"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.
"Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early."
"You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault."

"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.
"Late! Why, it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square."
"You knew they did not mean to stay long. I really think it was your own fault."


"My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."
"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"
"You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?" She could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.
"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so."

"My own fault. Yes; it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."
"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"
"You know very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us tomorrow night?"
"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so."


"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix things." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.

"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.


Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first London circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. "I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."

Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex! She was almost in tears, and yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests.
"I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."


"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother.

"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out - unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram marched into the house, and went direct to her room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, prepared to write to her mother.


The letter to her mother must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr. Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the present moment. Of course it was proper that Mr. Brehgert should see her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts. Those few words about "various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. Mr. Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of what she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position.

The letter must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice suggested that he should, in the usual way, go to see Mr. Longestaffe, who was at present in London. But she had asked him to postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts.
Mr. Brehgert was rich, certainly. But she already repented of accepting him. If it were really necessary to go down into another, much lower world, a world composed of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her to be the mistress of a gorgeous house?


Caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.

Caversham had been dull; but it was a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set - miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes. She would write one letter tonight; but she did not know whether to write to her mother telling her the horrid truth - or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.
She might have decided on the latter had so many people not already heard of the match. The Monograms had talked of it far and wide. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham.


And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and Mr. Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr. Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr. Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

And there were other troubles. She had spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, for ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!


If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how should she face her family after such a declaration? She had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for the following morning:--
Hill Street, 9th July, 187--.
MY DEAR MAMMA,

If the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat - and how should she face her family?
She wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother as follows:
My Dear Mamma,


I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.
This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.

I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.
(This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.)


He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are among the most leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like,--and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.

He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and finance. I understand they are among the leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like, and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have both. No man can be more generous. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.


I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr. Melmotte is. It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.

I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.


I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party here to-night, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.
Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.
Your affectionate daughter,
G.
When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer be in her way.

I hope you won't mind having me back on Wednesday. There is a party here tonight, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.
Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London - and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics. Of course it isn't all nice, but things will never be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.
Your affectionate daughter,
G.
When the morning came she asked the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that she could not be tempted to stop it.


About one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted up-stairs, and had only just met in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day. "I am sick of the Melmottes," she said.
"And so am I," said Mr. Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.

About one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day.
"I am sick of the Melmottes," she said.
"And so am I," said Mr. Longestaffe.


"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming." Georgiana, who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a thing. "We have a few friends coming to-night, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana." Mr. Longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner. "Mr. Brehgert will be here," continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile.
"Mr. who?" The name was not at first familiar to Mr. Longestaffe.

"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have only one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming. We have a few friends coming tonight, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come and see Georgiana. Mr. Brehgert will be here," she continued with a peculiar smile.
"Mr. who?"
"Mr.


"Mr. Brehgert." Lady Monogram looked at her friend. "I hope I'm not revealing any secret."
"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?" He had understood very much. He had been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face, that Mr. Brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to Sir Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr. Longestaffe's knowledge.

Brehgert." Lady Monogram looked at her friend. "I hope I'm not revealing any secret."
"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?" He was certain from Lady Monogram's manner that Mr. Brehgert was an accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant him to understand.


"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all about it."
"I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing. Who is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?"
"Mr. Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of him. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father." And Lady Monogram left the room.

"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all about it."
"I know nothing. Who is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?"
"Mr. Brehgert is a - very wealthy gentleman. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father." And Lady Monogram left the room.


Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forced to speak,--though she could not speak as boldly as she had written. "Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow."
"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"
"Yes, papa."
"What Mr. Brehgert is he?"
"He is a merchant."

Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forced to speak.
"Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you tomorrow."
"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"
"Yes, papa."
"Who is he?"
"He is a merchant."


"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte;--a man old enough to be your father!" The poor girl's condition now was certainly lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with her father. But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to be bold. She only looked at him as though imploring him to spare her. "Is the man a Jew?" demanded Mr. Longestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice.
"Yes, papa," she said.
"He is that fat man?"

"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte; a man old enough to be your father!"
The poor girl thought that she would try to brazen it out. But she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin.
"Is the man a Jew?" demanded Mr. Longestaffe.
"Yes, papa," she said.
"He is that fat old man?"


"Yes, papa."
"And nearly as old as I am?"
"No, papa,--not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty."

"Not as old as you are, papa. He is fifty."


"And a Jew?" He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further reply. "If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."
"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."

"And a Jew? If you marry him, I will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."
"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."


