I've worked hard for you, for no wages. I've a right to go out - and go I shall."
"You'll be no better than you should be, if you do."
"Am I to work my very nails off, and then I ain't to go out, not once a week?"
"I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter, Ruby - not while you're with me."


"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into no gutter. I know what I'm about."
"There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about."
"I shall just go then." And Ruby walked off towards the door.
"You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and the area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off."

"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I know what I'm about."
"And I know what I'm about."
"I shall just go then." And Ruby walked off towards the door.
"You won't get out that way, for the door's locked; and the area gate. You'd better just take your things off, Ruby."


Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. Mrs. Pipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she possessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, or attempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of Ruby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her as over a servant. And though she was now determined in her conduct,--being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in her pocket,--still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall away into tears, should Ruby be violent. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by her! "Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once."
"No, Ruby;--it ain't proper."

Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb. Mrs. Pipkin had feared that she would try to climb over the area gate, for she was a little afraid of Ruby. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and she would not turn up!
"Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once."
"No, Ruby; it ain't proper."


"You don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruin me,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you don't like."
Mrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly! "It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it."
"And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up."

"You don't know what you're doing, aunt. You'll ruin me, you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again."
Mrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly!
"It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it."
"And I'm to be - a prisoner! I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up."


"I've a right to lock my own doors."
"Then I shall go away to-morrow."
"I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if you choose to go out."
"Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret.
Mrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. "She's gone to bed," she said.

"I've a right to lock my own doors."
"Then I shall go away tomorrow."
"I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open, if you choose to go."
"Then why not open it tonight?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret.
Mrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. "She's gone to bed," she said.


"I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?"
"Not as I expected, Mrs. Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a bit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. And she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry her."
"She is pretty!"

"I'm glad to hear it."
"She was put out a bit. Poor girl! She ain't got a mother, poor dear! And she's got it into her head that a great gentleman will marry her.


"But what's beauty, Mrs. Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the scriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave to-morrow."
"And where will she go?"
"Just nowhere. After this gentleman,--and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle."
"We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin."

But what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave tomorrow."
"And where will she go?"
"Just nowhere. After this gentleman - and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle."
"We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin."


"And this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are managed. No gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls as knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. That's my way of looking at it."
"Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?"
"Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. A gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin, thinking of the new dispensation.
"I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly."

"But you know how these things are managed. No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls should let the gentlemen run after them. Or anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin.


"A deal more, Mrs. Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that before their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do it, I suppose,--only not like that."
"You did it on the sly."
"I think we got married quicker than they do, any way. When the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's just walking the streets."

"But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby tomorrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you. I don't want her to go out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to."


Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when making the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it, but Paul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover. Who was she that she should take upon herself to give advice to any female?
She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that she would never surrender this last hope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.

Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though she could not help thinking of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it but Paul Montague; and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles. Who was she to give advice?
She had not sent her letter to Paul, but still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that it might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold; and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.


Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. At that moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion.

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play. He had seen her twice since, once on the following day, when she had not mentioned their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept and stormed. She had dared him to be false to her. Did he deny that he had promised to marry her? Were his visits not a repetition of that promise? And then she became soft, and pleaded.
But for the storm, he might have given way.


Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed.

Her tears and pleadings touched him. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. It was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not help embracing her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again in two days.


On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the great American railway, and, being important, demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs. Hurtle had not added strength to Mr. Ramsbottom's invitation.

On the day he wrote her a letter excusing himself. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business connected with the great American railway, and must postpone seeing her till his return. This was true. He had been corresponding with a Mr. Ramsbottom at Liverpool since having become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. Mr. Ramsbottom, whom he consulted and trusted, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He went, and his conduct at the Board was the result of the advice which he had received.


In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though it can hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady after landing from an American steamer had been at Mr. Ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr. Ramsbottom had thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs. Hurtle, and the fellow-traveller had opined that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. "There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then having separated." This Mr. Ramsbottom, who in an earlier stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice about the railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs. Hurtle, could only be given viv voce, and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact.

In Liverpool he heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though hardly trustworthy information. The lady, after landing from an American steamer, had inquired for Paul, in a manner that Mr. Ramsbottom thought indicated danger. He had spoken about her with a fellow-traveller, who had said that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we reckoned she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow.
"There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols."
This information about Mrs. Hurtle could only be given to Paul face to face, which is why Mr. Ramsbottom had invited him to Liverpool.


"As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own difficulties.
In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. But when, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of Mrs. Hurtle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or even divorced,--but dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor.

"It is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had thanked him, not daring to speak of his own difficulties with the lady.
In all this there had been increased dismay, but also some comfort. Sometimes Paul had doubted whether he should break off his engagement. When she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him - then he would almost yield. But when what the traveller had called the wild cat showed itself - and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury - he was fully determined that he would not marry Mrs. Hurtle.
That he was tangled in a mass of troubles he was well aware; but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to justify him in breaking from his engagement.


