It was too late now, and he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him.


He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of Westminster Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. "Oh, Wednesday! Of course it is," he said, turning round and directing his steps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the morning he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not know what better use to make of the present evening. His house could hardly be very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from his wife's company. But in his own house he could at least be alone. Then, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on matters as hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no, he asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that he could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr. Squercum could do to him,--for he knew already how busy Mr. Squercum was in the matter. Though they should put him on his trial for forgery, what of that? He had heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were in progress,--who had been fted from the beginning to the end though no one had doubted their guilt,--and who had come out unscathed at the last.

He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of Westminster Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting.
"Oh, Wednesday! Of course," he said, turning round. Now he did not know what use to make of the evening. His house could hardly be very comfortable to him. But in his own house he could at least be alone.
Then, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking intently, he asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that he could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr. Squercum could do. Though they should put him on trial for forgery, what of that? He had heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes - had been fted though no one had doubted their guilt - and had come out unscathed at last.


What evidence had they against him? It might be that the Longestaffes and Bideawhiles and Squercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge would not produce a verdict. He, as member for Westminster, as the man who had entertained the Emperor, as the owner of one of the most gorgeous houses in London, as the great Melmotte, could certainly command the best half of the bar. He already felt what popular support might do for him. Surely there need be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him! He did tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. And he knew that it was possible that other things might be adduced; but would it not be better to face it all than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing, as he did very clearly, that even by such surrender he could not cleanse his character?

What evidence had they against him? He, the great Melmotte, could certainly command a better lawyer. Surely there need be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him!
He did tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. But would it not be better to face it all than to surrender his money and become a pauper?


But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr. Brehgert! Again he had acted in a hurry,--without giving sufficient thought to the matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that also. But how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when no step that he takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;--he had certainly put into Brehgert's hands means of proving him to have been absolutely guilty of forgery. He did not think that Marie would disclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she should understand that her father had written her name; nor did he think that his clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of Croll's name could not injure Croll. But Brehgert, should he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him to escape. And now he had put these forgeries without any guard into Brehgert's hands.

But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr. Brehgert! Again he had acted in a hurry, without sufficient thought. He was angry with himself for that. But how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when every step is ruinous? Yes - he had certainly put into Brehgert's hands means of proving him to be absolutely guilty of forgery. He did not think that Marie would disclaim the signatures; nor did he think that his clerk Croll would be urgent against him. But Brehgert, should he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him to escape.


He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. He would see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on the documents, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then he would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper that should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Having done that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him to gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could not be admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all that. If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that an end might come. But how great was the chance that they might fail to convict him!

He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. He would see him before any action could have been taken on the documents, and Brehgert would restore them to him. Then he would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper, and to draw the income herself. Having done that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him to jail. But they might fail to convict him!


As to the dead man's letter, and as to Dolly Longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence could be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was to have released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed that he might still recover those documents. For the present it must be his duty to do nothing,--when he should have recovered and destroyed those documents,--and to live before the eyes of men as though he feared nothing.

For the present he must do nothing - once he had recovered and destroyed those documents - and would live as though he feared nothing.


He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes of those ministers of the law who would probably before long have the privilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thus employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,--feeling himself greatly comforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and look men in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all. How much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once been imprisoned for fraud at Hamburgh, and had come out of gaol a pauper; friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he was a member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an established character for high finance,--a commercial giant whose name was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres. Even though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he would not all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte might be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.

He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes of those lawyers who would probably before long be searching them. While he was doing this, he drank a bottle of champagne, and felt greatly comforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head, he might still live through it all. How much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once been imprisoned for fraud at Hamburg, and had come out of jail a friendless pauper; now he was a member of the British House of Parliament, the owner of perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, and commercial giant. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte might be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.


In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every one connected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of awe,--every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times been himself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife obeyed him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came in now and stood opposite to him, while he spoke to her. She never sat in his presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie kept their jewelry;--for during the last twelvemonths rich trinkets had been supplied to both of them. Of course she answered by another question. "Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?"
"A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or in Grosvenor Square?"

In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. She stood opposite him while he spoke. She never sat in his presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie kept their jewellery.
"Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?"
"A good deal is going to happen. Are the jewels here in this house, or in Grosvenor Square?"


"They are here."
"Then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about wool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?"
"Yes; I understand."
"Why don't you speak, then?"
"What is going to happen, Melmotte?"

"They are here."
"Then have them all packed up, as small as you can. Have them close to hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?"
"Yes; I understand. What is going to happen, Melmotte?"


"How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's work is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothing can hurt you."
"Can they hurt you, Melmotte?"
"Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be borne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft all my life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft now."
"Shall we have to move?"

"How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's work is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothing can hurt you."
"Shall we have to move?"


"Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving as though that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you like to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?"
"Are they going to send you to prison?"
"Hold your tongue."
"Tell me, Melmotte;--are they going to?" Then the poor woman did sit down, overcome by her feelings.

"Very likely. What's the harm of moving?"
"Are they going to send you to prison?"
"Hold your tongue."
"Tell me, Melmotte." The poor woman sat down, overcome by her feelings.


"I didn't ask you to come here for a scene," said Melmotte. "Do as I bid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan't answer them." So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her ornaments.
Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work, and hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.

"I didn't ask you to come here for a scene," said Melmotte. "Do as I bid you about your jewels, and Marie's. The thing is not to have it to do at the last moment, when you will be flurried. Now you needn't stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan't answer them." So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and went to work with her ornaments.
Melmotte sat up most of the night, sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.


Miss Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of Sheep's Acre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received the following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier on that Sunday morning;--"A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone Birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon." There was not another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well from whom it came.

Miss Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of Sheep's Acre, near Bungay, received the following letter from the rural postman that Sunday morning:
"A friend will be near Sheepstone Birches between four and five on Sunday afternoon." There was not another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew from whom it came.

Chapter 18: Ruby Ruggles Hears a Love Tale


Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerable wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;--he had quarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and had banished him from his home;--his daughters were married and away; and the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter Ruby. And this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. She was twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at Bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give 500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writer had not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from Sir Felix Carbury,--the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon. Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep's Acre, on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyond her ken. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay. Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o'clock on that Sunday she was ensconced among the Sheepstone Birches, so that she might see without much danger of being seen.

Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of wealth, but also the reputation of being a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead; he had quarrelled with his only son, and had banished him from his home; his daughters were married and had moved away; and the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter Ruby.
This granddaughter was twenty-three, and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at Bungay in the corn-meal and bran line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give 500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and bran, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. She knew well that it came from Sir Felix Carbury - the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon.
Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep's Acre, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world. There were, she thought, many glorious things which she would never see if she were to become the wife of John Crumb, the meal and bran dealer. Therefore she was full of a wild joy - half joy, half fear - when she got her letter. At four o'clock on that Sunday she was at Sheepstone Birches.


Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she most required the kindness of a controlling hand!
Mr. Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is called a bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the property which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was still set apart for its sustentation;--but he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the old man, and had then first seen Ruby;--and had heard from Roger something of Ruby's history up to that date. It had then been just made known that she was to marry John Crumb. Since that time not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr. Carbury had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned,--but his growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there should be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her grandfather's landlord.

Mr. Ruggles's land at Sheep's Acre Farm belonged to the bishopric of Elmham; but he also held an outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate. Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to Roger. Once Felix had ridden over with Roger to call on the old man, and had then first seen Ruby; and had heard from Roger that she was to marry John Crumb. Since then Roger had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned - but he had not spoken to Felix on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than he had.


There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their aspirations, whether for good or evil,--whether for food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to be come by either honestly or dishonestly,--are, if looked at at all, fairly visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can generally find out what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are at work. But the Ruggles woman,--especially the Ruggles young woman,--is better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for heaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. She can read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on a paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper.