"That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?"
"I have."

"That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! You - my daughter - that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?"
"I have."


"It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home to-morrow?"
"I wrote to say so."

"It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home tomorrow?"
"I wrote to say so."


"And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--a Jew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way?" The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that morning. "You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Oh, papa, I can't do that."

"There you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth; a Jew! My daughter! I will take you home myself tomorrow. You had better leave this house today, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Oh, papa, I can't do that."


"Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A Jew! An old fat Jew!" Mr. Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair.

"Why not? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. An old fat Jew!" Mr. Longestaffe walked about the room in despair.


She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. "Tell him that I was called away suddenly."
"I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it." The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert on the morning of that day;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.

She knew that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. So she had her things packed up, and allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went.
"Tell him that I was called away suddenly."
"I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it."
The poor girl had not enough spirit to upbraid her friend. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert that morning; but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him.


That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, Mr. Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile. "Miss Longestaffe," she said, "has left me and gone to her father."
"Oh, indeed."

That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, Brehgert, elegantly dressed, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile.
"Miss Longestaffe has left me and gone to her father."
"Oh, indeed."


"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak another word to Mr. Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probably change her acquaintance.

"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head. She did not say another word to Mr. Brehgert. He stood for about ten minutes in the drawing-room, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different; or else she would probably change her acquaintance.


It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great thing both in the House and out of the House to "catch" Roman Catholic votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or that individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people of the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation is coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same conviction has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant,--that is the peculiarly Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends. It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large.

It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster. To catch the Protestant and the Roman Catholic vote at the same time is difficult; but it was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends.
It was perhaps thought that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be reported.


During all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the "Evening Pulpit," with a special question asked at the head of it, "For Priest or Parson?" In this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man, who did that business, declared that it was really important that the nation at large and especially the electors of Westminster should know what was the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The "Evening Pulpit" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to the approaching election. Far be it from the "Evening Pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity. But still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.

No article at that time created so much interest as that which appeared in the Evening Pulpit, under the heading "For Priest or Parson?"
In this delightfully pungent article, Mr. Alf's writer declared that it was really important that the nation should know the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a highly religious man was most certain, from his two recent donations - doubtless part of a regular flow of Christian benevolence. The Evening Pulpit did not imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his generosity. But still, as Protestants naturally wish to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and Roman Catholics by a Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.


This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any way. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St. Fabricius with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must leave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of Mr. Alf's newspaper.

This was biting; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to influence them. If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him.


It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society did have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion and torpid as to politics. But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome. These manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good. On the second afternoon after the question had been asked in the "Evening Pulpit," an answer to it appeared, "For Priest and not for Parson." Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together, so as to show that Mr. Melmotte really had at last made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew now, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic,--the Great Financier was the name which Mr. Alf had specially invented for Mr. Melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced.

It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society had much effect. It may perhaps have induced a few religiously-minded men to go to the poll. But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results. It was made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome.
These manuvres require delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good. On the second day after the question had been asked in the Evening Pulpit, an answer to it appeared: "For Priest and not for Parson." Therein, various assertions made by Roman Catholic journals were brought together, to show that Mr. Melmotte really had made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic, he had doubted whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and a golden certainty had been produced.


The world of Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Now nothing was clearer than this,--that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned. This last article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to send a letter to the "Breakfast Table" asserting that he adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong. "Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk. "If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people. Don't go writing letters."

Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic.
Now it was clear that no real Roman Catholic could hope to be elected. This article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends that they send a letter to the Breakfast Table asserting that he kept to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected by many that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong.
"Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk. "If anyone asks you, say you are a Protestant. But don't go writing letters."


But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent Romanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready to believe. And they have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his health, his money when he had any, and his life. Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. Roger Carbury was hard of heart. He could see that. But the dropping of water might hollow the stone. If the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault.

Unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that priests around the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything in the good cause of returning the country to the Catholic faith - his time, his health, and his money when he had any.


He at any rate would do his duty. In that fixed resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as to the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in all quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by "The Surplice," that the man was at heart a Catholic. That a man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing. Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration. By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something.

In his resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments and facts he would use. With mingled ignorance and faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the man's enormous wealth and power, and believed that he was at heart a Catholic. That he should profess the Protestant religion was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing.


He had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius. And so, just at this season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made a journey to London.
He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr. Melmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or two as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country. On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services of the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of Mr. Melmotte. Having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and on the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in Bruton Street. There he was told that the great man might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barham was at last successful. Mr. Melmotte was there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.

