But what was she to do? What was to be done generally by that over-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had been instructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed the order. But she herself at this moment cared but little for any property. How ought she to behave herself? Where should she go? On whose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time? As for love, and engagements, and marriage,--that was all over. In her difficulty she never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury. Though she had been silly enough to love the man because he was pleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone in silliness as to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one might lean.

But what was she to do? She and her pseudo-mother had packed up their jewellery, as instructed. But where should she go? On whose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time? As for love, and engagements - that was all over. She never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury.


Had that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. But it might be possible that Lord Nidderdale would help her. He was good-natured and manly, and would be efficacious,--if only he would come to her. He was near, and she thought that at any rate she would try. So she had written her note and sent it by the butler,--thinking as she did so of the words she would use to make the young man understand that all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothing now.

But it might be possible that Lord Nidderdale would help her. He was good-natured and manly; so she had written her note and sent it by the butler, thinking of how she would tell the young man that all that nonsense about marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothing now.

Chapter 86: The Meeting in Bruton Street


It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown up-stairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. As he passed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open, he saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of the dead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without a glance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen his burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. And now the man was dead,--having destroyed his own life. Surely the man must have known when he uttered those words what it was that he intended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie, conscious as he was that everyone was deserting him, he must even then have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that it was better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might be their nature, must have been heavy on him then with all their weight; and he himself and all the world had known that he was ruined. And yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and had spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be accomplished!

When he reached the house, he was shown upstairs into one of the sitting-rooms. As he passed the study door, which was partly open, he saw a policeman within, and knew that the dead man's body was still lying there. He went by rapidly, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen him, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. Surely the man must have known when he uttered those words what he intended to do! And yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage!


Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Marie was with him. He walked up to her, took her by both hands, and looked into her face. There was no trace of a tear, but her whole countenance seemed to him to be altered. She was the first to speak.
"I thought you would come when I sent for you."
"Of course I came."
"I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. You won't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more of all those things which he was planning?" She paused a moment, but he was not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. "You know what has happened?"

Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down before Marie was with him. He took her by both hands, and looked into her face. There was no trace of a tear, but her whole countenance seemed to him to be altered. She was the first to speak.
"I thought you would come when I sent for you."
"Of course I came."
"I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. You won't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more of that engagement?" She paused a moment, but he had no answer ready. "You know what has happened?


"Your servant told us."
"What are we to do? Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poor papa! Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered I wish that I could be dead too."
"Has your mother been told?"

Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered I wish that I could be dead too."
"Has your mother been told?"


"Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment. It was better that it should be so;--better at last. But we have no friends who would be considerate enough to try to save us from sorrow. But I think it was better. Mamma is very bad. She is always nervous and timid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What ought we to do?

"Oh yes. But Mamma is always nervous and timid, and this has nearly killed her. What ought we to do?


It is Mr. Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it to-morrow."
"He will not mind that now."
"Where must we go? We can't go back to that big place in Grosvenor Square. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and the policemen?"
"I will do that."
"But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should I ask you to do anything?"
"Because we are friends."

This is Mr. Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it tomorrow."
"He will not mind that now."
"Where must we go? We can't go back to Grosvenor Square. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and the policemen?"
"I will do that."
"But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should I ask you to do anything?"
"Because we are friends."


"No," she said, "no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I have been an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a person like you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor papa;--poor papa!" And then for the first time she burst into tears.
"I wish I knew what might comfort you," he said.

"No," she said, "not really. I have been an impostor. I had no business to know a person like you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor papa!" And for the first time she burst into tears.
"I wish I knew what might comfort you," he said.


"How can there be any comfort? There never can be comfort again! As for comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one trouble after another,--one fear after another! And now we are friendless and homeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have."
"Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?"

"When were we ever comfortable? It has been one trouble after another, one fear after another! And now we are friendless and homeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have."
"Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?"


"I think he had ever so many,--but I do not know who they were. His own clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left him yesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; but now that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the name of one of them. Mr. Miles Grendall used to be with him."
"I do not think that he could be of much service."

"I think he had many, but I do not know who they were. His clerk, who had been with him for twenty years, left him yesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; but now that Herr Croll has gone I do not know the name of any of them.


"Nor Lord Alfred? Lord Alfred was always with him till very lately." Nidderdale shook his head. "I suppose not. They only came because papa had a big house." The young lord could not but feel that he was included in the same rebuke. "Oh, what a life it has been! And now,--now it's over." As she said this it seemed that for the moment her strength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of the sofa. He tried to raise her, but she shook him away, burying her face in her hands.

Oh, what a life it has been! And now it's over."
As she said this it seemed that her strength failed her, for she fell back on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.


He was standing close to her, still holding her arm, when he heard a knock at the front door, which was immediately opened, as the servants were hanging about in the hall. "Who are they?" said Marie, whose sharp ears caught the sound of various steps. Lord Nidderdale went out on to the head of the stairs, and immediately heard the voice of Dolly Longestaffe.

There was a knock at the front door, which was opened by the servants in the hall. Lord Nidderdale went out to the top of the stairs, and heard the voice of Dolly Longestaffe.


Dolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the care of Mr. Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had met his father with Mr. Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They were all coming according to appointment to receive the money which Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. Of course they had none of them as yet heard of the way in which the Financier had made his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the door had been intent only in reference to their own money. Squercum, who had heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that the money would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine of success. "Don't we wish we may get it?" Dolly had said, and by saying so had very much offended his father, who had resented the want of reverence implied in the use of that word "we." They had all been admitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an old acquaintance with some of the articles around him. "I knew I'd got a coat just like that," said Dolly, "and I never could make out what my fellow had done with it." This was the speech which Nidderdale had heard, standing on the top of the stairs.

Dolly and his lawyer Mr. Squercum had that morning met his father with Mr. Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They were all coming to receive the money which Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay them, having heard nothing of Mr. Melmotte's final payment. Squercum was very certain that the money would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was confident of success.


The two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who had opened the door and from the presence of three or four servants in the hall, that things were not going on in their usual course. Before Dolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to Mr. Bideawhile that Mr. Melmotte--"was no more."

The two lawyers at once saw, from the face of the man who had opened the door, that things were not going on in their usual course. The butler whispered to Mr. Bideawhile that Mr. Melmotte "was no more."


"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Bideawhile. Squercum put his hands into his trowsers pockets and opened his mouth wide. "Dead!" muttered Mr. Longestaffe senior. "Dead!" said Dolly. "Who's dead?" The butler shook his head. Then Squercum whispered a word into the butler's ear, and the butler thereupon nodded his head.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Bideawhile. Squercum opened his mouth wide.
"Dead!" muttered Mr. Longestaffe senior.
"Dead!" said Dolly. "Who's dead?"


