"Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the pull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for me about money, mother?"
"I have none, Felix."
"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it."

"Melmotte will find that it is. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than anyone would think. What can you do for me about money, mother?"
"I have none, Felix."
"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it."


"That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't 20 at the bank altogether."
"They would let you overdraw for 50 or 60."
"I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but I have not money to give you."

"That's not true, Felix. Oh, I am so sorry I ever said that! I have no money in the bank."
"They would let you overdraw 50 or 60."
"I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some clothes for you, and pay for them if you cannot - but I have no money to give you."

Chapter 49: Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready


"That's a blue look out," said he, turning himself in his chair,--"just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."
"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have some money?"
"Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me." Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque for 30, although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker's.

"That's a blue look out," said he, "just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."
"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in such a trip as this. You have some money?"
"Some; yes. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me."
Before the evening was over she gave him a cheque for 30.


After this he went back to his club, although he himself understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. "Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."
"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix. "I hate three-handed loo."
"Dummy," suggested Dolly.

Then he went back to his club, even though he understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together.
"Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."
"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix.


"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together." Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. "By-the-bye, Grendall,--look here." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a petition that some of the I. O. U.'s might be converted into cash.
"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.

"I don't think I'll play tonight, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together."
Miles sat silently smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike of playing with him.
"By-the-bye, Grendall." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a request that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into cash.
"I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.


"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and standing with his back to the fire-place. There were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a glass of brandy on re-entering the club.
"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."
"Of course," said Miles. "I won't say a word about the matter down here. It isn't the proper thing."

"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and speaking so that everyone in the room should hear. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had just taken a glass of brandy.
"Don't let's have that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."


"Come up into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix, getting up from his chair. "It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say." But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had anything to say, he could say it.
"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly. "One has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club."
"He likes a row,--Carbury does," said Miles.

"Come into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix. "Come up, now; and Dolly shall come and hear what you say."
But Miles objected. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play.
"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly.
"Carbury likes a row," said Miles.


"I should like my money, if I could get it," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.

"I should like my money," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.


On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. This was done after a little hesitation. The money was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. "Dear, dear;" said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York. Of course he would have done no such thing.

On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. A gentleman behind the desk begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account.
"Dear, dear," said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes. "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he decided that


But now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his last night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her she could not blame him.

since she had broken her appointment everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her, she could not blame him.


Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his club. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but the payments punctual. The I. O. U.'s had been nearly all converted into money,--with the assistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those of Miles Grendall.

He went back to his club very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he had an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the usual men - except Miles. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. Ready money was on the table; indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of I.O.U.'s, and they had been nearly all converted into money, excepting those of Miles Grendall.


The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him the determination of the committee. "Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this." Miles had declared that he would "stump up." But on this occasion Miles was absent.
At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.
But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New York without delay.

The committee had decided to take no more I.O.U.s.
At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.
But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had left the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and had gone on to New York without delay.


Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any rate with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation turned naturally to Mr. Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes almost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two propositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her residence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir Felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should take possession of Carbury manor for six months. "And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.

Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable about her son that she was unable to be as active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had returned to Suffolk; so in need of assistance and consolation she turned naturally to Mr. Broune. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury every day. She told him of Roger's proposals: first, that she should take Sir Felix abroad to live in some second-rate French or German town, and, secondly, that she should live at Carbury manor for six months.
"And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.


"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to." Mr. Broune shook his head. Mr. Broune did not think that an offer so quixotically generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies. "That he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the mean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. He had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet the world.

"There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to."
Mr. Broune shook his head. He did not think that an offer so quixotically generous should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether it was worth the sacrifice. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies.
"So that he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune.
Sir Felix was still in the doctor's hands upstairs. There was not in truth much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. At present, however, he preferred to be an invalid rather than to meet the world.


"As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."
"And the girl?"
"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but it was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still means to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth about it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something." The "we" of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the "Morning Breakfast Table."

"As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."
"And the girl?"
"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor today on some charge of fraud; but it was postponed. And I was told Nidderdale still means to marry the girl."


But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to "ask himself;" and she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written account of Mrs. Hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:--

In all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition. She received two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had not met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving her convinced that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction.
Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment - with not a word that suggested the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; but now she did not know how to answer it. Roger had told her to "ask Paul himself." So she wrote to Paul, as follows:


Welbeck Street, 16th July, 18--.
MY DEAR PAUL.
She found that after that which had passed between them she could not call him "My dear Sir," or "My dear Mr. Montague," and that it must either be "Sir" or "My dear Paul." He was dear to her,--very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul,"--but she made her choice, and so commenced.
MY DEAR PAUL,

My dear Paul,
(Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul.")
My dear Paul,


A strange report has come round to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But I fear,--I fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell me. He said,--"Ask himself." And so I ask you.