But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be made to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done what he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. It was his misfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat.

He must make up his mind what to do. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some mauling and clawing, he understood. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her.


But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of information that might have the appearance of real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmotte. If he could come across that traveller he might learn something. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc Carson Hurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it might be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though not corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself.

But before he saw her it would be as well to get some real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of his attack on Mr. Melmotte. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If he had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be evidence. As to the duel, he felt that it might be very hard to prove that. But there was a rumour also that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story?


But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them with her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything to herself? To speak to her thus;--"I am told that your life with your last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on that score also, I must decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr. Hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. I had understood from you that he is dead.

However, this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he make such inquiries? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them, unless he told her outright that he would not marry her because of what he had heard.


No doubt you may have been deceived. But as I should not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so now I consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a misconception." It would no doubt be difficult to get through all these details; but it might be accomplished gradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and would bear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte single-handed at the Board.

In so doing he might incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon.
At any rate he would declare the ground on which he considered himself free, and would bear the consequences. This was the resolve in his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte at the Board.


When the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden. Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him most was the conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with this at the Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the Company of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to the railway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, he could hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the young lord's instigation. "What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?" said the young lord.
"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves Directors we ought to know something about it."

When the Board was over, he went down to the Beargarden, where he often dined. This evening he sat with Nidderdale, at the young lord's instigation.
"What made you so savage at old Melmotte today?" said Nidderdale.
"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as Directors we ought to know something about it."


"I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director."
"Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly.

"I suppose we ought. I don't know. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director."
"Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly.


"I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it."
"They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter."

"But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it."
"They say, you know - there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter."


"But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And why should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old Grendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out."
"I have been thinking about it too," said Paul.

"But what has that to do with a railway? And why should Carbury be there? And why on earth should old Grendall be a Director? If you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out."
"I have been thinking about it too," said Paul.


"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" asked Nidderdale. This was a question which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? "You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale, nodding his head.
"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest man alive."
"He lives as though he were."

"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?"
This was a question which Paul found it difficult to answer. How could he whisper suspicions to the man who was a competitor for Marie Melmotte's hand?
"You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale.
"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is the richest man alive.


"I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows very much about him." When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would "be coming a cropper rather," were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none.
A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the card-room. "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there waiting," he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles for play. "Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that," said Nidderdale.
"Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me," said Montague.

I don't see why it shouldn't be true. Nobody knows very much about him."
It occurred to Nidderdale that he would "come a cropper" were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none. After dinner he invited Montague to go up to the card-room.
"Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there," he said.
But Paul declined.


"Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame."
"You'll pay him some day."


"I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm concerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things about poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a 10 note. But because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself.


But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there, and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left the Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. As long as she was present in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself to be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--but still it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury.

He left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street; he hardly knew why. He had certainly intended to call on Lady Carbury. But his mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle.
And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, that for a certain period, still unexpired, he would not ask Hetta to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented; but still it existed, and Paul knew that Roger trusted that it would be kept.
Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No; Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury.


Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and see Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carbury. "Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. "There is a soire of learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not go."
"I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met."
"Hardly since the Melmottes' ball," said Hetta.

Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the servant said. Would Mr. Montague go up and see her? Without considering, Mr. Montague said that he would.
"Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta, trying to save herself from confusion. "She made him take her to some soire of learned people."
"I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met.


"Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town?"
"I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague."
"I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board."
"But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,"--Paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this,--"and that Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter."

What has brought Roger up to town?"
"I don't know. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix."
"I saw Felix today, at the Railway Board."
"Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham." Paul could not help blushing as he heard this. "And there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter."


"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think."
"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them."
"What man, Miss Carbury?"
"Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end."

"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think."
"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, for her money of course. And I believe Mr. Melmotte is determined to quarrel with them. It's all horrid from beginning to end."


"But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage."
"Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte."
"I know he has," said Paul.

"But today they seemed to be the greatest friends. Mr. Melmotte asked your brother into an inner room with him, as if they were friends."
"Roger greatly dislikes Mr. Melmotte.


"And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him."
"No one has more reason to praise him than I have."

And it is always safe to trust Roger. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so; but he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never go wrong."
"No one has more reason to praise him than I have."


"I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like that."
"You're thinking of Melmotte."
"I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody except Roger."
"Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do."

"I think everybody who knows him has reason to praise him."
"Is he the only man you can trust? But I should not contradict you. Roger Carbury has been the best friend that any man ever had."


"I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so. But of all my friends--"
"Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?"
"Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend,--because you are his friend."

"I didn't say he was the only person. But of all my friends-"
"Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?"
"Yes; why not? Of course you are a friend - because you are his friend."


"Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself."

"Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury. He is all that you say, and more. He is a gentleman every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself."


"Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that."
"I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I will leave England at once, and never return to it."
"There's mamma," said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a double knock at the door.

"Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that."
"I love him as well as a man can love a man. If you say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man, I will leave England at once, and never return."
"There's mamma," said Henrietta; for at that moment there was a knock at the door.


In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs. Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still "all one mash of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a "few sich taps as them." He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended.

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. He had been formally reconciled to Ruby - who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that satisfied her future husband. He had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and munificent to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had already given her. He had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation about the baronite.
He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he declined the suggestion with thanks. He thought that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk - the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if old Ruggles could be talked into giving it; if not, at his own house.


"It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through," said he,--meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs. Hurtle to promise that she would bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion.

Either way, he was determined that there should be a banquet, and succeeded in making Mrs. Hurtle promise to bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay for the occasion.


Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of course essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday,--making his proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. "That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her Mr. Crumb yielded with a good grace. He did not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs. Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he only scratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs. Pipkin told him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace.

Then it was necessary to fix the day. Ruby only expressed one wish of her own: namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday.
"That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and the other ladies agreed. When the 14th of August was named John Crumb scratched his head and muttered something about Thetford fair; but on Mrs. Pipkin telling him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace.


He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last achieved.
Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that he had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr. Daniel Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to take away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be whispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. "I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my own," he said to Joe Mixet, the baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of Bungay.
"She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles," said the baker.

He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk.
Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been persuaded to forgive his granddaughter, and agree to the marriage. The old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be; but all the town met this with such a torrent of contradiction that the farmer was driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight earlier to take away her character. But it was known that John Crumb was ready to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had ever done anything unbecoming. And the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general that the grandfather could not stand against it.


"No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with Mrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give 'em a breakfast."
"She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles."
"I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat," said the farmer.


But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr. Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs. Pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs. Hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm.

Old Mr. Ruggles held out on one detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. But he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death; and moreover was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night before the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for Mrs. Hurtle - who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to stay at Sheep's Acre Farm.


On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. "You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.
"Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?" John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. "It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?"
"You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?"

On the day before the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb had agreed. Yet he felt himself unable to answer such questions as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend.
"You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.
"What have I done that she should object to me?"
"You didn't ever go for to - kiss her, did you, Joe?"


"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."
"Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why." But John Crumb's heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby, after the ceremony.

"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."
So John Crumb agreed that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby after the ceremony.


He met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; "He is such a fool!" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.
"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.

He met the ladies at the station and - for him - was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat and outfit with great delight.
"Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him.
Ruby made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered, "He is such a fool!"
Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle up to the Inn, and himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre.
"Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.
"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.


"So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?"
"Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that's my name."
"I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that."
"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"
"But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased."

"So best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin? They say as you've been kind to that girl as would 'a been on the town only for that."
"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby took her aunt up into the bedroom. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"
"But, Ruby, you might have gone to live with John Crumb instead when you pleased."


"You mean John Crumb."
"Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby."
"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all."
"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, "I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain."

"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other says nothing at all."
"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin solemnly, "You'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue, specially with vittels certain."


On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his whip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "See, I've got her at last in spite of all difficulties." Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was altogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. "What's the odds?" said Mrs. Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room at the Inn just before they entered the church. "Drat it,--you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house of his own?

On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, smiling and nodding at every one. Poor Ruby would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But no escape was within her reach.
"Drat it," said Mrs. Pipkin, just before they entered the church, "you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house?


Ain't he well to do all round? Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners."


Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain of her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "I, John,--take thee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.

Ruby, when she reached the church, was too completely quelled to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly could not complain of her husband's silence. He made his responses to the clergyman so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building.
"I, John - take thee Ruby - to my wedded wife-" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.


And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiring that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how to behave himself. "Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet in a whisper.
"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet."
"He's a good 'un; is he."
"Oh, I dare say."
"You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby."

And then there came the breakfast, to which he led the way with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet. But she was so tamed by circumstances that she was glad to have someone near her who knew how to behave himself.
"Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet. "He's a good 'un."
"Oh, I dare say."
"You just be fond of him and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him.


"A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet."
"And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own." Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance.

And he don't drink hard, but he works hard."
Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect.


After the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as John Crumb would call it, Mr. Mixet of course made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child." "That's a downright story," said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs. Hurtle. "And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs. Crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be brought back again.
[Illustration: The happy bridegroom.]

After the breakfast, Mr. Mixet made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb and Miss Ruby Ruggles for a great many years, and he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appiness. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present - with the single exception of poor Ruby.


In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. "Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it," he said, when the first fitting occasion presented itself.
"Oh, John,--what nonsense!"
"It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.

In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with him, and thinking of all that he had done to win her, she did learn to respect him.
"Now, Ruby, give a fellow a kiss - as though you meant it," he said.
"Oh, John, what nonsense!"
"It ain't nonsense to me. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed."
Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.