"It's about what I expected," said Squercum. Then the butler whispered the word to Mr. Longestaffe, and whispered it also to Mr. Bideawhile, and they all knew that the millionaire had swallowed poison during the night.
It was known to the servants that Mr. Longestaffe was the owner of the house, and he was therefore, as having authority there, shown into the room where the body of Melmotte was lying on a sofa. The two lawyers and Dolly of course followed, as did also Lord Nidderdale, who had now joined them from the lobby above. There was a policeman in the room who seemed to be simply watching the body, and who rose from his seat when the gentlemen entered. Two or three of the servants followed them, so that there was almost a crowd round the dead man's bier. There was no further tale to be told. That Melmotte had been in the House on the previous night, and had there disgraced himself by intoxication, they had known already. That he had been found dead that morning had been already announced. They could only stand round and gaze on the square, sullen, livid features of the big-framed man, and each lament that he had ever heard the name of Melmotte.

Then the butler whispered that Melmotte had swallowed poison during the night.
"It's about what I expected," said Squercum.
As the owner of the house, Mr. Longestaffe was shown into the room where Melmotte's body lay on a sofa. The two lawyers and Dolly followed, as did Lord Nidderdale, and two or three servants. A policeman who was watching the body rose from his seat when the gentlemen entered. They stood round and gazed on the sullen, livid features of the big man, and each lamented that he had ever heard the name of Melmotte.


"Are you in the house here?" said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in a whisper.
"She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebody to tell her something. I must go up to her again now."
"Had you seen him before?"
"No indeed. I only came down when I heard your voices. I fear it will be rather bad for you;--won't it?"

"Why are you here?" murmured Dolly to Lord Nidderdale.
"She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. I fear it will be rather bad for you; won't it?


"He was regularly smashed, I suppose?" asked Dolly.
"I know nothing myself. He talked to me about his affairs once, but he was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything. I believed him then. How it will go, I can't say."
"That other thing is all over of course," suggested Dolly.
Nidderdale intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing was all over, and then returned to Marie. There was nothing further that the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed from the house;--not, however, till Mr. Bideawhile had given certain short injunctions to the butler concerning the property contained in Mr. Longestaffe's town residence.

He talked to me about his affairs once, but he was such a liar that not a word he said was worth anything."
"That other thing is all over of course," suggested Dolly.
Nidderdale nodded, and returned to Marie. There was nothing that the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed - once Mr. Bideawhile had given orders to the butler concerning the property in the house.


"They had come to see him," said Lord Nidderdale in a whisper. "There was some appointment. He had told them to be all here at this hour."
"They didn't know, then?" asked Marie.
"Nothing,--till the man told them."
"And did you go in?"

"They had come by appointment to see him," said Lord Nidderdale to Marie.
"They didn't know, then?"
"Nothing, till the man told them.


"Yes; we all went into the room." Marie shuddered, and again hid her face. "I think the best thing I can do," said Nidderdale, "is to go to Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom he chiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, because he has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find out Croll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyer to arrange everything for you."
"And where had we better go to?"
"Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?"

I think the best thing I can do," said Nidderdale, "is to go to Abchurch Lane, and find out who is the lawyer whom he chiefly trusted. If necessary I will find Croll. Then we had better employ the lawyer to arrange everything for you."
"And where should we go to?"
"Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?"


"Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfort would be the best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? And couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr. Longestaffe's house?" Nidderdale promised that he himself would look for lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer. "And now, my lord, I suppose that I never shall see you again," said Marie.
"I don't know why you should say that."

"Anywhere we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfurt. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? And couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from the house?"
Nidderdale promised that he himself would look for lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer.
"And now, my lord, I suppose that I never shall see you again," said Marie.
"I don't know why you should say that."


"Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be trouble enough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't think it has been my fault."
"Nothing has ever been your fault."
"Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindest people I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for different reasons, but I do not want you to come back."

"Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be trouble enough to you. But I don't think it has been my fault."
"Nothing has been your fault."
"Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindest people I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you, but I do not want you to come back."


"Good-bye, Marie. I shall always remember you." And so they parted.


After that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding both Mr. Smith and Herr Croll. When he reached Abchurch Lane, the news of Melmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known, or said to be known, of his circumstances than Nidderdale had as yet heard. The crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been the desertion of Cohenlupe,--that and the sudden fall in the value of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway shares, consequent on the rumours spread about the City respecting the Pickering property. It was asserted in Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touched the Pickering property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood for Westminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to do any or all of those things without danger, simply as the result of the money which would then have been realised by the railway. But he had allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively small sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one danger to another, till at last the waters around him had become too deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him. As to his immediate death, Herr Croll expressed not the slightest astonishment. It was just the thing, Herr Croll said, that he had been sure that Melmotte would do, should his difficulties ever become too great for him. "And dere vas a leetle ting he lay himself open by de oder day," said Croll, "dat vas nasty,--very nasty." Nidderdale shook his head, but asked no questions. Croll had alluded to the use of his own name, but did not on this occasion make any further revelation.

After that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding both Melmotte's lawyer and Herr Croll. The news of Melmotte's death had already spread; the crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been the desertion of Cohenlupe - that and the sudden fall in value of the Mexican Railway shares, after the rumours spread about the Pickering property. It was asserted in Abchurch Lane that Melmotte had allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively small sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one danger to another, till at last the waters around him had become too deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him.
As to his death, Herr Croll said that he had been sure that was what Melmotte would do, should his difficulties ever become too great. And he mentioned some other danger involving the use of his own name, but did not elaborate.


Then Croll made a further statement to Lord Nidderdale, which I think he must have done in pure good-nature. "My lor," he said, whispering very gravely, "de money of de yong lady is all her own." Then he nodded his head three times. "Nobody can toch it, not if he vas in debt millions." Again he nodded his head.
"I am very glad to hear it for her sake," said Lord Nidderdale as he took his leave.

Croll added, with grave good-nature, "My lor, de money of de yong lady is all her own. Nobody can toch it." And he nodded.
"I am very glad to hear it for her sake," said Lord Nidderdale as he left.


It has been told how the gambling at the Beargarden went on one Sunday night. On the following Monday Sir Felix did not go to the club. He had watched Miles Grendall at play, and was sure that on more than one or two occasions the man had cheated. Sir Felix did not quite know what in such circumstances it would be best for him to do. Reprobate as he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and seemed to be very terrible. What steps ought he to take? He was quite sure of his facts, and yet he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough and Longestaffe would not believe him. He would have told Montague, but Montague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be of any use to him. On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club. He felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been accustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred over.