A strange report has come to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid. But I fear there is something true that will be very sad for me to hear. I first heard it from my brother, and I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all, but he will not tell me. And so I ask you.


Of course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about this. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.
Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration which must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribed herself,
Your affectionate friend,
HENRIETTA CARBURY.
"Most affectionately your own Hetta" would have been the form in which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written to him.

I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.
Your affectionate friend,
Henrietta Carbury.


Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a second or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong against such written communications. A man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs. Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--"Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to you."

Paul received this letter at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that he needed to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back - almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. When he was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story.


And then he and his beloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying up to London.

But a man hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And a writer cannot show tenderness by tone of voice. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying to London.


He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then, up-stairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it with her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would not again accept her lover till this story of Mrs. Hurtle had been sifted to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room and suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather see Mr. Montague herself. Felix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.

He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury.
Upstairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, with her mother's consent. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say. Felix, who was there, suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf; but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather go herself. Felix did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.


When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his arms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she had prepared herself for it. "Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this--first." She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found himself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her.
"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
"Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."
"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think your brother is as well informed."

When she entered the parlour Paul stepped forward to take her in his arms. She had prepared herself for this.
"Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this first." She sat down at some distance from him.
"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
"Yes. Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."
"Oh yes; Roger knows the whole history. I don't think your brother is as well informed."


"Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?"
"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."
"I will believe anything that you will tell me."
"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."
"Is she a widow?"--He did not answer this at once. "I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."

"Perhaps not. But - isn't it a story that - concerns me?"
"Certainly you ought to know it, Hetta. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."
"I will believe anything that you will tell me."
"Well, then, I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."
"Is she a widow? I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."


"Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced."
"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?"
"Yes."
"And you loved her?"
Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."

"Yes; she is a widow. She was divorced."
"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?"
"Yes."
"And you loved her?"
Montague did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."


"Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.

"Oh, certainly. But if you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.


"Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. Hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. "Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta,--"because I believe they get themselves divorced just when they like." Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I could only know what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. "Did you give her up then?"

"Yes; I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story. Hetta listened, not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, her words were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean crossing when Paul had promised to make this woman his wife.
"Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta.
Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I only knew what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger.
"Did you give her up then?"


demanded Hetta with stern severity. No,--not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his second return to England,--and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington. "I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you." He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern.
"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day."

demanded Hetta with stern severity. No, not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and - he was forced to acknowledge that the engagement had not been broken off. He had written to her on his second return to England, and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington.
"I can hardly tell you how terrible that was," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you."
It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern. "Felix says you took her to Lowestoft - quite the other day."


Montague had intended to tell all,--almost all. There was a something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. "It was on account of her health."
"Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"
"I did."
"Was that for her--health?"
"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"

Montague had intended to tell almost all. There was something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand. "It was on account of her health."
"Oh; on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"
"I did."
"Was that for her health?"
"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"


"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago."
"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.
"Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."

"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft, for her health. That was only a week ago."
"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.
"Oh; nearly three weeks! You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."


"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."
"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."
"She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."

"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."
"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."
"She wanted then to force me to - to - Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure you understand. You cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."


"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."
[Illustration: "You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle."]
"She knows now that it is all over."

"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."
"She knows now that it is all over."


"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.
"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"

"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider. To have come all the way here from San Francisco after you, she must be very much attached to you. She is a very old friend, and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with little chokes in her throat, but without a tear or any sign of tenderness.
"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"


"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs. Hurtle."
"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."

"I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married - Mrs. Hurtle."
"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."


"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me."
"What does it matter?"

"I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. It seemed to be impossible that you should have come to me not much more than a week after that trip to Lowestoft."
"What does it matter?"


"Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."
"Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?"
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."
"Hetta!"

"Oh, nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."
"Do you mean to say that you are going to - throw me over?"
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."
"Hetta!"


"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.

"No; do not lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.


Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she could only really know it all, there could be no such result. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, never swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved some woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London,--which he would have given half his possessions to have prevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.

Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her. Even if he had loved some woman before, that would not affect her. Her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London. Yet when she had come, could he have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be so cold and cruel? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle; but he had overcome that trouble. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.