"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.
"To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"
"You could make any excuse you like about that."
"It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them."
"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world."

"I have half a mind to go back tomorrow morning," Felix said to his mother that evening after dinner. Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her room.
"Tomorrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"
"You could make an excuse."
"It would be most uncourteous. The Longestaffes are the leading people in this part of the country.

Chapter 19: Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale


"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for."
"What did I come for?"
"That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house."
"That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume.
"Settled!"
"As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here."
"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?"
"I told you that before."

And remember why you came here - to see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house."
"That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume.
"Settled!"
"As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here."
"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?"
"I told you that before."


"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all mothers in England! "No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you."
"I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it."

"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour that she would be envied by all mothers in England! "I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you."
"I think she means to stick to it."


"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?"
"I don't know that he will."
"You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the Directors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true."

"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do. Why should he oppose it? You are a man of rank, with a title. I suppose he wants a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of his Directors. Oh Felix - it is almost too good to be true."


"I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you know."
"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income."
"I quite understand that."

"I ain't sure that I care very much about being married, you know."
"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall be so fond of her! You will be able to do just what you please once the money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please.


"If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand how well I think you have done it all." Then she caressed him again, and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established.

There would be plenty of money for everything. I don't know how to tell you how dearly I love you, and how well I think you have done it all."
Then she caressed him, almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her trouble, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known - she did know - how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But the prospect of his splendour obliterated her sorrow at his character.


He was her son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--"
"Run away! What nonsense you talk."
"If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should."

It raised her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams.
"But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay, and go to the Longestaffes' tomorrow. It will only be one day. If you were to start back to London at once, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should try to please him; indeed you should."


"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and he consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. Though he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the sake of the family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would have received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic.

"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. Nevertheless he was persuaded to remain, and endure the nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House.
Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know who to tell. If her cousin were not so pig-headed, so ignorant of the ways of the world, he would have rejoiced with her for the sake of the family. But she did not dare to tell him. Even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic.


She felt that though she would have delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr. Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.
During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury on the way. "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently.
"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop."

She must be silent for now.
That evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people, and walked back via Carbury.
"What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently.
"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord.


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

He has no strong opinion of his own, so he can hardly be competent to guide his clergy."
Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from insulting his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that he might lose any argument, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to put her right.
"I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said with her sweetest smile.


"I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I have not seen."
"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"
"I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons?"
"Indeed, no," said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understand the nature of the question put to her.
"And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?"

"I'm sure I hope so."
"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"
"Indeed. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled.


"Hardly, indeed."
"The English people, or some of them,--that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a Church."
"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?"
"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters."
"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury. "The clergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'"
"It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want no religion."

English people like to play at having a Church, though they have not sufficient faith to submit to a Church's control."
"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?"
"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors."
"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury.
"I quite agree that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether. As a rule, adults in your Church want no religion."


"I am afraid that is true of a great many."
"It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity."
"That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a shudder.
"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy;--"than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible."
"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.
"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read.
"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back into his chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments.

"I am afraid that is true of a great many."
"I marvel that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by fear to a safer faith - unless, indeed, he enjoys the security of absolute infidelity."
"That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a shudder.
"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy; "than a creed which a man never questions, and does not even know what it contains."
"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.
"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down his book.
"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest smiled. He knew that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense. But she might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing.


"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger.
"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest.
"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walked away to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.

"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger.
"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest.
"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham departed to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed; or, at any rate, ploughed some ground.


The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him.

Roger had fixed on the following morning for repeating his suit to Henrietta. Though the words had been almost on his tongue that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them. He was almost painfully conscious of an increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. When he greeted her, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He saw that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become as punctual as the hand of the clock.
But because she was tender and observant, he did not allow himself to believe that she was growing to love him.


He thought that he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in pity,--she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy.
"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile."
"Are not you going to the men?"

He thought that he understood her. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, made her sympathise with him; she was kind to him. Thus he read it, and with exact accuracy.
"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile."


"Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it." She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes.

She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury; and she had hardly decided what answer she would give.
She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked for her love, but she thought that he desired it. In spite of this there had grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards Roger so strong that it almost tempted her to think that he ought to have what he wanted. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed she could not be justified in refusing him.


Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr. Melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!
"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me."
"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"

Should such a gentleman be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him - a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!
"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and he is always turning against me."
"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"


"He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I didn't quite like your hearing it."
"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it. It's their business."
"Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house."

"He does harm if he teaches us to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say such things before my guests. I didn't like your hearing it."
"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I suppose they all do it. It's their business.


"I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop."
"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs."
"His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money."
"I meant about the Melmottes."
"No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything."

I liked him; only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop."
"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his affairs. I mean about the Melmottes."
"No. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything."