"Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the winter." Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to Glasgow!

We send them by sea to Glasgow, because at this time of the year there is not much hurry."
Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey to Glasgow!


That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between Lady Carbury and the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table," which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favour. She fully recognised,--no woman perhaps more fully,--the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which,--though she had refused him,--she felt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees,--but even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other favours. Her first word to him was about Mr. Alf. "So he has given up the paper?"

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to see Lady Carbury. Now that they were friends, she had scruples about asking him for any further literary favour. This man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do anything which she knew he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which she felt infinitely grateful. And he had lent her money, and had advised her in her misery.
Her first word to him was about Mr. Alf. "So he has given up the paper?"


"Well, yes;--nominally."
"Is that all?"
"I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody likes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now?"
"He was here yesterday."
"And full of triumph, I suppose?"

"Well, yes; nominally. I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how could he win now?"
"He was here yesterday.


"He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new book,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper."
"He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say."
"That was just it. Of course I did not believe him."
"Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see,--what is the name?"

We were speaking of my new book, my novel, and he assured me most positively that he had nothing to do with the paper."
"He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say. Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. At any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. What is the title?"


"'The Wheel of Fortune.'" Lady Carbury as she told the title of her new book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed of it.
"Let them send it early,--a day or two before it's out, if they can. I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you." And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him.

"The Wheel of Fortune."
"Let them send it a day or two before it's out. I can't answer for the opinion of the reviewer, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you." As he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him.


As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all,--thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness,--it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?

But after he had gone, it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt that she had mistaken him back then. That first and only kiss, which she had treated with such derision, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. The man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?


After leaving Melmotte's house on Sunday morning Paul Montague went to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from church. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made up his mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would dine early and be with Mrs. Hurtle about seven o'clock. But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. "It's not so bad as you thought," said he, "as she is living with her aunt."
"I never heard of such an aunt."
"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't want her back again."
"Does she see Felix Carbury?"
"I think she does," said Paul.

After leaving Melmotte on Sunday morning Paul Montague went to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from church. He had made up his mind not to visit Mrs. Hurtle till seven o'clock that evening. But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles.
"It's not so bad as you thought," said he, "as she is living with her aunt."
"I never heard of such an aunt."
"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't want her back."
"Does she see Felix Carbury?"
"I think she does," said Paul.

Chapter 42: "Can You be Ready in Ten Minutes?"


"Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay."
"Why not send for John Crumb?"
Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "He'd give Felix such a thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as well as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why I should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don't suppose the girl is all bad,--if she could see the truth."
"I don't think she's bad at all."

"Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay."
"Why not send for John Crumb?"
Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "He'd give Felix a thrashing. My cousin deserves it; but I should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don't suppose the girl is all bad - if she could see the truth."
"I don't think she's bad at all."


"At any rate I'll go and see her," said Roger. "Perhaps I shall see your widow at the same time." Paul sighed, but said nothing more about his widow at that moment. "I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now," said Roger, taking his hat. "Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow." Paul felt that he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend.

"I'll go and see her," said Roger. "Perhaps I shall see your widow at the same time." Paul sighed, but said nothing. "I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now," said Roger, taking his hat.
Paul


He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that journey to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposal that had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had said already more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and though he was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought that what he had said had been well received. At the moment they had been disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course he would take care that she should know that he had gone in the performance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs. Hurtle, and would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him. It was possible that Mrs. Hurtle should offer to go with him,--an arrangement which would not at all suit him.

dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then went to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of Melmotte's proposal. If he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would be welcome to him. He had already said more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and she had expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have ended before his return. And he would escape from Mrs. Hurtle, and would be able to make inquiries about her. However, Mrs. Hurtle might offer to go with him - which would not suit him at all.


That at any rate must be avoided. But then how could he do this without a belief in the railway generally? And how was it possible that he should have such belief? Mr. Ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did Roger Carbury. He himself did not in the least believe in Fisker, and Fisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not be best that he should take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If he could get his 6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would certainly think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he could put implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guarantee for the amount. This at any rate was clear to him,--that Melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.

But how could he go without a belief in the railway? And how could he have such belief? Mr. Ramsbottom did not believe in it; nor did Roger Carbury. Would it not be best to take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If he could get his 6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and he doubted whether he could trust Melmotte's guarantee for the amount. At any rate, it was clear to him that Melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.


Now he was again at Mrs. Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by Ruby Ruggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he had to say. "The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?"
"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs. Hurtle is expecting you all the day." Then she put in a whisper on her own account. "You didn't tell him as you'd seen me, Mr. Montague?"
"Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles."
"Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been ill-natured,--that's all," said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs. Hurtle's room.

Now he was again at Mrs. Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by Ruby Ruggles. "The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?"
"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs. Hurtle is expecting you." Then she whispered, "You didn't tell him as you'd seen me, Mr. Montague?"
"Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles."
"Then you might have left it alone, that's all," said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs. Hurtle's room.


Mrs. Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,--and her smile could be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like most witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm. "Only fancy," she said, "that you should have come the only day I have been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when you took me to the play. I was so sorry."
"Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again."
"Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to go herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise."

Mrs. Hurtle received him with her sweetest smile - and her smile could be very sweet. Like most witches she could be terrible, and like most witches she could charm.
"Only fancy," she said, "that you should have come the only day I have been away from the house. I was so sorry. But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin proposed to carry me off to Southend. She declared that Southend was Paradise."


"A cockney Paradise."
"Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and fancy that that is the sea?"
"I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,--so that you know more about it than I do."
"How very English it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the sea! Ah;--you never were at Newport!"
"But I've been at San Francisco."
"Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling. Well; that's better than Southend."

"A cockney Paradise."
"Oh, what a place it is! How very English - a little yellow river, and you call it the sea!"


"I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It's generally supposed we're an island."


"Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west of Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered." Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregon or the west of Ireland. "But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs. Pipkin and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid that the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the best of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings.

"Of course; but things are so small. But upon my word I enjoyed Southend. We ate shrimps, and Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all those children, and nothing but what she can earn from these lodgings.


People are just as poor with us;--and other people who happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humble to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference."
"He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as agreeable as he can to him who can give."
"But Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. However we got back all right yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here,--at last."
"You knew that I had to go to Liverpool."
"I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?"

We got back yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here, at last."
"You knew that I had to go to Liverpool."
"I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?"


"Yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything very satisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway."
"I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man that I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate little peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank in the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the largest railway. It would be better even than being President of a Republic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is it that you do in it, Paul?"
"They want me now to go out to Mexico about it," said he slowly.

"Yes; of course it's about this railway."
"Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man so that I might be involved with a great thing like that. What is it that you do in it, Paul?"
"They want me to go out to Mexico about it," said he slowly.


"Shall you go?" said she, throwing herself forward and asking the question with manifest anxiety.
"I think not."


"Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not go? It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will never come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico and have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do anything.

"Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. It is just the thing for you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that?


Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!"
"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that one might be out of the way."
"I would make the means of doing something."
"Means are money. How can I make that?"

Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!"
"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely to be out of the way."
"I would make the means of doing something."
"Means are money. How can I make that?"


"There is money going. There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money with which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fisker get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where does Melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world? Why should not you get it as well as the others?"
"If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it."

"There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does Fisker get his money? Where does Melmotte get his money? Why should not you get it as well as the others?"
"If I wanted to rob I might do it."


"Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your way, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make people there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money."

"Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. I will go every yard with you."


He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he should have to discuss before he left her,--or rather the statement which he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which he allowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him farther away from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should not be made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she might be one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied an understanding that his former abnegation of his engagement had been withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a side-way fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship either for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its own basis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the introduction of it infinitely more difficult.
"You are not in a hurry?" she said.
"Oh no."

He felt that he was taking no steps towards the statement which he had resolved to make. Indeed every word about this Mexican project carried him farther away from it. He was tacitly admitting that if he went, she might travel with him. The very offer on her part implied that they were still engaged, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her that he would not have her as a companion for such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing must be said; but this conversation made it infinitely more difficult.
"You are not in a hurry?" she said.
"Oh no."


"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I'll ask them to let us have tea." She rang the bell and Ruby came in, and the tea was ordered. "That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers."
"I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday."
"There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she does not like?"
"And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like."

"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? I'll ask them to let us have tea." She rang the bell and Ruby brought tea. "That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers."
"I've met her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday."
"There's some lover, isn't there; some would-be husband whom she does not like?"
"And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like."


"That's quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn't the girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,--just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love without having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. She can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an end. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an end."
"If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day."

"Of course. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and speaks better, is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and all worked equally, that evil would come to an end."
"If men were equal tomorrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day."


"Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. It isn't to be done in a day of course, nor yet in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that."
Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions of women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. But having got on to these rocks,--having, as the reader may perceive, been taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,--he did not know how to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his own subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws, and the possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freely on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in former years. "Thanks," he said, changing his cup. "How well you remember!"

"But there would be no more purple and fine linen," said she. "It isn't to be done in a day, of course, nor yet in a century. I remember, you never take sugar; give me that."
"Thanks," he said, changing his cup. "How well you remember!"


"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?"
She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak. "Of course I do. Black is your colour;--black and grey; or white,--and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green."
"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things,--as you have, Paul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forbodes, an effete civilisation."
"I am sorry that mine should be effete," he said smiling.

"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?"
She waited for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak.
"Of course I do. Black is your colour; black and grey; or white, and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green."
"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things, as you have, Paul.


"You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals. Civilisation was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the time of the great painters; but Savanarola and Galileo were individuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexico gives you the chance."
"Are the Mexicans a new people?"


"They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say have bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally good. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine workmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul." He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his life in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up to cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! And yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,--even though he were willing to devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,--could he immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! It was the unfitness that deterred him and not the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, through it all, he was sure,--nearly sure,--that she was playing her game, and playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. Would it not be better that he should go away and write another letter?

I would have you a hero, Paul."
He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment when he felt more of a coward than ever before, was not to be endured! And yet how could he immediately rush away from these flattering speculations to his own unpleasant, tragic matter!
Nevertheless, through it all, he was sure - nearly sure - that she was playing her game, in direct opposition to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. Would it not be better to go away and write another letter?


In a letter he could at any rate say what he had to say;--and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere to it. "What makes you so uneasy?" she asked; still speaking in her most winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. "Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?"
"Winifrid," he said, "I came here with a purpose, and I had better carry it out."

In a letter he could say what he had to say.
"What makes you so uneasy?" she asked in her most caressing way. "Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?"
"Winifrid," he said, "I came here with a purpose, and I had better carry it out."


"What purpose?" She still leaned forward, but now supported her face on her two hands with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him intently. But one would have said that there was only love in her eyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the occasion. "Stop, my dear," she said. "Must the purpose be told to-night?"
"Why not to-night?"

"What purpose?" She leaned forward, looking at him intently. But there seemed to be only love in her eyes; the wild cat, if there, was hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words. "Stop, my dear," she said. "Must the purpose be told tonight?"
"Why not tonight?"


"Paul, I am not well;--I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs. Pipkin is not very charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your purpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--then drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort."

"Paul, I am not well; and I am a coward. You do not know the delight of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, then do so. But if you had come to speak cruel daggers, then drop your purpose for tonight, and let me have one hour of comfort."


Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. "I will not harass you, if you are ill," he said.
"I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,--what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?" Paul suggested Brighton. "That is full of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?"

Of course he was conquered for that night. "I will not harass you, if you are ill," he said.
"I am ill. That is why I went to Southend. The air is heavy; what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go away somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?" Paul suggested Brighton. "That is full of people; is it not?"


"Not at this time of the year."
"But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;--not that any place can be very far from here." Paul, in his John Bull displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four hours. "Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place,--except Southend?"
"There is Cromer in Norfolk,--perhaps ten hours."
"Is Cromer by the sea?"

"Not at this time of the year."
"But it is a big place. I want some little, pretty place. You could take me - not very far, you know. Is there no other place, except Southend?"
"There is Cromer in Norfolk, perhaps ten hours away."
"Is Cromer by the sea?"


"Yes;--what we call the sea."
"I mean really the sea, Paul?"
"If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps."
"Ah,--now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?"
"Well, yes;--I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember much. There's Ramsgate."

"Yes; what we call the sea. It is a hundred miles to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps."
"Ah, now you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?"
"Well, yes; I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember much.


"Mrs. Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should like Ramsgate."
"There's the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty."
"That's the Queen's place. There would not be room for her and me too."
"Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance."
"And sea?"

Then there's Lowestoft. It is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance, and


"Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand."
"A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?"
"A small little place."

 sea enough for anything."
"You will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean, would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?"
"A small place."


"Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for me."
"They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small."

"Very small?"
"They have about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small."


"Paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, "if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft." Then she rose up and came to him, and took his arm. "You will take me down, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself." She had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. "You will do that for old acquaintance sake?"

"Paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, "if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft." Then she rose up and took his arm. "You will take me, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to travel to such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself. You will do that for old acquaintance sake?"


For a moment or two he made no answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was endeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way through it. "I don't think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that," she said.
"No;" he replied. "I will take you down. When will you go?" He had cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.

For a moment he made no answer, and his face was troubled. He was trying to think; he was aware of his danger, and could see no way through it.
"I will take you down. When will you go?" He had some idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.


"When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs. Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in ten minutes?--because I could." Paul shook his head and laughed. "I've named a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, and I'll promise it shall suit." Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day.

"When will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand. Can you be ready in ten minutes? - because I could."
Paul shook his head and laughed, before suggesting Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day.


Saturday of course would do for Mrs. Hurtle. Should she meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and fetch her.
Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds it utterly impossible that he should be prudent,--as to which, when he thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for prudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.

Should she meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and fetch her.
Then, as he took his leave, she put her cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments when a man finds it utterly impossible to be prudent, let the danger be what it may. Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.


When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for hers,--especially as the reception of Mr. Brehgert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the elopement. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I. O. U. of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions.

When that little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. High prices were being paid. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte.
But gradually the prices fell;

Chapter 61: Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party


But at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.
I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made no calculation. "Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.

 and by eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had spread through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had heard it, and ladies' maids and footmen and grooms. It had got into the air.
I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife, if he had calculated what the result might be. But he made no calculation.
"Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said when he came home, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.


[Illustration: "Have you heard what's up, Ju?"]
"What is up?"
"Haven't you been out?"
"I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that girl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can."
"Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are."
"Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?"


"They say Melmotte's been found out."
"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. "What do you mean by found out?"
"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought of old Longestaffe."
"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them."

"They say Melmotte's been found out."
"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought off old Longestaffe."
"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them."


"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."
"Then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them."
"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?"
"Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe," said Lady Monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.

"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against them except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."
"Then he's ruined - and there's an end of them."
"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, or maybe a letter, or maybe a whole set of title-deeds. They say Dolly Longstaffe


"They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before long."
"Not to-night, Damask!"
"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."
"Is Mr. Lupton going?"
"He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do."

 has found it all out. There was always more about Dolly than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be arrested before long."
"Not tonight, Damask!"
"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."
"Is Mr. Lupton going?"
"He hadn't made up his mind when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called.


"A Cabinet Council!"
"Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."
Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she did say was repeated down-stairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. "Damask," she said, when he reappeared, "one thing is certain;--we can't go."
"After you've made such a fuss about it!"

It's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who may be arrested before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."
Lady Monogram waved her maid away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she said was repeated downstairs. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband finished dressing for dinner.
"Damask," she said, "we can't go."
"After you've made such a fuss about it!"


"It is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. You know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?"
"I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."
"He's a Jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly."
"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?"

"It is a pity, having that girl here in the house. You know she's going to marry one of these people?"
"But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."
"He's a Jew, and he's seventy."
"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?"


But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. She had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to become known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched people,--and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been there,--that the world, in short, had ignored Melmotte's villainy,--then would her grief be still greater. She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she had transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two. And a horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind.

But Lady Monogram had by no means decided. She had paid her price, and she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy: she had taken it for granted since she had first heard of him, and had only a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. It would grieve her greatly to become known as one who had driven to the door, and had not, after all, met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses, and the world generally, had all been there when she had not - then her grief would be still greater.
She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she was visiting the Monograms for a day or two.


What should she do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up? Of course, Madame Melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to gaol. "I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.
"Of course we shall,--in about an hour," said Lady Monogram as she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence.
"Because, you know--" and then he called her back. "If you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."
"How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night."
"All right;--only it's a bore being here alone."

"I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.
"Of course we shall - in about an hour," said Lady Monogram, looking at him in rebuke him for his imprudence.
"Because if you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."


Then Miss Longestaffe asked what "was up." "Is there any doubt about our going to-night?"
"I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."
"Impossible!"

Then Miss Longestaffe asked, "Is there any doubt about our going tonight?"
"There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."
"Impossible!"


"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband, whom she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. "Damask," she said, "you must find out."
"Find out what?"
"Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."

"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps - something has turned up. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband. "Damask," she said, "you must find out whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."


"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.
"He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were you." Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he did not like the job. "What can be the objection?" asked his wife.
"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come before you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju."

"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.
"If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Take a cab."
Sir Damask did not like the job. "Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come! I just don't see it, Ju."


"Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if it were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will." Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes.

"If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will."
Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go, though it was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and princes.


He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing! He "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. But at last he submitted, and allowed his wife to leave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for and announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his big cigar.

But at last he submitted, and the cab was sent for.


It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far as Sir Damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. But again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before he could reach home. "It's all right," said he to his wife.

It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. When he got to the door, he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. But it was nearly eleven before he could reach home.
"It's all right," said he to his wife.


"They're there, safe enough."
"You are sure that the Emperor is there."
"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."
Miss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. "I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"

"They're there, safe enough."
"You are sure that the Emperor is there?"
"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."
Miss Longestaffe was present, and resented the slur cast upon her friends.
"I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"


"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the door. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming down-stairs. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there,--but had taken their departure.
Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club.

"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start. When they reached the house, there was a great crush in the hall. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there - and had departed.
Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club.


All this time Mr. Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London while the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at Caversham. He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as a thing utterly out of the question. Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.
"What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear them."
"You can do nothing for me."
"Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you choose to read them? What do you expect?"

Mr. Longestaffe had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as utterly out of the question.
Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.
"I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear them."
"You can do nothing for me."
"Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in? What do you expect?"

Chapter 78: Miss Longstaffe Again at Caversham


"You know, papa, that's nonsense."
"How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?"
"Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what's to be the end of it? Sophia, I suppose, is going to be married."
"I am happy to say she is,--to a most respectable young man and a thorough gentleman."
"And Dolly has his own way of going on."
"You have nothing to do with Adolphus."
"Nor will he have anything to do with me. If I don't marry what's to become of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should choose."

"You know, papa, that's nonsense. If I don't marry what's to become of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should choose."


"Do not mention his name to me."
"But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I to see people? It was you sent me to Mr. Melmotte."
"I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte."
"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could only see the people he had there. I like nice people as well as anybody."
"There's no use talking any more about it."

"Do not mention his name to me."
"But what am I to do? It was you that sent me to Mr. Melmotte."
"I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte."
"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could only see the people he had there."
"There's no use talking any more about it."


"I don't see that. I must talk about it, and think about it too. If I can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should complain."
"A Jew!"
"People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in--"

"I must talk about it, and think about it too. If I can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should complain."
"A Jew!"
"People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in-"


Then Mr. Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped her for that time. "Look here," he said, "if you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. It is disgusting,--degrading,--disgraceful!" And then he left her.

Then Mr. Longestaffe became furious and loud. "If you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. It is disgusting - degrading - disgraceful!" And then he left her.


On the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see Mr. Brehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had she the courage to ask him. The objectionable name was not mentioned again in her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between herself, Lady Pomona, and her sister. When Mr. Longestaffe and his younger daughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the hall to meet her child,--from whom she had that morning received the dreadful tidings about the Jew. As to these tidings she had as yet heard no direct condemnation from her husband. The effect upon Lady Pomona had been more grievous even than that made upon the father. Mr. Longestaffe had been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage was out of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed, and could take upon himself to see the Jew with the object of breaking off the engagement. But poor Lady Pomona was helpless in her sorrow. If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not help it. But such an occurrence in the family would, she felt, be to her as though the end of all things had come. She could never again hold up her head, never go into society, never take pleasure in her powdered footmen.

On the next morning before he started for Caversham he saw Mr. Brehgert; but he did not tell Georgiana what was said, and she did not have the courage to ask him.
Then there was a sad scene with her mother, Lady Pomona. When they arrived, the poor mother did not go into the hall to meet her child, from whom she had that morning received the dreadful tidings about the Jew. She was helpless in her sorrow. If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not stop it; but she felt as though the end of all things had come. She could never again hold up her head, never go into society.


When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look even her neighbours Mrs. Yeld and Mrs. Hepworth in the face. Georgiana found no one in the hall to meet her, and dreaded to go to her mother. She first went with her maid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. As she sat pretending to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regain her courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Why, at any rate, should she be afraid of other females? Had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister? "Oh, Georgey," said Sophia, "this is wonderful news!"
"I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be married except yourself."
"No;--but such a very odd match!"

When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look her neighbours in the face.
Georgiana, finding no one in the hall, went with her maid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. She strove to regain her courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister?
"Oh, Georgey," said Sophia, "this is wonderful news! Such a very odd match!"


"Look here, Sophia. If you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't like to come to us, you needn't. That's about all."
"George wouldn't let me go there at all," said Sophia.
"Then--George--had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma? I should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a word to me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like this."

"Look here, Sophia, if you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't like to come to us, you needn't. That's all."
"George wouldn't let me go there," said Sophia.
"Then he had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma?"


"Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up and in her own room. You mustn't be surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up about this." Then Georgiana understood that she must be content to stand all alone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up Mr. Brehgert.
"So I've come back," said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing her mother.
"Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!" said Lady Pomona, slowly raising herself and covering her face with one of her hands. "This is dreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it from you."

"Mamma isn't at all well; she's in her own room. She is very much cut up about this."
As she sought her mother, Georgiana understood that she must stand alone in the world, unless she gave up Mr. Brehgert.
"I've come back," she said, stooping and kissing her mother.
"Oh, Georgiana!" Lady Pomona slowly raised herself, covering her face with her hand. "This is dreadful. It will kill me."


"What is the good of all that, mamma?"
"It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worse than your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bible against it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going to do this."
"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,--and she goes everywhere."

"What is the good of all that, mamma?"
"It can't be possible. It's unnatural. I'm sure there's something in the Bible against it."
"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing - and she goes everywhere."


"What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he's fixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think of that, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise."
"Mamma, that's nonsense."
"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they have been able to sit in Parliament."
"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew," said Georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case.
"Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but what they are. I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him."

"What does your papa say? I'm sure he won't allow it. If he's fixed about anything, it's Jews. An accursed race - expelled from Paradise."
"Mamma, that's nonsense."
"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is."
"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew," said Georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case.
"I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him."


Now, if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised from her youth upwards it was George Whitstable. He had been a laughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural dullness since he had become a man. He certainly was neither beautiful nor bright;--but he was a Conservative squire born of Tory parents. Nor was he rich,--having but a moderate income, sufficient to maintain a moderate country house and no more. When first there came indications that Sophia intended to put up with George Whitstable, the more ambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her scorn. And now she was told that George Whitstable would not speak to her future husband! She was not to marry Mr. Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, among others, upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured.

Now, if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised from her youth it was George Whitstable. He had been regarded as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural dullness. He certainly was neither beautiful nor bright; he was a Conservative squire, able to maintain a moderate country house and no more. And now she was told she was not to marry Mr. Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured.


"Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not trouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the moon."
"He has always been in county society," said Sophia, "and was staying only the other day at Lord Cantab's."
"Then there were two fools together," said Georgiana, who at this moment was very unhappy.
"Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert,--I can't bear to have his name mentioned in my hearing."
"Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't be mentioned again by me." Having so spoken, Georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down into the drawing-room before dinner.

"Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not trouble his head about us. I'm sure I shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the moon."
"Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert - I can't bear to hear his name mentioned."
"Then it shan't be mentioned again by me." Georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down before dinner.


Her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her feelings. She presumed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert, but did not in the least know what had passed between them. It might be that her father had been so decided in his objection as to induce Mr. Brehgert to abandon his intention,--and if this were so, there could be no reason why she should endure the misery of having the Jew thrown in her face. Among them all they had made her think that she would never become Mrs. Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almost sick of the thing herself. But she could not back out of it so as to obliterate all traces of the disgrace. Even if she should not ultimately marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been engaged to a Jew,--and then it would certainly be said afterwards that the Jew had jilted her. She was thus vacillating in her mind, not knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being "far from well."

Her position was very trying. She presumed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert, but did not know what had passed between them. It might be that her father had induced Mr. Brehgert to abandon his intention. They had all made her think that she would never become Mrs. Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almost sick of the thing herself. But even if she were to back out, it would be known that she had been engaged to a Jew - and then it would be said that the Jew had jilted her.
She was thus vacillating, not knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being "far from well


It was of course known to them all that Mr. Brehgert was her ailment. She was accompanied by her elder daughter, and Georgiana was left with her father. Not a word was spoken between them. He sat behind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servants treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice. It was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise her altogether. Of what service would it be to her that Lady Julia Goldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to be left without a single Christian friend? Would a life passed exclusively among the Jews content even her lessened ambition? At ten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed.

," and Sophia went with her. Georgiana was left with her father. Not a word was spoken. He sat behind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servants treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice. It seemed the family intended to ostracise her altogether. What would it be like to be left without a single Christian friend?
At ten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed.


Her father grunted less audibly than usual under the operation. She had always given herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her courage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as these.

Her father grunted less audibly than usual, and she began to fear that her courage would not carry her through sufferings such as these.


On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable wedding. Dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultations held,--from all which things Georgiana was kept quite apart. The accepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as though the Whitstables had always kept a town house. Sophy loomed so large in her triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. All Caversham treated her with a new respect. And yet if Toodlam was a couple of thousand a year, it was all it was;--and there were two unmarried sisters! Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive parent. Oh, heavens;--was Mr. Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her.

On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable wedding, from which Georgiana was kept apart. George Whitstable came over to lunch, and was made much of. Sophy's triumph was not to be borne. All Caversham treated her with a new respect. And yet Toodlam was barely a couple of thousand a year - and there were two unmarried sisters!
Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her younger daughter. Was Mr. Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her.


Even Caversham, the Caversham of old days which she had hated, but in which she had made herself respected and partly feared by everybody about the place,--had charms for her which seemed to her delightful now that they were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to be the first personage in the house,--superior even to her father;--but now she was decidedly the last.
Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr. Longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room between the library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted only of Georgiana. In the course of the evening she went up-stairs and calling her sister out into the passage demanded to be told why she was thus deserted. "Poor mamma is very ill," said Sophy.
"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this," said Georgiana. "I'll go away somewhere."

Even Caversham, which in old days she had hated, had charms for her now that they were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to be the first personage in the house; but now she was decidedly the last.
Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr. Longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room next to the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted only of Georgiana. She went upstairs, and calling her sister, demanded to be told why she was thus deserted.
"Poor mamma is very ill," said Sophy.
"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this," said Georgiana. "I'll go away somewhere."


"How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing. Of course you must have known that you were going to separate yourself from us."
On the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr. Longestaffe,--of what nature Georgey did not know as it was addressed to Lady Pomona. But one enclosure she was allowed to see. "Mamma," said Sophy, "thinks you ought to know how Dolly feels about it." And then a letter from Dolly to his father was put into Georgey's hands. The letter was as follows:--
MY DEAR FATHER,--

"How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing."
On the next morning there came a letter from Mr. Longestaffe, addressed to Lady Pomona. It contained an enclosure she was allowed to see. It was a letter from Dolly, as follows:
My dear Father,-


Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up.
Yours affectionately,
A. LONGESTAFFE.
Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice or instruction, such as should come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. This letter had not been received with a welcome. Nevertheless the head of the family had thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it to Caversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter.

Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up.
Yours affectionately,
A. Longestaffe.
Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice such as should come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. Nevertheless the head of the family had thought it worth his while to send it to Caversham to be shown to his rebellious daughter.


And so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! She'd like to see somebody do it! As soon as she had read her brother's epistle she tore it into fragments and threw it away in her sister's presence. "How can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what Dolly says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought it worth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after that I must say that I don't much care what papa does."
"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else," said Sophy.

So Dolly said that she ought to be locked up! As soon as she had read her brother's letter she tore it into fragments and threw it away.
"How can mamma pretend to care what Dolly says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot?"
"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else," said Sophy.


"As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are about the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world."
"Of course we all know, Georgiana," rejoined the elder sister, "that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercial classes, and especially among a certain sort."
"I've done with you all," said Georgey rushing out of the room. "I'll have nothing more to do with any one of you."

"As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are about the same. I've done with you all. I'll have nothing more to do with any of you."


But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her family! A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or come and claim his property after twenty years. A young man may demand an allowance, and has almost a right to live alone. The young male bird is supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. But the daughter of a house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a husband. The only way in which Georgey could "have done" with them all at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr. Brehgert, and at the present moment she did not know whether Mr. Brehgert did or did not consider himself as engaged to her.

But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her family! A young man may go anywhere; but the daughter of a house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a husband. The only way in which Georgey could "have done" with them all at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr. Brehgert, and she did not know whether Mr. Brehgert still considered himself as engaged to her.


That day also passed away with ineffable tedium. At one time she was so beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to her sister in reference to the wedding garments. In spite of the very bitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would have done so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. In her younger days she had had her bad things, and now,--with George Whitstable by her side,--she meant to have good things, the goodness of which was infinitely enhanced by the badness of her sister's things. She had been so greatly despised that the charm of despising again was irresistible. And she was able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by telling herself that duty required her to show implacable resistance to such a marriage as this which her sister contemplated. Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day, not in the least knowing what was to be her fate.

That day was so tedious she almost offered to help her sister with the wedding garments. She would have done so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. She had been so greatly despised that the charm of despising in her turn was irresistible.
Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day, not knowing what was to be her fate.


Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

Five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. When his mother crept up to his room, he feigned to be fast asleep. But he had only short snatches of uneasy slumber. He was sick and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie quiet, trying to soothe the agony of his head, and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all he could do. A servant brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had.

Chapter 52: The Results of Love and Wine


The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere?

All was surely now over. He had allowed the heiress to run away without him. She would have started her long journey across the ocean before she could discover that he had failed to be there. He had lost all his money, and hers, and even his mother's. And he could vaguely remember starting some row at the club.
When would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere?


All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at the club;--or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? If ever a man ought to cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But he simply gathered the bedclothes around him and tried to sleep.


Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. As regarded her son himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him.

Between five and six his mother again came to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder, thinking. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey - having told some lie to her own daughter as to its cause.
When he came, drunk and degraded, back to the house, she had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt. She had found his ticket for the vessel and the little money he had left.


About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. "Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all," Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. "Yes; he has come back," said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. "It was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken through.

She could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money.
What lie should she now tell her daughter? At breakfast she said, "Felix is back. Some plan about the Mexican railway has fallen through, I believe.


He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to her.
"Felix," she said,--"speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake." He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself, further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock."
"All right," he said at last.

He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After that Hetta had said nothing all day.
And now, an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury stood by her son's bedside.
"Felix," she said, "speak to me. I know you are awake." He groaned, and turned away, burying himself further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock."
"All right."


"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother."
"I am so sick, mother."
"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?"

"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. You had better trust your mother."
"I am so sick, mother."
"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? Where are your things?"


"At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me." Sam was the page.
"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?"
"It hasn't come off."
"But how has it not come off?"
"I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?"
"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it."

"At the club."
"Felix, you must tell me. What has been done?"
"It hasn't come off. I didn't get away."
"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it."


"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather stay here."
"You must have something to eat, Felix."


"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then."
"Where is the money, Felix?"
"I paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to his head.
Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick that I can't talk. If he'll get me some soda water and brandy, I'll tell you all about it then."
"Where is the money, Felix?"
"I paid it for the ticket," said he.
Then his mother again left him. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did sleep for a while.


"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.
"Yes, my dear."
"Had you not better send for a doctor?"
"No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow."
"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything."

"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.
"Yes, my dear."
"Had you not better send for a doctor?"
"No, my dear. He will be better tomorrow."
"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you told me everything."


"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. "Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined."
"Has he done anything, mamma?"

"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting into tears. "Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell - except that I am ruined.


"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much better it would be to be childless!"
"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."

Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God, how much better it would be to be childless!"
"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing to her mother's side. "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."


"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless."
"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"
"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."

"It concerns you as well. I wish I were childless."
"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"
"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."


"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"
"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad."
"I have never said so."
"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."

"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"
"Love! Have I been able to love? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good, sweet-natured man, who would try to make you happy. Ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain as Felix. It never occurs to you to sacrifice a fantasy for the advantage of others."


Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did in truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew, all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless.

Hetta moved away, and when her mother went upstairs she turned it over in her mind. Could it be right to marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right to marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? She knew that Roger had a sweet nature, and also high honour and a noble courage. He was the very friend whose advice she could have asked - had he not wished to make her his wife.
Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother.


Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.
[Illustration: "Can I marry the man I do not love?"]

Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.


"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been possible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. "It didn't come off," he said, "and of course that knocked me off my legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after.

"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte, or whether Marie had changed her mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth.
"It didn't come off," he said, "and of course I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow gets cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club - that the whole thing was off. I can't explain any more.


I did get the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the 30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from Melmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.

I got the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the 30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. I haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had received from Melmotte. And as his mother knew nothing of these sums she could not contradict him; but she was sure there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.


That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Broune called in Welbeck Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. As for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than of kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed.

That evening Mr. Broune called in Welbeck Street. He often called now, coming in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the newspaper office. Since Lady Carbury had refused his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly more real friendship between them than had ever existed earlier. He spoke to her more freely about his affairs, and she would speak to him with some attempt at honesty. There was no love-making between them. But he talked of the things that worried him, and