It has been told how the gambling at the Beargarden went on one Sunday night. On the Monday Sir Felix did not go to the club. He was sure that Miles Grendall had cheated at cards; and he did not quite know what to do. Reprobate as he was himself, this type of villainy was new to him and seemed very terrible. He was quite sure of his facts, and yet he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough and Longestaffe would not believe him. He might have told Montague, but Montague had hardly any authority at the club.
On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club. He felt severely the loss of his usual excitement, but

Chapter 28: Dolly Longestaffe goes into the City


He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated him without saying anything about it. On the Wednesday afternoon life was becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into the building at about five in the afternoon. There, as a matter of course, he found Dolly Longestaffe drinking sherry and bitters. "Where the blessed angels have you been?" said Dolly. Dolly was at that moment alert with the sense of a duty performed. He had just called on his sister and written a sharp letter to his father, and felt himself to be almost a man of business.
"I've had fish of my own to fry," said Felix, who had passed the last two days in unendurable idleness. Then he referred again to the money which Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking for immediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance that if a commercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this moment, be very serviceable to him. "I'm particularly anxious to take up those shares," said Felix.

 he did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated him without saying anything about it. On the Wednesday afternoon life was becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into the building at about five in the afternoon. He found Dolly Longestaffe drinking sherry and bitters.
"Where the blessed angels have you been?" said Dolly, who had just called on his sister and written a sharp letter to his father, and at that moment felt himself to be almost a man of business.
"I've had fish to fry," said Felix, who had passed the last two days in unendurable idleness. Then he mentioned the money which Dolly owed him, not complaining, but explaining with an air of importance that if a commercial arrangement could be made, it might be very useful to him. "I'm particularly anxious to take up those shares," he said.


"Of course you ought to have your money."
"I don't say that at all, old fellow. I know very well that you're all right. You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall."
"Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I suppose I could get it, and so I ought to pay."
"That's no excuse for Grendall," said Sir Felix, shaking his head.

"Of course you ought to have your money."
"I know that you're all right, old fellow. You're not like Miles Grendall."
"Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with."
"That's no excuse," said Sir Felix, shaking his head.


"A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury. A chap ought to pay of course. I've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half hour--here it is." And Dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket which he had opened and read indeed within the last hour, but which had been duly delivered at his lodgings early in the morning. "My governor wants to sell Pickering, and Melmotte wants to buy the place. My governor can't sell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what's what. My interest in the property is greater than his. It isn't much of a place, and they are talking of 50,000, over and above the debt upon it. 25,000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and make me very square.

"A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury. He ought to pay of course. Here, I've just had a letter from our lawyer." And Dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket. "My governor wants to sell Pickering to Melmotte. He can't sell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what's what. It isn't much of a place, and they are talking of 50,000, over and above the debt upon it. 25,000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and make me very square.


From what this fellow says I suppose they're going to give in to my terms."
"By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly."
"Oh yes. Of course I want it. But I don't like the place going. I'm not much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself to go in for things as I ought to do; but I've a sort of feeling that I don't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't to let his family property go to pieces."
"You never lived at Pickering."

From what this fellow says I suppose they're going to give in to my terms."
"By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly."
"Oh yes. Of course I want it. But I don't like selling the place. I'm not much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy; but I've a sort of feeling that I don't like the family property going to pieces."
"You never lived at Pickering."


"No;--and I don't know that it is any good. It gives us 3 per cent. on the money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per cent., and I'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it than you'd think. It ought to be sold, and now I suppose it will be sold. Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if you like I'll go with you to the city to-morrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'll advance me 1,000, and then you can get the shares. Are you going to dine here?"

"No; and it doesn't bring in much income. Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if you like I'll go with you to the city tomorrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'll advance me 1,000, and then you can get the shares. Are you going to dine here?"


Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, with considerable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and play whist afterwards. He acceded willingly to Dolly's plan of visiting Abchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty in inducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for city purposes. Dolly suggested that they should meet at the club at 4 P.M. Sir Felix had named noon, and promised to call at Dolly's lodgings. They split the difference at last and agreed to start at two. They then dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at the next table to them. Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other frequently, but in that conversation the young baronet would not join. Nor did Grendall ever address himself to Sir Felix. "Is there anything up between you and Miles?" said Dolly, when they had adjourned to the smoking-room.
"I can't bear him."

Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, in a mysterious manner, that he could not stay and play whist afterwards. They agreed to meet at two the next day. They dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at the table next to them. Though Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other frequently, Felix and Grendall did not address each other at all.
"Is there anything up between you and Miles?" said Dolly, when they had adjourned to the smoking-room.
"I can't bear him."


"There never was any love between you two, I know. But you used to speak, and you've played with him all through."
"Played with him! I should think I have. Though he did get such a haul last Sunday he owes me more than you do now."
"Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?"

"There never was any love between you two, I know. But you've played with him."
"Played with him! I should think I have."


Sir Felix paused a moment. "No;--that is not the reason. I'll tell you all about it in the cab to-morrow." Then he left the club, declaring that he would go up to Grosvenor Square and see Marie Melmotte. He did go up to the Square, and when he came to the house he would not go in. What was the good? He could do nothing further till he got old Melmotte's consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as by showing that he had got money wherewith to buy shares in the railway. What he did with himself during the remainder of the evening the reader need not know, but on his return home at some comparatively early hour, he found this note from Marie.
Wednesday Afternoon.
DEAREST FELIX,

Sir Felix paused a moment. "I'll tell you all about it in the cab tomorrow." Then he left, declaring that he would go up to Grosvenor Square and see Marie Melmotte.
He did go up to the Square, but when he came to the house he did not go in. What was the good? He could do nothing without old Melmotte's consent, and the best way to get that was by showing that he had enough money to buy shares in the railway.
On his return home, he found this note from Marie.
Dearest Felix,


Why don't we see you? Mamma would say nothing if you came. Papa is never in the drawing-room. Miss Longestaffe is here of course, and people always come in in the evening. We are just going to dine out at the Duchess of Stevenage's. Papa, and mamma and I. Mamma told me that Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never take any one but the man I love. You know who that is. Miss Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us. What do you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left alone?

Why don't we see you? Papa is never in the drawing-room. Miss Longestaffe is here of course, and people always come in the evening. We are just going out to dine at the Duchess of Stevenage's. Mamma told me that Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never take anyone but the man I love. You know who that is. Miss Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us.


We are to go afterwards to a musical party at Lady Gamut's. Miss Longestaffe is going with us, but she says that she hates music. She is such a set-up thing! I wonder why papa has her here. We don't go anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray come.

She is coming with us afterwards to a musical party at Lady Gamut's, but she says she hates music. She is such a stuck-up thing! I wonder why papa has her here. We don't go anywhere tomorrow evening, so pray come.