He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually free from Mrs. Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content to abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possible preserve an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been cruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he thought, very little heart. "I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her? Surely she might have left Mrs. Hurtle to fight her own battles.

He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake - so he told himself - he had stayed involved with that odious railway company, in order that he might have an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part, because he had not been cruelly indifferent to Mrs. Hurtle. There was no logic in it, and, as he thought, very little heart.
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her?


But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And here there was really so very little to forgive! Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" in close intercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even heard the name. But then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide difference between young men and young women!

But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix. She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And there was so very little to forgive!
Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" with another lover of whom he had never even heard. But then, there is a wide difference between young men and young women!


Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to her own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. "Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears,--or very nigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost successfully. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."
"Enough of it was true," said Hetta, who, angry as she was with her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for disturbing her bliss.
"What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me openly?"

Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed him, went up at once to her own room. She was followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door.
"Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was struggling to repress her tears. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."
"Enough of it was true," said Hetta.


"I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else."
"Roger Carbury is very different."
"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to me that you do not understand in the least."
"I say he is not like that."

"He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so, and to begin with somebody else."
"Roger Carbury is very different."
"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. You do not understand in the least."
"I say he is not like that.


"Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like that."
"I say that he can be trusted."
"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"
"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."
"Mamma," said Hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh, mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me to be more to Roger Carbury than I am now."

He can be trusted."
"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"
"If you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."
"Mamma," said Hetta, jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Nothing on earth will ever induce me to marry Roger."


"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"
"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."
"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague."
"I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of."

"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"
"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."
"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to expect a reply.


"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--"
"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.
"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"
"He understood that."
"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."
"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly." Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.

We have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you, with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger-"
"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.
"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"
"He understood that."
"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."
"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly."
Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.


"It's weary work," said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with his mother and sister.
"What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?" said his mother.
"It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I go home." So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the driver.
"It is two o'clock, Felix," said his mother.
"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps; I had none."
"Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?"

"It's weary work," said Sir Felix in the carriage with his mother and sister. "I think I'll run down to the club before I go home." He put his head out, and stopped the driver.
"It is two o'clock in the morning, Felix," said his mother.
"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. I had no supper.


"I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night." Then he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed his play on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe owed him now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also in his debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not keep himself from the card-table.

Good night."
He jumped out of the carriage, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He told himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had won again on the previous night. Dolly Longestaffe and Lord Grasslough owed him money, and he was determined that they should not think that he had been carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth he could not keep away from the card-table.


Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had got up-stairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart at the moment. "Do you think he gambles?"
"He has got no money, mamma."
"I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles everything is lost."
"I suppose they all do play,--more or less."

Neither mother nor daughter said a word till they reached home. Then the mother spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart.
"Do you think he gambles?"
"He has got no money, mamma."
"I fear that might not stop him. If he gambles everything is lost."
"I suppose they all play, more or less."


"I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey me. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."
"He has been so long his own master, mamma."

"I am wearied out of all heart by his lack of consideration to me. It is not that I expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."
"He has been so long his own master, mamma."


"Yes,--his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."
"No, mamma;--that is unjust."
"He was always with you."
"I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice." Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head. "If you did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there."

"His own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."
"No, mamma; that is unjust. I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice."
Her mother shook her head.
"If you did not want me to speak to Paul," said Hetta, "you should not have taken me there."


"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London," she said, sobbing hysterically.
"Is it my fault, mamma?"
"You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself,--nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."

"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." As Henrietta kissed her good night, Lady Carbury began to sob. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London."
"Is it my fault, mamma?"
"You could save me from much if you wished. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling on myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."


"I think of you, mamma."
"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man."
"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin very much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma." Lady Carbury just allowed herself to be kissed, and then was left alone.

"I think of you, mamma."
"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is because of that young man."
"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin Roger very much; - but that is all. Good night, mamma."


At eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men who had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The Beargarden was so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to its being closed,--the only law being that it should not be opened before three in the afternoon. A sort of sanction had, however, been given to the servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in the morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be too heavy even for juvenile constitutions. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury, and the four had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had culminated during the last half-hour with blind hookey. But during the whole night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been an expressed opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would be both profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of the last two nights. The two men had played with the same object, and being young had shown their intention,--so that a certain feeling of hostility had been engendered. The reader is not to understand that either of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained any suspicion of foul play. But Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy and friendship.