He had for some time been preparing for a trip to London in order to spend a week in retreat at the cells of St. Fabricius. And so he now travelled there. He had conceived the great idea of having a word with Mr. Melmotte himself; he wished to meet a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country.
On Saturday night - that night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office - Father Barham took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent the Sunday at various church services; and on the Monday morning he sought Mr. Melmotte.
He went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was told that he might be in Grosvenor Square. There he found Mr. Melmotte superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.


The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in great confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.

The house was in great confusion. Wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being hung up, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pillars, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs moved. The hall was in chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word about the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive why these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and found himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.


Mr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial One himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. "It's that fellow from 'The Herald' office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "I don't know how people ought to sit. But that's the reason."

Mr. Melmotte was with Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand, when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite his guest - which he thought meant immediately in front of the Emperor of Emperors. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In front of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty could look down the hall; and the same for the royal princesses and princes who sat by him. In this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure.
Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. "It's that fellow from The Herald office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "I don't know how people ought to sit."


"I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall. "Who the d---- are you?" he asked, when the priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.

"I'm d___ if I'm going to be treated this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked towards him, Mr. Melmotte was trying, in vain, to move his own seat nearer to the Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up that kept him from the centre of his own hall.
"Who the d___ are you?" he demanded of the priest, who was clothed in his usual very rusty brown black. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.


Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise,--was the rule of his life. "I am the Rev. Mr. Barham," said the visitor. "I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."
[Illustration: Father Barham.]

Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. Outward humility - at any rate at the start of an enterprise - was the rule of his life.
"I am the Reverend Mr. Barham," he said, "the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."


"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"
"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself.

"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? Who let him in, Alfred? Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"
"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission.


"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.
"Certainly it is business," said Father Barham with a smile.
"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the City," said his lordship.
"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."
"Some lunatic," said Melmotte. "See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred."
"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others."

"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.
"Certainly," said Father Barham with a smile.
"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane," said his lordship.
"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."
"Some lunatic," said Melmotte. "See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred."
"Not mad, sir, only enthusiastic for the souls of others."


"Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go away."
"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the priest. "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--"
"Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not go away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows him."
"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."

"Just get a policeman, Alfred."
"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the priest. "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes-"
"Certainly not. I am very busy. I wonder whether anybody knows him."
"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."


"Carbury! D---- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?"
"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred. "Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow;--but just go."
"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing wrathful. "I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?"

"Carbury! D__ the Carburys! Did they send you here? A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?"
"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred. "Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow; just go."
"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, growing angry. "I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?"


"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.
"It's a piece of gross impertinence," said Melmotte. "Go away."
"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?"
"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.
"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.
"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed Melmotte;--whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.

"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.
"It's gross impertinence," said Melmotte. "Go away."
"Will you not tell me whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps are in the right path; or as one still in error and darkness?"
"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.
"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.
"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed Melmotte - whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.


"That's a remarkable thing," said Melmotte,--"very remarkable." Even this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. "I suppose he was in earnest."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant. I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again;--"just that and no more."

"Remarkable," said Melmotte.
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"But why did he come to me in his madness? I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as I am. I wonder whether the Morning Pulpit people sent him here to find out my real religion."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again; "just that and no more."


"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. The truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend that they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em understands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know. I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?"
"What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about."

"My dear fellow, the truth is they don't know what to make of me; and I don't intend that they shall.


"I'll have this bar down, at any rate." And he did succeed in having removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house. "I look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times," he went on to say. "They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes made, and who measures me for my boots!" Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that he came almost to believe in himself.

Now, can we have this bar down?"
And he succeeded in removing the bar which had been put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house.
"That fellow's coming here is a sign of the times," he went on. "Before long they'll want to know where I have my clothes and boots made!" Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in Melmotte's remarkable career was the fact that he almost came to believe in himself.


Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether disheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman Catholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed and cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to this priest, who had been born an English gentleman, as being no gentleman. But, not the less might he be a good Catholic,--or good enough at any rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes Melmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man than Roger Carbury. "He insulted me," said Father Barham to a brother religionist that evening within the cloisters of St. Fabricius.
"Did he intend to insult you?"

Father Barham went away disgusted; and yet not disheartened. The man had blasphemed and cursed, and had been outrageously uncivil to a minister of God. He was no gentleman. But, none the less, he might be a good Catholic - or good enough at any rate to be influential. To his eyes Melmotte was a much more hopeful prospect than Roger Carbury.
"He insulted me," said Father Barham to a brother priest that evening at St. Fabricius.


"Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was intent upon that."
"He entertains the Emperor of China this very day," said the brother priest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what was being done.
"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?"

"But it is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival, and was intent on that."
"He entertains the Emperor of China today," said the brother priest.
"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, though he gave me little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?"


"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them."
"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father Barham.
"Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the world."
"He looked like it,--and spoke like it," said Father Barham. "Think what such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the world! And if he had been against us would he not have said so? Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him." Father Barham, with a simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte was certainly a Roman Catholic.

"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them."
"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father Barham.
"Some people doubt; but others say he is the richest man in the world."
"He looked like it - and spoke like it," said Father Barham. "Think what such a man might do! Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him." Father Barham, with singular simplicity, made himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte was certainly a Roman Catholic.


Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property in Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in Suffolk a great many years,--certainly from the time of the War of the Roses,--and had always held up their heads. But they had never held them very high. It was not known that any had risen ever to the honour of knighthood before Sir Patrick, going higher than that, had been made a baronet. They had, however, been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the perils of civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Carbury of the day had always owned, and had always lived at, Carbury Hall. At the beginning of the present century the squire of Carbury had been a considerable man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. The income of the estate had sufficed to enable him to live plenteously and hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when she went avisiting. He had an old butler who had never lived anywhere else, and a boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the butler. There was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes, and a couple of young women;--while the house was kept by Mrs. Carbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own preserves, and looked to the curing of her own hams. In the year 1800 the Carbury property was sufficient for the Carbury house.

Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, a small property in Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in Suffolk a great many years - certainly since the War of the Roses - and had always held up their heads. But they had never held them very high. They had, however, been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution; and the head Carbury had always lived at Carbury Hall.
Back in 1800 the squire of Carbury had been an important man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. The income of the estate had enabled him to live, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use. He had an old butler, a cook, and a couple of maidservants; while the housekeeper was Mrs. Carbury herself, who marked her own linen, made her own preserves, and cured her own hams.

Chapter 6: Roger Carbury and Paul Montague


Since that time the Carbury property has considerably increased in value, and the rents have been raised. Even the acreage has been extended by the enclosure of commons. But the income is no longer comfortably adequate to the wants of an English gentleman's household. If a moderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the question whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to him wherewith to keep up the estate. Land is a luxury, and of all luxuries is the most costly. Now the Carburys never had anything but land. Suffolk has not been made rich and great either by coal or iron. No great town had sprung up on the confines of the Carbury property. No eldest son had gone into trade or risen high in a profession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had been married.

Since that time the Carbury property had considerably increased in value; but the income was no longer comfortably adequate for the wants of an English gentleman's household. Land is a costly luxury, and the Carburys never had anything but land. No eldest son had gone into a profession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had been married.


There had been no ruin,--no misfortune. But in the days of which we write the Squire of Carbury Hall had become a poor man simply through the wealth of others. His estate was supposed to bring him in 2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House, to live abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants, he would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously. But he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham,--of which family Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son and hope,--had the name of great wealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of London and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne. The Hepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had married into new money. The Primeros,--though the good nature of the country folk had accorded to the head of them the title of Squire Primero,--had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought the Bundlesham property from a great duke. The estates of those three gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their owners altogether to overshadow our squire. The superior wealth of a bishop was nothing to him.

There had been no ruin; yet the present Squire of Carbury was a poor man.
His estate was supposed to bring him 2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House and live abroad, he would have had enough to live luxuriously. But he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham - of whom Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son - had the name of great wealth, although the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of London and a chandler as lately as Queen Anne's reign. The Hepworths had married money. The Primeros had been Spanish traders fifty years ago, and had bought their property from a great duke.
The estates of those three gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth altogether overshadowed our squire. He did not mind the Bishop's superior riches.


He desired that bishops should be rich, and was among those who thought that the country had been injured when the territorial possessions of our prelates had been converted into stipends by Act of Parliament. But the grandeur of the Longestaffes and the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though he was a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into the ear even of his dearest friend. It was his opinion,--which he did not care to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be his opinion by those with whom he lived intimately,--that a man's standing in the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. The Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasants annually at about 10_s_. a head. Hepworth of Eardly was a very good fellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties as a country gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with Carbury of Carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy 7,000 a year. The Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in the country, had powdered hair. They had a house in town,--a house of their own,--and lived altogether as magnates. The lady was Lady Pomona Longestaffe.

But the grandeur of the Longestaffes and the wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though he never breathed a word of such oppression. He felt that a man's standing in the world should not depend upon his wealth. The Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasants. Hepworth was a very good fellow, who gave himself no airs; but he could not be higher than Carbury, though he had 7,000 a year.
But the Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in the country, had powdered hair. They owned a house in town, and lived like magnates. The lady was Lady Pomona Longestaffe.


The daughters, who certainly were handsome, had been destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had, a fortune of his own. They were an oppressive people in a country neighbourhood. And to make the matter worse, rich as they were, they never were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They continued to live with all the appurtenances of wealth. The girls always had horses to ride, both in town and country. The acquaintance of Dolly the reader has already made. Dolly, who certainly was a poor creature though good natured, had energy in one direction. He would quarrel perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest in the estate. The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven months, of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all the tradesmen in the little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and Harlestone, were aware that the Longestaffes were the great people of that country.

The daughters, who were handsome, had been destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had, a fortune of his own. To make the matter worse, rich as they were, they were never able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They lived with all the trappings of wealth. The house at Caversham Park was for six or seven months of the year full of servants, and all the tradesmen in the little towns around knew that the Longestaffes were great people.


Though occasionally much distressed for money, they would always execute the Longestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, because there was an idea that the Longestaffe property was sound at the bottom. And, then, the owner of a property so managed cannot scrutinise bills very closely.
Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay, or his father before him. His orders to the tradesmen at Beccles were not extensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied were neither overcharged nor unnecessary. The tradesmen, consequently, of Beccles did not care much for Carbury of Carbury;--though perhaps one or two of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence for the family. Roger Carbury, Esq., was Carbury of Carbury,--a distinction of itself, which, from its nature, could not belong to the Longestaffes and Primeros, which did not even belong to the Hepworths of Eardly. The very parish in which Carbury Hall stood,--or Carbury Manor House, as it was more properly called,--was Carbury parish. And there was Carbury Chase, partly in Carbury parish and partly in Bundlesham,--but belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety to the Bundlesham estate.

Though occasionally much distressed for money, they would always fulfil the Longestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, and assume they would be paid in the end.
Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay. His orders to the tradesmen of Beccles were not extensive, and he took care to see that he was not overcharged. The Beccles tradesmen, consequently, did not care much for Carbury of Carbury; though perhaps one or two of the elders among them had some ancient reverence for the family.


Roger Carbury himself was all alone in the world. His nearest relatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no more than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since been married and had gone away into the world with their husbands, one to India, and another to the far west of the United States. At present he was not much short of forty years of age, and was still unmarried. He was a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, with features finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and well-formed chin. His hair was red, curling round his head, which was now partly bald at the top. He wore no other beard than small, almost unnoticeable whiskers. His eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was good. He was about five feet nine in height, having the appearance of great strength and perfect health. A more manly man to the eye was never seen.

Roger Carbury himself was alone in the world. His nearest Carbury relatives were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no more than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since married and gone away with their husbands, one to India, and another to the United States.
At present Roger was almost forty, and still unmarried. He was a robust, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, and finely cut features. His hair was red and curling, though he was now partly bald. He wore no beard. His eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was good. He had the appearance of great strength and perfect health. A more manly man was never seen.


And he was one with whom you would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good terms,--partly because in looking at him there would come on you an unconscious conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own against his opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong, that he would be very pleasant to his friends.

And he was one with whom you would instinctively wish to be on good terms, because he looked as if he would be very stout in holding his own against opponents, but also as if he would be very pleasant to his friends.


When Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger Carbury had hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him all kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to go down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care a straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin in almost those very words. There had not, therefore, been much friendship during Sir Patrick's life. But when the violent ill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and again offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,--and to the young baronet. The young baronet had just joined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to make them happy. The effort as regarded Henrietta had been altogether successful. As regarded the widow, it must be acknowledged that Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun to sigh for the glories of a literary career. A career of some kind,--sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of her early life,--she certainly desired.

When Sir Patrick and Lady Carbury had come home from India, Roger Carbury had hurried to see the invalid, and had offered him all kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to go down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care a straw for the old place in the country, and told his cousin so. But when the violent old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit to the widow and her daughter. Sir Felix had just joined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to make them happy.
Henrietta was indeed very happy there. As for the widow, Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun to sigh for a literary career,


"Dear cousin Roger," as she called him, had not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her in these views. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms. She had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the bishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for her. The Primeros had been odious; the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes,--she had endeavoured to make up a little friendship with Lady Pomona,--insufferably supercilious. She had declared to Henrietta "that Carbury Hall was very dull."

and "Dear cousin Roger," as she called him, could not assist her. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms. She found the Primeros odious; the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes - she had tried to make up a little friendship with Lady Pomona - insufferably supercilious. She had declared to Henrietta that Carbury Hall was very dull.


But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her opinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor after a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool;--some might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making. Henrietta declared to her mother that she had not in the least expected it. But he was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady Carbury was eager on his side. Though the Carbury Manor House did not exactly suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young enough for any girl. But Henrietta had an opinion of her own.

But then something happened which altogether changed her opinions. Roger Carbury followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool in his love-making, and Henrietta told her mother that she had not in the least expected it. But he was very persistent.
Lady Carbury was eager on his side. Though Carbury Manor did not suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking (she being over forty) a man of thirty-six was young enough for any girl.
But Henrietta had an opinion of her own.


She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him and praised the house so loudly to her mother,--having in her innocence never dreamed of such a proposition as this,--so that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in that way. She did refuse the offer very plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency. When Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it, and her mother supported Roger's suggestion, she could say nothing stronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do any good. Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. In the following February she went there again,--much against the grain as far as her own wishes were concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost dumb in the presence of her cousin. Before they left the offer was renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not do as they would have her. She could give no reason, only she did not love her cousin in that way.

She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him so loudly and innocently to her mother that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes; her cousin was charming, but not in that way. She refused the offer very plainly, but when Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think about it, she could say only that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do any good.
Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. In the following February she went there again - against her wishes; and she had been cold and constrained in her cousin's presence. The offer was renewed, but Henrietta again refused it, saying she did not love her cousin in that way.


But Roger declared that he by no means intended to abandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, and love with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the beginning of our present story.
But something else happened also. While that second visit was being made at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger Carbury had said much to his cousins,--one Paul Montague, of whom some short account shall be given in this chapter. The squire,--Roger Carbury was always called the squire about his own place,--had anticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins to his house that they must of necessity meet Paul Montague there. But great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen into love with his cousin's guest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness.
Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thus spoke to the guest who had last arrived. "I've got to tell you something, Paul."

But Roger declared that he would not abandon his suit. He truly loved the girl, and love with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the beginning of our story.
But something else happened also. During that second visit to Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger Carbury had said much to his cousins - one Paul Montague. The squire, Roger, had anticipated no evil in his guests meeting Paul Montague at his house. But great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen in love with Henrietta, causing much unhappiness.
Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury spoke to him.
"I've got to tell you something, Paul."


"Anything serious?"
"Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own life can approach it in importance." He had unconsciously assumed that look, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating his resolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight if fighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware that he had done something, he knew not what, militating against this serious resolve of his friend. He looked up, but said nothing. "I have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger very gravely.
"Miss Carbury?"

"Anything serious?"
"Very serious to me. Nothing in my own life can approach it in importance." He had unconsciously assumed that look, which his friend understood, of his resolve to fight if fighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware that he had done something wrong, he knew not what.
"I have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger gravely.


"Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refused me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life to me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy."
"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague in a hoarse voice.

"She has refused me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do. Everything in life to me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy."
"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague hoarsely.


Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of them declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable. Montague at once asserted that he also loved Henrietta Carbury. He blurted out his assurance in the baldest and most incomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no doubt. No;--he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger Carbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on that very day had not Roger spoken to him. "You have neither of you a shilling in the world," said Roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it." Then Montague declared that he had a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that Miss Carbury cared a straw about him. He had not the least reason to think that she did. It was altogether impossible.

Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange, each of them declaring himself to be in the right and ill-used by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable. Montague baldly asserted that he also loved Henrietta Carbury. No; he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger in a day or two - perhaps that very day, had Roger not spoken to him.
"You have neither of you a shilling in the world," said Roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it."
Then Montague declared that he had a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that she cared a straw about him.


But he had a right to his chance. That chance was all the world to him. As to money,--he would not admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he might earn an income as well as other men. Had Carbury told him that the young lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, Carbury's, addresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene. But as it was not so, he would not say that he would abandon his hope.
The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague packed up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway station by Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been very hot words between the men, but the last words which Roger spoke to the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in their nature. "God bless you, old fellow," he said, pressing Paul's hands. Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the pressure.