And why haven't you written me something and sent it to Didon? She won't betray us. And if she did, what matters? I mean to be true. If papa were to beat me into a mummy I would stick to you. He told me once to take Lord Nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him. And now he wants me to take him again. But I won't. I'll take no one but my own darling.
Yours for ever and ever,

Why haven't you written me something and sent it to Didon? She won't betray us. In any case, I mean to be true. If papa were to beat me I would stick to you. He wants me to take Lord Nidderdale again. But I won't. I'll take no one but my own darling.
Yours for ever and ever,


MARIE.
Now that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own in life, she was determined to make the most of it. All this was delightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply "a bother." Sir Felix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow,--on condition of course that the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing to go through much work in the way of love-making with Marie Melmotte. In such business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a companion.
On the following day Felix was with his friend at the appointed time, and was only kept an hour waiting while Dolly ate his breakfast and struggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix told his dreadful story about Miles Grendall. "By George!" said Dolly. "And you think you saw him do it!"

Marie.
Now that the young lady had begun to have an interest in life, she was determined to make the most of it. All this was delightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply "a bother." He was quite willing to marry the girl tomorrow, if the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing to go through much work in the way of love-making. In such business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a companion.
On the following day Felix was with Dolly at the appointed time, and was only kept waiting an hour while Dolly ate his breakfast and struggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix told his dreadful story about Miles Grendall.
"By George!" said Dolly. "And you think you saw him do it?"


"It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I believe he always had an ace somewhere about him." Dolly sat quite silent thinking of it. "What had I better do?" asked Sir Felix.
"By George;--I don't know."
"What should you do?"

"I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I believe he always had an ace somewhere about him. What had I better do?"
"By George; I don't know."
"What would you do?"


"Nothing at all. I shouldn't believe my own eyes. Or if I did, should take care not to look at him."
"You wouldn't go on playing with him?"
"Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up."
"But Dolly,--if you think of it!"
"That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it."
"And you won't give me your advice."

"Nothing at all. I wouldn't believe my own eyes."
"You wouldn't go on playing with him?"
"Yes, I would. It'd be such a bore breaking up."
"But Dolly - think of it!"


"Well;--no; I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why did you pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nidderdale?"
"He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?"
"No, he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out for this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me such a story as this I wouldn't have come with you."
"That's nonsense, Dolly."

"I wish you hadn't told me. If I'd known that you were going to tell me such a story I wouldn't have come with you."
"That's nonsense, Dolly."


"Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a twitter already."
"You mean to go on playing just the same?"
"Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to think about it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the man of money."

"Maybe. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a twitter."
"You mean to go on playing just the same?"
"Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to think about it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the man of money."


The man of money received them much more graciously than Sir Felix had expected. Of course nothing was said about Marie and no further allusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's "property." Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which the great financier understood their views and the readiness with which he undertook to comply with them. No disagreeable questions were asked as to the nature of the debt between the young men. Dolly was called upon to sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to sign one,--and then they were assured that the thing was done. Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe had paid Sir Felix Carbury a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carbury's commission had been accepted by Mr. Melmotte for the purchase of railway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted to say a word. He endeavoured to explain that his object in this commercial transaction was to make money immediately by reselling the shares,--and to go on continually making money by buying at a low price and selling at a high price. He no doubt did believe that, being a Director, if he could once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on with it for an unlimited period;--buy and sell, buy and sell;--so that he would have an almost regular income. This, as far as he could understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do,--simply because he had become a Director with a little money.

Melmotte received them much more graciously than Sir Felix had expected. Of course nothing was said about Marie. Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which the great financier understood their wishes and the readiness with which he complied with them. No disagreeable questions were asked about the nature of the debt between the young men.
Dolly was called upon to sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to sign one - and then they were assured that the thing was done. Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe had paid Sir Felix Carbury a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carbury's commission had been accepted by Mr. Melmotte for the purchase of railway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted to explain that he wanted to make money immediately by reselling the shares, and to go on continually making money by buying at a low price and selling at a high price. This, as far as he could understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do, as a Director with a little money.


Mr. Melmotte was cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into particulars. It was all right. "You will wish to sell again, of course;--of course. I'll watch the market for you." When the young men left the room all they knew, or thought that they knew, was, that Dolly Longestaffe had authorised Melmotte to pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to Sir Felix, and that Sir Felix had instructed the same great man to buy shares with the amount. "But why didn't he give you the scrip?" said Dolly on his way westwards.
"I suppose it's all right with him," said Sir Felix.

Mr. Melmotte was cordiality itself, but he did not go into particulars.
"You will wish to sell again, of course; of course. I'll watch the market for you." When the young men left the room all they knew, or thought that they knew, was, that Dolly Longestaffe had authorised Melmotte to pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to Sir Felix, and that Sir Felix had instructed the same great man to buy shares with the amount.
"But why didn't he give you the scrip?" said Dolly.
"I suppose it's all right with him," said Sir Felix.


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

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


There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and we may say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance,--although the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, even if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,--thrown over, perhaps, is the proper term,--after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months. It is her purpose again to
--trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore Flame in the forehead of the morning sky.

A brother is duty-bound to defend his sister from ill-usage; but in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult or more indistinct. We are not allowed to fight duels, and banging about another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps; but not a Sir Felix Carbury.
There is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl does not mean to break her heart.

Chapter 70: Sir Felix Meddles with Many Matters


Though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open. Uno avulso non deficit alter. But if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased. The brother recognises his duty, and prepares for vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her own little battles alone.

Though this one has been false, the road to success is still open. But if the affair is made notorious by a fight, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased.


"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," Sir Felix had said very grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for threats. No money was required and no immediate action,--and Sir Felix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very little present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the day but one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury,--nor could as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat. Felix had forgotten that he had made a threat,--and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter since his interview with his sister.
"Felix," she said, "you won't mention that to Mr. Montague!"

Sir Felix had vowed to avenge his sister for her ill-usage by Paul Montague. And Hetta was fool enough to believe him. Two days later, no answer had yet come from Roger Carbury. Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat, which Felix had forgotten.
"Felix," she said, "you won't mention that to Mr. Montague!"


"Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs. Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed."
"I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more."
"If it is so! I tell you I know it."

"Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs. Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed; and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed."
"Felix, if it is so, I will see him no more."
"If it is so!"


"Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has."
"What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do with our affairs?"
"Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman,--I will not see Mr. Montague again. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done?"

"Mamma has written to Roger. If you and he both say that he is to marry that woman, I will not see Mr. Montague again. Pray do not go to him."


"Leave that to me," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. He too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of the past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of fashion. "Montague," he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour that his late sorrows had left to him, "I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs. Hurtle."
"Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs. Hurtle?"
"When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of business," said Sir Felix.

"Leave that to me," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. Then he had himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not have done it.
"Montague," he said, with all the dignity that his late sorrows had left to him, "I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs. Hurtle."
"You were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs. Hurtle?"
"When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of business," said Sir Felix.


"Well;--yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg your pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name;--but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust that will be enough for you."
"You were engaged to Mrs. Hurtle?"