There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the educated city-dweller to imagine than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural labourer and his wife live a life that seems open to the eye. With the men of the Ruggles class one can generally find out what they want, and how their minds work. But the Ruggles woman - especially the Ruggles young woman - has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. Her education has been much better than his: she can read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely form words on paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper.


But her ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. By such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen,--and, as to that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the woman builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the young farmer the squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. To the farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure,--by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind, and then husband and children put the matter at rest for ever.

But her ignorance about real life is much greater than his. He learns from the markets, the streets and the fields of the condition of his countrymen. The woman builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure - by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over: the girl marries one of her own kind, and the matter is at rest.


A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find. But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as they were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and all her cleverness,--with all her fortune to boot,--marry that dustiest of all men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? John Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too,--slow of speech but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip,--fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his work. But though she had known him all her life she had never known him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so gotten within his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even on Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. Nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundred weight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him,--that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod.

A mind more absolutely ignorant than that of Ruby Ruggles about the world beyond Suffolk it would be impossible to find. But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as they were mistaken. Why should she, with all her prettiness and cleverness, marry that dusty John Crumb, before she had seen any of the beauties of the world? John Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, slow of speech but sure of his points, fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his work. But he was always dusty. The meal had got within his hair, and skin, and clothes, so that he looked more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. Nevertheless it was said that he could thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundred weight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod.


But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John Crumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall,--and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather.

But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his beautiful face, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John Crumb's honest promises.
But though she was an utter fool, and miserably ignorant, she did understand that there was a degradation which she needed to avoid. She thought, as moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. She was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, large round dark eyes, and a clear complexion. She was strong, healthy, and tall - and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather.


Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. "I like your impudence," she said, "in calling yourself a friend."
"Ain't I a friend, Ruby?"

Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by Sheepstone Birches. The road leading to it was a quiet country lane, almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached the gate, and stood awhile looking into the wood. When he saw the girl's bonnet, he dismounted, fastened his horse to a rail, and sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree.
"I like your impudence," she said, "in calling yourself a friend."
"Ain't I a friend, Ruby?"


"A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,--oh, ever so long ago now."
"But I wrote to you, Ruby."
"What's letters? And the postman to know all as in 'em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't call letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more."
"Did he see them?"
"No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix,--nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It's all just folly like."

"A pretty sort of friend! You said you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is ever so long ago now."
"But I wrote to you, Ruby."
"What's letters? And grandfather is almost sure to see 'em. I beg you won't write any more."
"Did he see them?"
"No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix, - nor why I should come and meet you. It's all just folly like."


"Because I love you;--that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?" Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist.

"Because I love you; that's why I come, Ruby. And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?" Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist.


It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half hour was no doubt complete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half hour was over. She felt that she could be content to sit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation of those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at Bungay.

There is no need to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half hour was complete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her she was pretty. He probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half hour was over.
She felt that she could sit there for ever and listen to him.


But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her,--had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and an amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he had learned to be aware. Before the half hour was over I think that he wished himself away;--but when he did go, he made a promise to see her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestone market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again, and bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the journey.
"I suppose I am to be his wedded wife," said Ruby to herself, as she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home;--so that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of the young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road. "I'll never be nothing unless I'm that," she said to herself. Then she allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury.

But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her; and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and a strength, and a fire in her eye, of which he had learned to be wary.
Before the half hour was over he wished himself away; but when he did go, he promised to see her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestone market, and she would meet him at noon at the bottom of the farm's kitchen garden. As he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her, and bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the journey.
"I suppose I am to be his wedded wife," thought Ruby, as she crept away. "I'll never be nothing unless I'm that." Then she allowed her mind to lose itself in thinking of the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury.


Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs. Hurtle. As he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished that he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at any rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then have abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of course he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her? The kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of Roger Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like Roger Carbury! Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world?

Paul Montague reached London from Suffolk early on the Monday morning, and the following day he wrote to Mrs. Hurtle. He almost wished that he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. In that case he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of what use was his love? The kind of life of which he dreamed seemed to be far beyond his reach. Perhaps he should go away, and write to Hetta and bid her marry Roger Carbury - the best man that ever lived.


But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was necessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard to Mrs. Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that he would see that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to Lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put an end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go again to Islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, she would come to him. In this way there would never be an end to it.
He would certainly go again, as he had promised,--if she should still require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain unvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent by post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as he now told it.

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had quarrelled with Melmotte. And as to Mrs. Hurtle, he had promised to go again to Islington. He knew that if he failed to keep his promise, she would come to him.
So he would go there; but first he would try what a letter would do - a plain unvarnished tale. This was his plain tale as he now told it.


Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.
MY DEAR MRS. HURTLE,--


I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what I found them to be then. But circumstances have made our lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain that, were we married, we should not make each other happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame,--and the evil consequences, let them be what they may,--
to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon,--

I promised that I would come to you again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such a meeting can be of no use to either of us. What is to be gained? I do not mean to justify my own conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our journey from San Francisco, I was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. But circumstances have made our lives and temperaments so different, that I am certain that, were we married, we should not make each other happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame, and any evil consequences
(-to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon-)


than to be married with the consciousness that even at the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be a matter of sorrow and repentance. As soon as my mind was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not,--I dare not,--blame you for the step you have since taken. But I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed.
The first day I saw you here in London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results.

than to be married knowing that such marriage will be a matter of sorrow and repentance. I cannot blame you for the step you have taken. But I can only adhere to my resolution.
The first day I saw you here in London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer you only by the truth. But it was after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results.


I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury I have done you,--or even to undergo retribution for it,--I would do so. But what compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last time,--because I have promised.
Your most sincere friend,
PAUL MONTAGUE.

I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury I have done you, or to suffer retribution, I would do so. I think that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if you wish me to come again, I will come for the last time - because I have promised.
Your most sincere friend,
Paul Montague.


Mrs. Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. All that Paul had written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrap of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words, fairly transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most generous and the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be generous. She had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself. But the sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been of another kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she would have delighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had she found him a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some disease, she would have stayed by him and have nursed him and given him comfort. Even had he been disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country and have pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice would have been too much for her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that he appreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved in return.

Mrs. Hurtle, as she read this, was torn. All that Paul had written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrap of paper which she still kept in her pocket. Those words would be the most generous and the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be generous. She had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself. Had he been ruined, or blind, or crippled, she would have stayed by him and have given him comfort. No sacrifice would have been too much for her if she was appreciated and loved in return.


But to sacrifice herself by going away and never more being heard of, was too much for her! What woman can endure such sacrifice as that? To give up not only her love, but her wrath also;--that was too much for her! The idea of being tame was terrible to her. Her life had not been very prosperous, but she was what she was because she had dared to protect herself by her own spirit. Now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a worm? Should she be weaker even than an English girl? Should she allow him to have amused himself with her love, to have had "a good time," and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully scorched, so mutilated and punished! Had not her whole life been opposed to the theory of such passive endurance? She took out the scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that there was a feminine softness in it that gratified her.

But to sacrifice herself by going away was too much. What woman can endure such sacrifice as that? To give up not only her love, but her anger also! The idea of being tame was terrible to her. She had always protected herself by her own spirit. Now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a worm?
She took out the scrap of paper and read it; the softness in it gratified her.


But no;--she could not send it. She could not even copy the words. And so she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other side,--being in truth torn in two directions. Then she sat herself down to her desk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote as follows:--
PAUL MONTAGUE,--

But no, she could not send it. And so she sat down, and wrote rapidly as follows:
Paul Montague,-


I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable,--and the most unmanly. Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. What;--you are to bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,--when they have affected my whole life,--that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On thinking over it, you find that an American wife would not make you so comfortable as some English girl;--and therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother, no man near me;--or you would not dare to do this. You can not but be a coward.

I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unmanly. Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. Even poor Caradoc Hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. What; you are to bind yourself to me by the most solemn promises that can join a man and a woman together, and then tell me - when they have affected my whole life - that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? I have no brother, no man near me; or you would not dare to do this.


You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer retribution. I desire you to come to me,--according to your promise,--and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body. And then I will see what you will dare to do;--whether you will drag me into a court of law for the assault.

You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? It is an insult. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer retribution. I desire you to come to me - according to your promise - and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body. And then I will see whether you will dare to drag me into a court of law for the assault.


Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a weapon. I call upon you to come. But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make London too hot to hold you;--and if I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you have.
I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind.
WINIFRID HURTLE.

Yes; come. Now you know the welcome you shall find. But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make London too hot to hold you; and if I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you have.
I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind.
Winifred Hurtle.


Having written this she again read the short note, and again gave way to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the following morning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the third letter:--
Yes. Come.
W. H.

Having written this she again read the short note, and again gave way to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the following morning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the third letter:
Yes. Come.
W. H.


This letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He started immediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting. He had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her, his going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at Mrs. Pipkin's, and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken as evidence that he was gradually being conquered. He had declared his purpose plainly enough at Lowestoft,--and plainly enough in his last letter. She had told him down at the hotel, that had she by chance have been armed at the moment, she would have shot him. She could arm herself now if she pleased;--but his real fear had not lain in that direction. The pang consisted in having to assure her that he was resolved to do her wrong. The worst of that was now over.

This letter reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He started immediately for Islington, having no desire to delay the meeting. He had declared his purpose plainly, and she could arm herself if she pleased; but he had now told her that he was resolved to do her wrong. The worst of that was over.


The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him with a happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of her imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this very moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, in fact, abed in Welbeck Street. "Yes, sir; she's at home," said Ruby, with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress. "Don't pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?" Ruby had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, but had not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogether intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing about Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs. Hurtle's room.
[Illustration: The door was opened for him by Ruby.]
"So you have come," she said, without rising from her chair.

The door was opened for him by Ruby, who looked unhappy. It was the second morning after the night of her imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this very moment her lover was in bed in Welbeck Street.
"Yes, sir; she's at home," said Ruby, with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress. "Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?" Ruby had written to Sir Felix, but had not received any reply. Paul declared that he knew nothing about Sir Felix, and was shown into Mrs. Hurtle's room.
"So you have come," she said, without rising from her chair.


"Of course I came, when you desired it."
"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Will you sit down there," she said, pointing to a seat at some distance from herself. "So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?" She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in her eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.
"I did think so certainly. What more can I say?"

"Of course I came, when you desired it."
"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Sit down. So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?" She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness might at any moment change to violence. He thought that her eye seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.
"I did think so. What more can I say?"


"Oh, nothing; clearly nothing." Her voice was very low. "Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?" Then she paused. "And having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace."
"I came because I promised."
"But you did not promise to speak;--did you?"
"What would you have me say?"

"Oh, clearly nothing." Her voice was very low. "Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?"
"What would you have me say?"


"Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have you say? Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.
"You might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say.

"Ah! Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat.
"You might indeed."


"But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul,--still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you,--none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid." She still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. "Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice.

"But I at least will be true. I should still take you, Paul; with a confidence that I should yet win you by my devotion. I have still some kindness towards you - none to that woman who is I suppose younger and gentler than I." There was nothing to be said in answer to this. "Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home but this room. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice.


I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it." There was no answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because there was no answer possible. "You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are you not,--for my loneliness?"
"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions."

I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? You might at any rate advise me. You are in some degree responsible, are you not, for my loneliness?"
"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions."


"You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate in this." Then she paused, and there was absolute silence for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you not?"
"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."

"As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her." She paused for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you not?"
"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."


"No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may see them all now.

"No, indeed. I had much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two.


There is one. You may read that first. While I was writing it, I was determined that that should go." Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.
"I am glad you did not send that," he said.
"I meant it."
"But you have changed your mind?"
"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak out and tell me."
"I am thinking of you, not of myself."

There is one. You may read that first." Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.
"I am glad you did not send that," he said.
"I meant it."
"But you have changed your mind?"
"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable?"
"I am thinking of you, not of myself.


"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?"
"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."


"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey?

"Upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. When a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine to fight for her own skin? If she is treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey?


Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all." And so she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.
He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. "I have not sent it, you know," she said. "I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work."
"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.

Oh, no; it is so unfeminine! Paul, the charm of womanly weakness entered my mind in a soft moment, and then I wrote this other letter." She handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft.
He could hardly finish it because of the tears which filled his eyes. Then he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing.
"I have not sent it, you know," she said.
"It hurts me more than the other."


"Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"
"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."

"Nay, I would not hurt you - not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment and my rage! Why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"
"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."


"But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon." But though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast.

"But it will be my feeling when you have left me - and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me." She put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast.


"Tell me one thing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?"
"No; indeed no."
"I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.
"And am I to keep the other?" he asked.

"Tell me one thing. When you spoke of compensation, did you mean - money?"
"No; indeed no."
"I hope not. Well, go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.
"Am I to keep the other?" he asked.


"No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.
"Good-bye, my friend," he said.
"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken." And so he went.

"No. Why? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.
"Good-bye, my friend," he said.
"No farewells. Go, and let there be no other word spoken." So he went.


As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. "Mrs. Pipkin," she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over between me and Mr. Montague." She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.
"Lord a' mercy," said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.
"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."
"And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too."
"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him."
"I'm well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle."

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her.
"Mrs. Pipkin," she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over between me and Mr. Montague." She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.
"Lord a' mercy," said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.
"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."
"Why not? and he such a nice young man, and quiet too."
"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about that. But


"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."
"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all." Mrs. Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.
"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not together. And there's an end of it."
"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."

 I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."
"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all." Mrs. Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.
"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we came back - not together. And there's an end of it."
"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."


"There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say anything more about it."
"And are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle,--a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!
"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin." Then Mrs. Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.

"If you please, Mrs. Pipkin, we won't say anything more about it."
"Are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, alarmed. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle, who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!
"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin."
Then Mrs. Pipkin gave her so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she would guarantee her lodger another lover, in place of the one who was now dismissed.


Mr. Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all,--if he could prove that which he knew. He had extended his enquiries in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star,--perhaps not giving sufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a "gone coon." The stockbroker made also some few enquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a "gone coon." If such were the case it would positively be the making of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum,--feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood.

Dolly's lawyer Mr. Squercum was all this time in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. He had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth - he needed only to prove it. His enquiries in the city had convinced him that Melmotte did not have enough money to cover his liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star. If such were the case, it would be the making of Squercum if he could appear as Melmotte's destroying angel.
So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who did not dare defy him - feeling that they had themselves blundered.


"I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client," said Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.
"I give up nothing and I assert nothing," said the superior attorney. "Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last."
"Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?" Then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to Mr. Squercum. "It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so."
"Perhaps not, Mr. Squercum. We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons."

"I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client," said Squercum to one of the Bideawhiles.
"I give up nothing and I assert nothing," said he. "Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as alike as any other."
"Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?" The letter was handed over. "He never could have written it had he tried ever so."
"We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons."


"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But then Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter."
"How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?"
"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But you see after such a declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in itself a little irregular perhaps--"
"I don't know that it's irregular at all."
"Well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll just say that. What Mr. Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them--"
"Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that's between Mr. Longestaffe and us."

"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter. And after such a declaration as that, the letter - which is in itself a little irregular-"
"I don't know that it's irregular at all."
"Well, it didn't reach you direct from Mr. Longstaffe. And why he would wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them-"
"Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that's between Mr. Longestaffe and us."


"Just so;--but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr. Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know." To this Mr. Bideawhile said not a word. "And I think I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine."
"I say nothing about it, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine."
"My client's oath, Mr. Bideawhile."
"I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does."

"Just so; but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I understand that you now do not insist that the signature is genuine."
"I say nothing, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine."
"My client's oath, Mr. Bideawhile.