But he had a right to his chance, which was all the world to him. He was not a pauper, and he might earn an income as well as other men. If the young lady had accepted Roger, Paul would at once have left. But as it was not so, he would not abandon his hope.
The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague packed up his clothes and was driven to the railway station by Roger, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been very hot words between the men, but the parting on the railway platform was not quarrelsome.
"God bless you, old fellow," said Roger, pressing Paul's hands. Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the pressure.


Paul Montague's father and mother had long been dead. The father had been a barrister in London, having perhaps some small fortune of his own. He had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others, a sufficiency with which to begin the world. Paul when he had come of age had found himself possessed of about 6,000. He was then at Oxford, and was intended for the bar. An uncle of his, a younger brother of his father, had married a Carbury, the younger sister of two, though older than her brother Roger. This uncle many years since had taken his wife out to California, and had there become an American. He had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and fruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not always been plain to the Montagues and Carburys at home. The intercourse between the two families had in the quite early days of Paul Montague's life, created an affection between him and Roger, who, as will be understood by those who have carefully followed the above family history, were not in any degree related to each other. Roger, when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education, and had sent him to Oxford.

Paul Montague's parents had long been dead. The father had been a barrister in London, who left a moderate sum of about 6,000 to this son, when he was twenty-one. He was then at Oxford, and was intended to be a lawyer. An uncle of his had married Roger's sister, and had taken her out to California; there he grew wool, wheat, and fruit; but whether he prospered or not was not clear to his English relatives.
An affectionate friendship had grown up between Paul Montague and Roger, despite the fact that they were not related. Roger had had charge of the boy's education, and had sent him to Oxford.


But the Oxford scheme, to be followed by the bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of the country, had not succeeded. Paul had got into a "row" at Balliol, and had been rusticated,--had then got into another row, and was sent down. Indeed he had a talent for rows,--though, as Roger Carbury always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them. Paul was then twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea,--based on very insufficient grounds,--that rows are popular in California. At the end of three years he found that he did not like farming life in California,--and he found also that he did not like his uncle. So he returned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to get his 6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed he had been compelled to come away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take him home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his uncle that an income amounting to ten per cent. upon his capital should be remitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. The clock alluded to must have been one of Sam Slick's.

But Paul had got into a "row" at Balliol, and then another row, and was sent down. Indeed he had a talent for rows - though, as Roger Carbury always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them.
At twenty-one, Paul took himself and his money out to California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea that rows are popular in California. At the end of three years he found that he did not like farming there, and nor did he like his uncle.
So he returned to England, but was unable to get any of his 6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed his uncle had assured him he would be sent an income amounting to ten per cent of his capital with the regularity of clockwork. But the clock must have been


It had gone very badly. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper remittance;--then half the amount;--then there was a long interval without anything; then some dropping payments now and again;--and then a twelvemonth without anything. At the end of that twelvemonth he paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from Roger for his journey. He had now again returned, with some little cash in hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in his favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. In accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per cent. on his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his name put up as one of the firm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague, and Montague. A business declared by the two elder partners to be most promising had been opened at Fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty miles from San Francisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the elder Montague were very high. Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his 6,000 had he been able. But he was not able, and returned as one of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in obtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed to Roger, and to live for a few months. He was intent on considering how he should bestow himself, consulting daily with Roger on the subject, when suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom he himself loved.

 a very bad one. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper amount; then half the amount; then there was a long interval without anything; then some low payments now and again; and then a year with nothing.
Paul paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from Roger for his journey. He had now again returned, with a little cash, and with a deed executed in his favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. The deed stated that he was to get twelve per cent on his capital, and had his name put up as one of the firm - now Fisker, Montague, and Montague.
Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his 6,000 had he been able. But he was not able. However, he had succeeded in getting enough of his income to pay what he owed Roger, and to live for a few months. He was considering what to do next, consulting with Roger on the subject, when suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom he loved


What then occurred has been told.
Not a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real cause of Paul's sudden disappearance. It had been necessary that he should go to London. Each of the ladies probably guessed something of the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject. Before they left the Manor the squire again pleaded his cause with Henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. Henrietta was colder than ever,--but she made use of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all the effect which her coldness might have had. She said that she was too young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to say it. It was easy to tell her that in a twelvemonth she would be older;--but it was impossible to convince her that any number of twelvemonths would alter the disparity between her and her cousin. But even that disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.