At eight o'clock the next morning four young men had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury; they had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had finished with blind hookey. But all night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and agreed with Lord Grasslough that it would be proper to relieve Sir Felix of his previous winnings. The two men had shown their intention, causing a certain hostility. Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy.


At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, though no money then passed. The ready-money transactions had not lasted long through the night. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the figures and scraps of paper which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the fact bitterly, but contested it in vain. There were his own initials and his own figures, and even Miles Grendall, who was supposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce the amount. Then Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury,--an amount, indeed, that mattered little, as Miles could, at present, as easily have raised 40,000. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Grasslough, also, was impecunious; but he had a father,--also impecunious, indeed; but with them the matter would not be hopeless. Dolly Longestaffe was so tipsy that he could not even assist in making up his own account.

At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling-up, though no money passed hands. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the paper I.O.U.s which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the amount bitterly, but in vain. Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury, an amount that he could never hope to raise. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Dolly Longestaffe was too tipsy to make up his own account.


That was to be left between him and Carbury for some future occasion.
"I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night," said Miles.
"Certainly,--only one thing," answered Felix.
"What one thing?"
"I think these things should be squared before we play any more!"
"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily. "Do you mean to hint anything?"

That was to be left for some future occasion.
"I suppose you'll be here tomorrow, - that is, tonight," said Miles.
"Certainly," answered Felix. "Only I think these things should be squared before we play any more."
"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily. "Do you mean to hint anything?"


"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But I'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your revenge to-night."
"That's all right," said Miles.
"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night, Mr. Grendall."
"Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?"
"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again."

"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready money, that's all. But I'll give you your revenge tonight."
"All right," said Miles.
"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend. You have been rather rough tonight, Mr. Grendall."
"Rough - what the devil do you mean by that?"
"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again."


"A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to," said Grendall.
There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if he could realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again with horses, servants, and all luxuries as before. If all were paid, he would have over 3,000!

"I'm used to settling once a week," said Grendall.
There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he went home, calculated that if he were fully paid, he might begin the campaign again with all luxuries as before. He would have over 3,000!


Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs. Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room.

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and the world appeared to go well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles about Fisker, Montague, and Montague are already known to the reader. He was also troubled about his love, though when he thought about the success of the great railway he hoped that he might be blessed by Henrietta's acceptance. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, and yet returned to.
But there was another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning he got a cab in Piccadilly and travelled to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door, and asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
He was shown into the drawing-room, and


There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. "Paul," she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything."
"I cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand in hers.
"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?"

 stood by the table until Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry.
"Paul," she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased, "Paul, say that that letter of yours means nothing. Say that, and I will forgive everything."
"I cannot say that."
"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises mean nothing?"


"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present difficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion; and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his sympathies.

"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come here at her bidding because he had felt that to stay away would be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but he hardly knew how to justify it to her. He had heard things about her past life which, had he heard them before, would have saved him from this difficulty. But he had loved her - did love her in a way, in spite of her offences.


"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As she said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtle was not a beauty after the present fashion.

"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As she said this she looked round at the mirror, as though to see whether she was become haggard with age. She was very lovely, though not in the current fashion.


She was very dark,--a dark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it.

She was a dark brunette with large round blue eyes, that could be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls around her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips were full, and she blushed easily. Her bust was beautifully shaped; but she dressed as though she were oblivious of her own charms.
Her dress, when Montague had seen her, was always black, always new, always nice, well-fitting, and above all simple. She was certainly a beautiful woman, and she knew it.


She looked as though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.
"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.
"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means." Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him.

Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.
"You are as beautiful as ever you were," he said.
"Psha! I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down and tell me what it means." She seated herself opposite him.


"You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off. Why is it to be--off? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. "Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." Of course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her? "Now tell me everything," she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet.

"You told me nothing in your letter, except that it was - off. Why? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, looking up in his face. "Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic to see you, after so many months - and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss."
Of course he kissed her, with a long, warm embrace. While she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her?
"Now tell me everything," she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet.


[Illustration: "I have come across the Atlantic to see you."]


She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London railway station, from which she started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had offered to go with her, but that she had declined.

She did not look like a woman whom a man might scorn unpunished. Paul felt, even while she was caressing him, that she might well turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love.
He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, distress and poverty - for he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool they were engaged to marry. He had given her the whole history of his life. This was when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life, except that she was a widow, travelling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London railway station, he was full of a lover's ardour.