"Well; yes; I admit that. I beg your pardon. But I am not going to marry Mrs. Hurtle. You can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister."
"You were engaged to Mrs. Hurtle?"


"My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answer to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs. Hurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go,--at any rate, at present." Sir Felix still blustered, and made what capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towards positive revenge. "Of course, Carbury," said the other, "I wish to regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me."

"My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. I tell you that I am not connected with Mrs. Hurtle. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I won't go. Of course, Carbury," said Paul, "I wish to regard you as a brother."
Sir Felix blustered, but took no steps towards revenge.


Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed to haunt,--for the first time since his misadventure,--and, plucking up his courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He would have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. But when he arrived there, the club was shut up. "What the deuce is Vossner about?" said he, pulling out his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that this was an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may call private clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news;--The club was shut up! "Do you mean to say I can't come in?" said Sir Felix.

Instead he left. He was now near his old haunts, and for the first time since his misadventure, resolved to go to the Beargarden for a glass of sherry, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. But when he arrived there, the club was shut up.
"What the deuce is Vossner about?" said he. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door. One of the servants eventually drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news


The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrow aperture. Mr. Vossner had gone away. There had been a meeting of the Committee, and the club was shut up. Whatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to Sir Felix Carbury.

: Mr. Vossner had gone away; there had been a meeting of the Committee, and the club was shut.


"By George!" The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's bosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine at his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and Vossner had gone away! What business had the club to be shut up? What right had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance? Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he could recover damages from the whole Committee.

"By George!" The young baronet was filled with indignation. What business had the club to be shut? Had he not paid his subscription in advance?


He went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise of marriage in Mrs. Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come again on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thought nothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herself, who was of course delighted to see him. "Who do you think is in town?" she said. "John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away." Sir Felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. "I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again."

He went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house. He was admitted by Ruby herself, who was of course delighted to see him.
"Who do you think is in town?" she said. "John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away." Sir Felix felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. "I don't know what he should come after me for, when I told him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again."


"He's not of much account," said the baronet.
"He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him," continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. "And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And they do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him," said Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder.
This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs. Pipkin had ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world. "Well, now, Sir Felix," she began, "if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece."
"And what if they're round, Mrs. Pipkin?" said the gallant, careless, sparkling Lothario.
"Well, or round either, so long as they're honest."

"He's not of much account," said the baronet.
"He would marry me immediately, if I'd have him," continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being of no account. "And he has everything comfortable in his house, and they say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him," said Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and leaning on her aristocratic lover's shoulder.
This took place in the back parlour. Then Mrs. Pipkin ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb the romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world.
"Well, now, Sir Felix," she began, "if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece."
"And what if they're round, Mrs. Pipkin?" said the gallant Lothario.
"Well, or round either, so long as they're honest."


"Ruby and I are both honest;--ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs. Pipkin. She shall be back before late;--before ten; she shall indeed." Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his shoulder. "Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you."

"Ruby and I are both honest; ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs. Pipkin. She shall be back before ten. Come, Ruby, get your hat and we'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you."


Ever so many things to tell her! They must be to fix a day for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle what dress she should wear,--and perhaps to give her the money to go and buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! She looked up into Mrs. Pipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely on such an occasion as this an aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a slave. "Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?" demanded Mrs. Pipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs. Hurtle had given it as her decided opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Ruggles unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of a written contract.
"Writing be bothered," said Sir Felix.

Ever so many things to tell her! They must be to fix a day for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle what dress she should wear - and perhaps to give her the money to go and buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! Ruby looked up into Mrs. Pipkin's face with imploring eyes.
"Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix?" demanded Mrs. Pipkin with cruel gravity.
"Writing be bothered," said Sir Felix.


"That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor words. Ruby don't go no where to dine unless you puts it into writing."
"Aunt Pipkin!" exclaimed the wretched Ruby. "What do you think I'm going to do with her?" asked Sir Felix.
"If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be as you don't, just say so, and walk away,--free."

"That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor words. Ruby don't go out to dine unless you puts it into writing."
"Aunt Pipkin!" exclaimed the wretched Ruby.
"What do you think I'm going to do with her?" asked Sir Felix.
"If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if you don't, just say so, and walk away, free."


"I shall go," said Ruby. "I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for any one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in a minute." The girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs, and began to change her dress without giving herself a moment for thought.
"She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix," said Mrs. Pipkin, in her most solemn tones. "She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace. But I'd be loth to see her on the streets."
"Then why won't you let me bring her back again?"

"I shall go," said Ruby. "I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in a minute." The girl ran nimbly upstairs, and began to change her dress.
"She don't come back here no more, Sir Felix," said Mrs. Pipkin, in her most solemn tones. "But I'd be loth to see her on the streets."
"Then why won't you let me bring her back again?"


"'Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry her." To this Sir Felix said nothing. "You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport,--and then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seen scores of 'em, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to the likes o' you."
"I haven't done her any harm," said Sir Felix, almost frightened.

"'Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry her." To this Sir Felix said nothing. "You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport - she's an old shoe to be chucked away, a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seen scores of 'em. But it's all nothing to the likes o' you."
"I haven't done her any harm," said Sir Felix, almost frightened.


"Then go away, and don't do her any. That's Mrs. Hurtle's door open. You go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better nor me."
"Mrs. Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well."


"Mrs. Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen the world." As she spoke, Mrs. Hurtle came downstairs, and an introduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between her and Sir Felix. Mrs. Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was quite as certain as Mrs. Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a few minutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs. Hurtle in her own room. He had been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement with Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of Paul's engagement with his sister. It was not an hour since Paul himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own statement.
"Sir Felix Carbury," she said, "I am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none." It did occur to him very strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs. Hurtle's, and that he, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an unjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was Mrs. Hurtle? "Would it not be better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is really fond of her?"

As she spoke, Mrs. Hurtle came downstairs, and was introduced to Sir Felix. Mrs. Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was quite as certain as Mrs. Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a few minutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs. Hurtle in her own room. He had been anxious to see her since he had heard of her engagement with Paul Montague.
"Sir Felix Carbury," she said, "I am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none. Would it not be better that you should leave her to marry a man who is really fond of her?"


He could already see something in Mrs. Hurtle's eye which prevented his at once bursting into wrath;--but who was Mrs. Hurtle, that she should interfere with him? "Upon my word, ma'am," he said, "I'm very much obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour of your--your--"
"Interference you mean."
"I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it."
"I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made," said Mrs. Hurtle with energy. "We're all apt to wait a little too long, because we're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You must go and leave her, Sir Felix."
"I suppose she may do as she pleases about that."
"Do you mean to make her your wife?" asked Mrs. Hurtle sternly.