 - with the result which has been told.
Nothing was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the cause of Paul's sudden disappearance. They probably guessed the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject. Before they left the Manor, the squire again pleaded his cause with Henrietta - in vain. Henrietta was colder than ever; but she used one unfortunate phrase. She said that she was too young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to say it. But that was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.


Within a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor House, Paul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. He had promised before he went that he would not see Henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing further. "If she won't take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try." That had been his argument. Roger would not accede to the justice even of this. It seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had got no income, partly because of Roger's previous claim,--partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not such a man as his friend had taken him to be.

A week after the departure of the Carburys from the Manor House, Paul Montague returned, as a still dear friend. He had promised that he would not see Henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing further.
"If she won't take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try." That had been his argument. Roger would not concede the justice of this. It seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had no income, partly because of Roger's previous claim - and partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, he was not the man Roger had taken him to be.


Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his friend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once to Roger Carbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of them. Indeed he could have no chance if the girl were disposed to take Roger for her husband. Roger had all the advantage of Carbury Manor at his back, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, in a wretched little town 250 miles further off than San Francisco! But if, with all this, Roger could not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about want of money was mere nonsense. Paul was sure that his friend would have created no such difficulty had not he himself been interested. Paul declared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.

Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his friend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once if Roger could succeed in his suit. But if Roger could not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about lack of money was mere nonsense. Paul declared to himself that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.


He came up to London at various times in search of certain employment which had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the three months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that he would not declare his passion,--now for two months, then for six weeks, then for a month. In the meantime the two men were fast friends,--so fast that Montague spent by far the greater part of his time as his friend's guest,--and all this was done with the understanding that Roger Carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever receive the privilege to call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth between them should Henrietta be persuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall. So things went on up to the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should also be informed that there had been already a former love affair in the young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California;--but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.

He came up to London at various times in search of employment which had been half promised him, and, after the three months were up, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that he would not declare his passion. In the meantime the two men were fast friends; so much so that Montague spent most of his time as Roger's guest - with the understanding that Roger would blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth between them if Henrietta could be persuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall.
So things went on until the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should be informed that there had already been a love affair in the young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California; but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.


When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins in Welbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself. That he should be discontented generally with the circumstances of his life was a matter of course. He knew that he was farther removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was set. Had Hetta Carbury learned all the circumstances of Paul's engagement with Mrs. Hurtle before she had confessed her love to Paul,--so that her heart might have been turned against the man before she had made her confession,--then, he thought, she might at last have listened to him. Even though she had loved the other man, she might have at last done so, as her love would have been buried in her own bosom. But the tale had been told after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his own interests. Hetta had never heard Mrs. Hurtle's name till she had given herself away, and had declared to all her friends that she had given herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. The more Roger thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the more convinced that that man had done him an injury which he could never forgive.

When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk after seeing his cousins in Welbeck Street, he was discontented with himself. He knew that he was farther removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was set. If Hetta Carbury had learned about Paul's engagement with Mrs. Hurtle before she had confessed her love to Paul, she would have buried her love, and might have come to love him, Roger. But Hetta had never heard Mrs. Hurtle's name till she had given herself away. The more Roger thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the more convinced that the man had done him an injury which he could never forgive.


But his grief extended even beyond that. Though he was never tired of swearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul Montague, yet there was present to him a feeling that an injury was being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. He had declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs. Hurtle,--actuated by a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust put in him by a man who was at the time his friend; and he had told nothing. But no one knew so well as he did the fact that all the attention latterly given by Paul to the American woman had by no means been the effect of love, but had come from a feeling on Paul's part that he could not desert the woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness. If Hetta could know everything exactly,--if she could look back and read the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it,--then she would probably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that there was nothing for her to forgive. Roger was anxious that Hetta's anger should burn hot,--because of the injury done to himself. He thought that there were ample reasons why Paul Montague should be punished,--why Paul should be utterly expelled from among them, and allowed to go his own course. But it was not right that the man should be punished on false grounds. It seemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to his enemy by refraining from telling all that he knew.

But his grief extended beyond that. He also felt that an injury was being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. He had declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs. Hurtle. Yet he knew well that Paul's attention to the American woman had not been because of love, but because Paul had felt that he could not desert her when she asked him for kindness. If Hetta could read the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it, then she would probably forgive the man. Roger was anxious that Hetta's anger should burn hot, because of the injury done to himself, and he thought that Paul Montague should be punished; but not on false grounds.