But when he remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he did not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family. She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been missing.

But when he remembered that he must tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of Mrs. Hurtle, he became embarrassed. She had spoken hardly a word of her own family, although she had said that her husband had been a great miscreant, and her release from him had been the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. After she had left him, he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carbury, and became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness and charm, that he had passed weeks in her daily company without feeling that anything had been missing.


He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially succeeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that she may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that moment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to his widow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he said ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learned through the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not quite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that there certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was, that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed.

He had told Roger, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met on a train without knowing anything about her. Roger did all he could to persuade him to forget his love - and partially succeeded. Paul saw his mistake. Yet, though he was half false to his widow, he was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and said that ought to bind him.
Then he returned to California, and learned through Hamilton K. Fisker that in San Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that there certainly had been, and that he still existed. The fact, however, best known was, that she had shot a man through the head in Oregon. She had not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed.


Everybody knew that she was very clever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. "She always had money when she was here," Hamilton Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. "I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership, if you mean that," said Hamilton K. Fisker.

Everybody thought that she was very clever and very beautiful, but also very dangerous.
"She always had money," Hamilton Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from. I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership."


Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader will remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had promised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day. She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate before he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England, and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to London! "Tell me everything," she said, leaning upon him and looking up into his face.
"But you,--when did you arrive here?"

Montague had seen her in New York on his second journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes - for this was before the great railway - and she had promised to follow him. Since then they had not met till this day. Letters from her had reached him in England, and he had answered these by trying to explain that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to London!
"Tell me everything," she said, looking up into his face.
"When did you arrive here?"


"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers." As she said this, she looked as though she could be very persistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her own.

"On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were in London, and so I came here. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I did not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless.


"I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful." As she said this his arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"

I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I did you had quarrelled with your uncle and left. And now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful. And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"


His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as that. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she sat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his wife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet with properly apologetic courtesy. "I am engaged here about this railway," he said. "You have heard, I suppose, of our projected scheme?"

His position was very embarrassing. He ought to have gently pushed her away, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have been his conduct, he did not intend to become her husband. But he was either too much or too little of a man to do that. He did vow to himself that she should never be his wife. But he did not know how to say this with properly apologetic courtesy.
"I am engaged here about this railway," he said. "You have heard of it, I suppose?"


"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did."
"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling of shame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.
"You are the manager here in England?"
"No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."

"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the best of it has been transferred to you Londoners."
"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some shame, as he thought how little he knew about it.
"You are the manager here in England?"
"No; I am a member of the firm; but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."


"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of course?"
"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week."
"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power;--what grandeur!"
"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."

"Ah - I have heard of him. A great man. You know him, of course?"
"Yes; I see him once a week."
"I would sooner see that man than any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power; what grandeur!"
"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."


"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the rivers."
"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said Montague.
"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that he is not honest?"
"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing against him."

"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. Commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. Do they say here that he is not honest?"
"As he is my partner perhaps I had better say nothing against him."


"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."
"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."
"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."

"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor. I would like to see Melmotte - to kiss his hand; but I would not condescend to speak a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."
"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."
"Ah - you mean that he covets worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but they do so stealthily, pretending to despise what they really love. Here is a man who boldly says that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more wealth a man has the greater and the nobler he can be."


Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connected with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. "Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.
"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove."
"Oh no."
"But you are prospering in this business?"

Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. He believed the Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and it was shocking to see it lavished on such a subject.
"Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.
"But you are prospering in this business?"


"Yes,--I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no alternative."
"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."
"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."

"I suppose so. It is hard to tell. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no alternative."
"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."
"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."


"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now,--now that we have got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"
He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited for an answer. "You know I did," he said.

"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now - tell me what all this means. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"
She waited, and he had to answer. "You know I did," he said.


"I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you doubt me?"
He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. "No, indeed."

"I thought so. You are sure of my love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak like a man. Do you doubt me?"
He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. "No, indeed."


"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl from a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! You owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not taken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hate me, say so."
"Winifrid," he said, calling her by her name.

"Oh, with what half-mouthed words you speak - like a girl from a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you - if not your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hate me, say so."
"Winifrid," he said.


"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there another woman that you love?"
At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. "There is another," he said.
She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would commence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standing quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the left. "Oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why I am told that I am to be--off."

"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there another woman that you love?"
At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. "There is another," he said.
She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would begin her attack. She fixed her eyes upon him, squeezing her hands together.
"Oh," she whispered; "that is the reason why I am told that it is - off."