He could already see something in Mrs. Hurtle's eye which prevented his at once bursting into wrath; but who was Mrs. Hurtle, that she should interfere with him?
"Upon my word, ma'am," he said, "I'm very much obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour of your - your-"
"Interference. I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made," said Mrs. Hurtle with energy. "You must leave her, Sir Felix."
"She may do as she pleases."
"Do you mean to make her your wife?" asked Mrs. Hurtle sternly.


"Does Mr. Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?" rejoined Sir Felix with an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly hard enough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised that he would have heard aught of her own concerns. She only barely connected him with that Roger Carbury who, she knew, was Paul's great friend, and she had as yet never heard that Hetta Carbury was the girl whom Paul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp should know all her story?

"Does Mr. Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?" rejoined Sir Felix with an impudent swagger. He had certainly struck the blow hard enough, and it went all the way home. She had not thought that he would have heard anything of her own concerns. She did not know that Hetta Carbury was the girl whom Paul loved. Had Paul talked about her so that this young scamp knew all her story?


She thought awhile,--she had to think for a moment,--before she could answer him. "I do not see," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any rate, am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night?" She had desired in what she said to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it matter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was, or that she was not, about to be married?
"If you'll answer me, I'll answer you," said Sir Felix. "Does Mr. Montague mean to make you his wife?"

She thought awhile before she could answer him.
"I do not see," she said, "that there is any parallel between the two cases. I am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night?"
"If you'll answer me, I'll answer you," said Sir Felix. "Does Mr. Montague mean to make you his wife?"


"It does not concern you to know," said she, flashing upon him. "The question is insolent."
"It does concern me,--a great deal more than anything about Ruby can concern you. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you."
"Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head."
"I know all about that," said the baronet.
"And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you," added Mrs. Hurtle.

"It does not concern you," said she, flashing upon him. "The question is insolent."
"It does concern me a great deal. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you."
"Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head."
"I know all about that," said the baronet.
"And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you," added Mrs. Hurtle.


To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix left the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And were there not policemen in London? And what additional harm would be done to John Crumb, or what increase of anger engendered in that true lover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had danced with him so often at the Music Hall that John Crumb could hardly be made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on this evening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed. "You don't come in here again to-night," said Mrs. Pipkin, thumping the little table which stood in the passage, "if you goes out of that there door with that there young man."
"Then I shall," said Ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm.

Without answering, Sir Felix left the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed.
"You don't come in here again tonight," said Mrs. Pipkin, "if you goes out of that there door with that there young man."
"Then I shall," said Ruby, linking herself on to her lover's arm.


"Baggage! Slut!" said Mrs. Pipkin; "after all I've done for you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood."
"I've worked for it, I suppose;--haven't I?" rejoined Ruby.
"You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here no more. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 've saved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you,"--and she looked at Sir Felix,--"only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the lady upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls." I do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance from Mrs. Hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution.

"Baggage! Slut!" said Mrs. Pipkin; "after all I've done for you, just as though you were my own flesh and blood."
"I've worked for it, haven't I?" rejoined Ruby.
"You send for your things tomorrow, for you don't come here no more. As for you," - and she looked at Sir Felix - "I'd like to shake you."


Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs. Pipkin and her lodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby had been triumphant, and was happy. She did not stop to consider whether her aunt would or would not open her door when she should return tired, and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm, in her best clothes, and going to have a dinner given to her. And her lover had told her that he had ever so many things,--ever so many things to say to her! But she would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up to Pentonville;--so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half public-house and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the good things, which in his company would be so nice! Who cannot understand that even an urban Rosherville must be an Elysium to those who have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom of a small London underground kitchen? There we will leave Ruby in her bliss.

Sir Felix left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, she was triumphant and happy. She did not stop to consider whether her aunt would open her door when she returned. She was on her lover's arm, in her best clothes, and going to dinner. And her lover had told her that he had ever so many things to say to her!
But she would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up to Pentonville, and turn into a gay tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order good things! So there we will leave Ruby in her bliss.


At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs. Pipkin's, and was told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury. He hit his leg a blow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. "He'll have it hot some day," said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took his departure.

At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs. Pipkin's, and was told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury.
"He'll have it hot some day," said John Crumb, glaring. He was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he departed.


Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr. Broune's proposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her promise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day her letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and she had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be much guided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only accept it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden. She never said this even to herself,--but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect.

Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr. Broune's proposal. It was made on Tuesday night and she had promised to send a reply on Thursday. But early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and by noon her letter was written.
She had spoken to Hetta about him, and had seen that Hetta disliked him. She was not usually much guided by Hetta's opinion. There was an excellent match ready for Hetta if she would only accept it; and she was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect.


She had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake,--having even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. The maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices; but it might so probably be again secured,--by means of her son's beauty! Hetta had said that Mr. Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the man!

She had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. Hetta had said that Mr. Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the man!


And added to all this there was something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that she should burden any one with the responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr. Broune:--
DEAREST FRIEND,

Added to all this, something within her, almost amounting to conscience, told her that it was not right to burden any one with the inevitable troubles of such a son as Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? In that case she would certainly separate herself from her husband.
Having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr. Broune:
Dearest Friend,


I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be described;--and yet with you I would have no reticence. I would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears,--with every circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience.

I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous offer. How could I refuse such a prospect without much thought? I regard your career as noble; and in that career no one is your superior. I am proud that you should have asked me to be your wife. But, my friend, my life has been wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and lopped by my sufferings that I am best alone. I would put the whole sorrowful history before you to read, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience.


The result of it would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.
I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would now become your wife. But I shall never marry again.
Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend,
MATILDA CARBURY.

You would then understand that I am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy instead of mirth.
I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could I marry any man it would be you. But I shall never marry again.
Your most affectionate friend,
Matilda Carbury.


About six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr. Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone,--full of regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which would certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment she was in debt,--and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff on which she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about the marriage. As regarded herself, Mr. Broune would have made her secure,--but that now was all over. Poor woman! This at any rate may be said for her,--that had she accepted the man her regrets would have been as deep.

She sent this letter to Mr. Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for a while alone, full of regrets. She had thrown away a firm footing. Even at this moment she was in debt - and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff to lean on. She was afraid of the future. When she was trying to write, her head would sometimes seem to be full of the unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his dissipation. Mr. Broune would have made her secure - but that was all over. Yet if she had accepted him she would now be feeling equal regret.


Mr. Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of the lady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet from the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That gently sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described him to herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of Mr. Broune's character which showed itself in this matter. He was a susceptible old goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissing might probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that her little manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself constrained to reciprocate the passion. She was beautiful in his eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes like a lady; and,--if it was written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at the top of his table,--Lady Carbury would look as well there as any other. She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself bound to obtain for himself the right to kiss her.

Mr. Broune's feelings were more decided than Lady Carbury's. From the moment he had made his proposal he had repented it. He was indeed what Lady Carbury had called him: a susceptible old goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that her little manuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself obliged to return it. She was beautiful in his eyes, she was bright, and she wore her clothes like a lady. When she had repudiated the kiss, he had felt himself bound to obtain the right to kiss her.


The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in, drunk, at the front door. As he made his escape the lad had insulted him. This, perhaps, helped to open his eyes. When he woke the next morning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, he was no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with him. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that first matutinal retrospection, and pro-spection, into things as they have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent,--or perhaps a cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left untasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comforts himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all over, teres atque rotundus,--so to have managed his little affairs that he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! Mr. Broune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the course of his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon,--for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in the morning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not balance his sheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he feared that he had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of tea with which his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of himself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things were well with him.

The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in, drunk, at the front door. When he woke the next day, he no longer felt that the world was all right with him. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking; the lowness of heart, the blankness of hope at the remembrance of some folly? On this Wednesday Mr. Broune found himself uncomfortable. He had taken a very great step and he feared that he had not taken it wisely.


Everything was to be changed. As he lit a cigarette he bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in her bedroom. Then he remembered other things. "I'll be d---- if he shall live in my house," he said to himself.
And there was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that his offer could be refused. During the whole of that day he went about among his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappish uncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with about fifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he did not speak a word to any man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in Trafalgar Square at which he did his nightly work. Here he was lapped in comforts,--if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and of reading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightly thirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himself responsible for their contents.

As he lit a cigarette he thought that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in her bedroom. Then he remembered other things. "I'll be d____ if he shall live in my house," he said to himself.
There was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that his offer could be refused. During that day he went about in a melancholy fashion, saying snappish things at the club, and dining by himself with about fifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he went early to the office of the newspaper in Trafalgar Square where he did his nightly work - and


He seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw Lady Carbury's letter on the table before him. It was his custom when he did not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at his office as had reached his home during his absence;--and here was Lady Carbury's letter. He knew her writing well, and was aware that here was the confirmation of his fate. It had not been expected, as she had given herself another day for her answer,--but here it was, beneath his hand. Surely this was almost unfeminine haste. He chucked the letter, unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention on some printed slip that was ready for him. For some ten minutes his eyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did not follow what he was reading. He struggled again, but still his thoughts were on the letter. He did not wish to open it, having some vague idea that, till the letter should have been read, there was a chance of escape. The letter would not become due to be read till the next day.

 immediately saw Lady Carbury's letter on the table before him.
He knew her writing well, and was aware that here was the confirmation of his fate a day earlier than promised. She had accepted him with unseemly haste. He pushed the letter away, and tried to read for some ten minutes, but he found that his mind did not follow what he was reading. He struggled again,


It should not have been there now to tempt his thoughts on this night. But he could do nothing while it lay there. "It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall never have to see him," he said to himself, as he opened it. The second line told him that the danger was over.

 but he could do nothing while the letter lay there.
"It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall never have to see Felix," he said to himself, as he opened it. The second line told him that the danger was over.


When he had read so far he stood up with his back to the fire-place, leaving the letter on the table. Then, after all, the woman wasn't in love with him! But that was a reading of the affair which he could hardly bring himself to look upon as correct. The woman had shown her love by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she now had her triumph. A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a man,--and more especially when she does so at a certain time of life. Would she publish her triumph? Mr. Broune would not like to have it known about among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he had offered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady Carbury had refused him. He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not in proportion to the bitterness of his late fears.

At once he stood up, leaving the letter on the table. Then, after all, the woman wasn't in love with him! But she had shown her love by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she now had her triumph. A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a man. Would she publish it? Mr. Broune would not like to have it known among his brother editors that he had offered to marry Lady Carbury and that she had refused him. He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not in proportion to the bitterness of his late fears.


He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! As he reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed away from him. Full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still stood upon the rug, before he read the entire letter. "'Cut and scotched and lopped!' I suppose she has been," he said to himself. He had heard much of Sir Patrick, and knew well that the old general had been no lamb. "I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her." When he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him gradually a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever yet felt,--and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his offer to her. "'Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,'" he repeated to himself. "I should have done the best for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were necessary."

He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! He reflected upon it for full ten minutes, before he read the entire letter.
"'Cut and lopped!' I suppose she has been," he said to himself. He had heard much of Sir Patrick. "I shouldn't have cut or lopped her." When he had read the whole letter there crept upon him gradually a feeling of admiration for her so great that, for a while, he almost thought that he would renew his offer. "'Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,'" he repeated to himself. "I should have done the best for her, taking the showers and the melancholy."


He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room. Gradually, through the night, he realised the conviction that he had escaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating his offer. Before he left he wrote her a line--
Be it so. It need not break our friendship.
N. B.
This he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to his lodgings long before he was up on the following morning.
No;--no; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my mouth.
M. C.

He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room. Gradually, he realised that he had escaped, and rejected the idea of repeating his offer. Before he left he wrote her a line:
Be it so. It need not break our friendship.
N. B.
This he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to his lodgings.
No; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my mouth.
M. C.


Mr. Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and resolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that his friendship could do for her.

Mr. Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and resolved that Lady Carbury should never lack anything that his friendship could do for her.


We must now go back a little in our story,--about three weeks,--in order that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at the Beargarden. That establishment had received a terrible blow in the defection of Herr Vossner. It was not only that he had robbed the club, and robbed every member of the club who had ventured to have personal dealings with him. Although a bad feeling in regard to him was no doubt engendered in the minds of those who had suffered deeply, it was not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom over the club. The sorrow was in this,--that with Herr Vossner all their comforts had gone. Of course Herr Vossner had been a thief. That no doubt had been known to them from the beginning. A man does not consent to be called out of bed at all hours in the morning to arrange the gambling accounts of young gentlemen without being a thief. No one concerned with Herr Vossner had supposed him to be an honest man. But then as a thief he had been so comfortable that his absence was regretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love even by those who had suffered most severely from his rapacity.

We must now go back about three weeks in our story, so that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at the Beargarden. That establishment had received a terrible blow in the defection of Herr Vossner. It was not only that he had robbed the club, and robbed every member of the club who had had personal dealings with him. The sorrow was also in this - that with Herr Vossner all their comforts had gone. Of course Herr Vossner had been a thief. No one had supposed him to be an honest man. But as a thief he had been so comfortable that his absence was regretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love.

Chapter 96: Where "The Wild Asses Quench Their Thirst"


Dolly Longestaffe had been robbed more outrageously than any other member of the club, and yet Dolly Longestaffe had said since the departure of the purveyor that London was not worth living in now that Herr Vossner was gone. In a week the Beargarden collapsed,--as Germany would collapse for a period if Herr Vossner's great compatriot were suddenly to remove himself from the scene; but as Germany would strive to live even without Bismarck, so did the club make its new efforts. But here the parallel must cease. Germany no doubt would at last succeed, but the Beargarden had received a blow from which it seemed that there was no recovery. At first it was proposed that three men should be appointed as trustees,--trustees for paying Vossner's debts, trustees for borrowing more money, trustees for the satisfaction of the landlord who was beginning to be anxious as to his future rent. At a certain very triumphant general meeting of the club it was determined that such a plan should be arranged, and the members assembled were unanimous. It was at first thought that there might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship. The club was so popular and the authority conveyed by the position would be so great, that A, B, and C might feel aggrieved at seeing so much power conferred on D, E, and F. When at the meeting above mentioned one or two names were suggested, the final choice was postponed, as a matter of detail to be arranged privately, rather from this consideration than with any idea that there might be a difficulty in finding adequate persons. But even the leading members of the Beargarden hesitated when the proposition was submitted to them with all its honours and all its responsibilities. Lord Nidderdale declared from the beginning that he would have nothing to do with it,--pleading his poverty openly.

Dolly Longestaffe had been robbed more outrageously than any other member of the club, and yet Dolly said that London was not worth living in now that Herr Vossner was gone.
The Beargarden had received a blow from which it seemed that there was no recovery. At first it was proposed that trustees should be appointed to pay Vossner's debts and borrow more money. But the members of the Beargarden hesitated at these honours and responsibilities. Lord Nidderdale declared that he would have nothing to do with it.


Beauchamp Beauclerk was of opinion that he himself did not frequent the club often enough. Mr. Lupton professed his inability as a man of business. Lord Grasslough pleaded his father. The club from the first had been sure of Dolly Longestaffe's services;--for were not Dolly's pecuniary affairs now in process of satisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all men that his courage never failed him in regard to money? But even he declined. "I have spoken to Squercum," he said to the Committee, "and Squercum won't hear of it. Squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the club very shaky." When one of the Committee made a remark as to Mr. Squercum which was not complimentary,--insinuated indeed that Squercum without injustice might be consigned to the infernal deities,--Dolly took the matter up warmly. "That's all very well for you, Grasslough; but if you knew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight without preaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise Squercum. I've tried to go alone and I find that does not answer.

Mr. Lupton professed his inability as a man of business. Lord Grasslough pleaded his father. Even Dolly Longestaffe declined.
"I have spoken to Squercum," he said to the Committee, "and Squercum won't hear of it.


Squercum's my coach, and I mean to stick pretty close to him." Then it came to pass that the triumphant project as to the trustees fell to the ground, although Squercum himself advised that the difficulty might be lessened if three gentlemen could be selected who lived well before the world and yet had nothing to lose. Whereupon Dolly suggested Miles Grendall. But the Committee shook its heads, not thinking it possible that the club could be re-established on a basis of three Miles Grendalls.
Then dreadful rumours were heard. The Beargarden must surely be abandoned. "It is such a pity," said Nidderdale, "because there never has been anything like it."
"Smoke all over the house!" said Dolly.
"No horrid nonsense about closing," said Grasslough, "and no infernal old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing."


"Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That's what I liked," said Nidderdale.
"It's an old story," said Mr. Lupton, "that if you put a man into Paradise he'll make it too hot to hold him. That's what you've done here."
"What we ought to do," said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of his own good fortune in regard to Squercum, "is to get some fellow like Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his regular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really think that might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt." But Mr. Lupton was of opinion that the new Vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity.

What we ought to do is to get some fellow like Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his regular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us." But Mr. Lupton was of the opinion that the new Vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity.


One day, before the Whitstable marriage, when it was understood that the club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless some new heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation, Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the hall and the steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner, when Sir Felix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a creeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. He had nearly recovered from his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court plaster on his upper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak as though he had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had heard little or nothing of what had been done at the Beargarden since Vossner's defection. It was now a month since he had been seen at the club. His thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but latterly his existence had been almost forgotten. Now, with difficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so completely had he been cowed by the latter circumstances of his life; but he had determined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to his old associates as though no evil thing had befallen him. He had still money enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber of whist. If fortune should go against him he might glide into I. O. U.'s;--as others had done before, so much to his cost.

The club would therefore be closed on the 12th August unless some new heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation. One day, Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the steps, drinking sherry and bitters before dinner, when Sir Felix Carbury came creeping round the corner and, in a hesitating manner, entered the door. He had nearly recovered from his wounds, though he had not yet learned to look or speak as though he had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had heard little of the Beargarden lately; it was a month since he had been seen at the club. His thrashing had been the wonder of a few days, and then he had been almost forgotten.
Now, with difficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt and talk to his associates as though nothing had happened to him.


"By George, here's Carbury!" said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, and walked up-stairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to have their hands shaken by the stranger.
"Thought you were out of town," said Nidderdale. "Haven't seen you for the last ever so long."
"I have been out of town," said Felix,--lying; "down in Suffolk. But I'm back now. How are things going on here?"
"They're not going at all;--they're gone," said Dolly.

"By George, here's Carbury!" said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, and walked upstairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly shook hands with him.
"Thought you were out of town," said Nidderdale. "Haven't seen you for ever so long."
"I have been down in Suffolk," lied Felix. "How are things going on here?"
"They're not going at all; they're gone," said Dolly.


"Everything is smashed," said Nidderdale. "We shall all have to pay, I don't know how much."
"Wasn't Vossner ever caught?" asked the baronet.


"Caught!" ejaculated Dolly. "No;--but he has caught us. I don't know that there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We close altogether next Monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for. Flatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. Indeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece. He's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the cellar."
"That don't matter," said Nidderdale, "as Vossner took care that there shouldn't be any wine."
"He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we have as a favour."

"Caught!" said Dolly. "No. We close altogether next Monday. Flatfleece says the furniture belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. Indeed, everything seems to belong to Flatfleece. He's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the cellar."
"That don't matter," said Nidderdale, "as Vossner took care that there shouldn't be any wine."


"I suppose one can get a dinner here?"
"Yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow."
"Isn't there any playing?" asked Felix with dismay.
"I haven't seen a card this fortnight," said Dolly. "There hasn't been anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been the affair of Melmotte, you know;--though, I suppose, you do know all about that."
"Of course I know he poisoned himself."

"I suppose one can get dinner here?"
"Yes; today you can, and perhaps tomorrow."
"Isn't there any playing?" asked Felix with dismay.
"I haven't seen a card this fortnight," said Dolly. "There hasn't been anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been the affair of Melmotte, you know;


"Of course that had effect," said Dolly, continuing his history. "Though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow like that takes poison, I can't understand. Last year the only day I managed to get down in February, the hounds didn't come because some old cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I call that rot."
"Melmotte's death was rather awful," said Nidderdale.

 though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow takes poison, I can't understand."
"Melmotte's death was rather awful," said Nidderdale.