"That was not the reason."
"What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that? Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to--hate me."
"Listen to me, Winifrid."
"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too little like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other reasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies."

"That was not the reason."
"What better reason than that? Unless, indeed, as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to hate me."
"Listen to me, Winifrid."
"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that you were about to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough, too little like the dolls of your own country! Let me hear your other reasons, so that I may tell you that they are lies."


The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle. His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. "We know too little of each other," he said.

The reasons were very difficult to tell. Paul knew little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.
"We know too little of each other," he said.


"What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow.

"What more do you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Did I ever refuse to answer you? Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow.


What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once."

What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of that."


He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he was all at sea. "I wish to hear nothing," he said.

He knew that his position was indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any other reasons, but to have stuck to his assertion that he loved another woman. He would have been called false, and a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever punishment an angry lady could inflict upon him. But his position would have been plain. Now he was all at sea.
"I wish to hear nothing," he said.


"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?"
"I do not think that I am mean."
"No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--this lady?"

"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That is a poor excuse to make to a woman - after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York? Is that not mean?"
"I do not think that I am mean."
"No; a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is this lady?"


He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "I can not name her."
"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections? That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?"
"I did not say so."
"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?"

He knew that he could not mention Hetta Carbury's name. He had never asked her for her love, and had received no assurance that he was loved. "I cannot name her."
"And I, who have come from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have changed your affections? You can shake hands with me, and go away without a pang?"
"I did not say so."


"I hope not."
"Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir."
"I did say so."
"Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me."
"I cannot marry you."

"Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir."
"I did say so."
"Do you now refuse to keep your promise?"
"I cannot marry you."


"Then, sir, are you not a liar?" It would have taken him long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs. Hurtle. He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence. "Oh, Paul," she said, changing at once into softness,--"I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also?"

"Then, sir, are you not a liar?"
It would have taken him long to explain that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, because of the rumours he had heard of Mrs. Hurtle's past life, and his uncertainty about her husband.
"Oh, Paul," she said, changing into softness, "I am pleading for my life! Have you given a promise to this lady also?"


"No," said he. "I have given no promise."
"But she loves you?"
"She has never said so."
"You have told her of your love?"
"Never."
"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?"
"I suppose it is," said Paul.

"No," said he.
"But she loves you?"
"She has never said so."
"You have told her of your love?"
"Never."
"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me,- some woman who has nothing to suffer, who, for all you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?"
"I suppose it is," said Paul.


"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you."
"You have told the woman of the house?"

"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do - live for you as I do? I have come here without a single friend. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you."
"You have told your landlady?"


"Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here? I am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr. Melmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr. Paul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if you dare." The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The position was one which required thought.

"Certainly. Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you visit, and to risk her insults, and perhaps be told to take myself off? I am here because you promised to make me your wife, and I am not ashamed of the fact. If she had doubted me, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I said is false - if you dare."
Paul felt he could hardly leave the room in order to denounce a lady whom he had certainly ill-used.


After a while he took up his hat to go. "Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?"
"No,--" he said; "not to-day."
"And you will come back to me?"
"Yes;--I will come back."
"I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember all your promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me." Then she let him go without another word.

He needed to think; and he took up his hat to go.
"Do you mean to tell her?"
"No," he said; "not today."
"And you will come back to me?"
"Yes."
"I have no friend here but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember your promises. Remember all our love - and be good to me." Then she let him go.


Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader in the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added. She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with much confidence. If the reader does not understand so much from her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain. She has been made to say that her object in work was to provide for the need of her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature. Detestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely and abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself were substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was true to her children,--especially devoted to one of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance their interests.

Dishonest as were Lady Carbury's letters to the editors, and the system by which she was trying to achieve success, nevertheless her statements about herself were largely true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was devoted to her children - one of them especially - and was ready to work her nails off to advance their interests.


She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereupon created a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her. In doing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faults had never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimental infidelity to her husband. When as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which young people generally desire to experience. Sir Patrick at the time of his marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in money, suspicious in temper, and intelligent. He knew how to govern men. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing mean about him. He had his attractive qualities.

She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been made a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill-used her.
As for Lady Carbury, when as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a wealthy man of forty-four, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of romantic love. Sir Patrick was red-faced, stout, bald, short-tempered, generous in money, suspicious and intelligent. He knew how to govern men. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing mean about him. He had his attractive qualities.