"I don't know what you mean by that, Mr. Bideawhile. I fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr. Bideawhile."
"I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say anything more."

And Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the room which Melmotte occupied, and afterwards found the drawer open.


"Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter."
"I won't admit even that, Mr. Squercum."
"The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court."

I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor tomorrow, you know, and ask for an investigation into fraud."


"If so you may be sure that we shall produce it." Then Mr. Squercum took his leave and went straight away to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr. Squercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr. Bumby on the matter more than once. Mr. Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made. Mr. Bumby shook his head. "Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. You don't suppose that the company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it.

Then Mr. Squercum left and went straight to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the property it might be better to take it. When Mr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made, Mr. Bumby shook his head.
"Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. The company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds will not give them up.


Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property. There must be assets."
"Every rap will have been made over," said Mr. Squercum.

Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property."


This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been abstracted. There were Mr. Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Direct application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally made to Mr. Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting took place at eleven o'clock--a terribly early hour. Dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two enemies, and Mr. Squercum had told him that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. "By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it," Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the letter had been deposited.

Two days later, three gentlemen met together in the study of the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been taken. They were Mr. Longestaffe senior, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and although he and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms, he had agreed to a formal request for this meeting. It took place at eleven o'clock - a terribly early hour for Dolly.
"By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it," Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough. He was the last to enter the room: neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table.


"Now, Mr. Longestaffe," said Mr. Bideawhile, "perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter."
"I don't think at all," said he. "Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory."
"I never signed it," said Dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father.
"Nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father with an angry voice. "If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth."
"But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr. Bideawhile says so."

"Now, Mr. Longestaffe," said Mr. Bideawhile, "show us where you think you put the letter."
"I don't think at all," said he. "I remember it."
"I never signed it," said Dolly.
"Nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father angrily. "If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth."


"No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that."
"Nothing on earth would have made me sign it," said Dolly. "Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life."
The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. "Now, Mr. Longestaffe," continued the lawyer, "let us see where you put the letter."


Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer,--the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. "There," said he, "the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle." He went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and,--as he was certain,--had locked it again. At that special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.
"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said Dolly. "It's as plain as a pike-staff. It's clear enough to hang any man."

The father very slowly opened the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of folded papers.
"There," said he, "the letter was on top of the envelope and they were the two first documents in the bundle." He added that he was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He also remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and locked it again. It was at that time that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat on the Board of the Mexican railway.
"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said Dolly. "It's as plain as a pike-staff."


"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced," said the lawyer. "Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter."
"He thought that I had signed it," said Dolly.
"I am quite certain now," rejoined the father angrily. "A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything."
"I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury."
"What I want to know is how we are to get the money," said Dolly. "I should like to see him hung,--of course; but I'd sooner have the money. Squercum says--"
"Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr. Squercum says."

"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong the suspicion may be," said the lawyer. "I am thinking how it would go before a jury."
"What I want to know is how we are to get the money," said Dolly. "Squercum says-"
"Adolphus, we don't want to know what Mr. Squercum says."


"I don't know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn't be as good as what Mr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very aristocratic."
"Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt," said the lawyer laughing.


"No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at present." Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. "There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose," said Dolly putting on his hat.

Squercum knows what he's about. If it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do."
Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head.
"There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose," said Dolly, putting on his hat.


"Nothing more," said Mr. Bideawhile. "It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?"
"There is no doubt."
"And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used." So saying Mr. Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was "no sign of violence." "Whoever has done it, did it very well," said Bideawhile.
[Illustration: "I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used."]

"Nothing more," said Mr. Bideawhile. "I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. I will see whether there is any sign of violence having been used." So saying he knelt down and carefully examined the lock. There was no "sign of violence."
"Whoever has done it, did it very well," said Bideawhile.


"Of course Melmotte did it," said Dolly Longestaffe standing immediately over Bideawhile's shoulder.
At that moment there was a knock at the door,--a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr. Bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr. Bideawhile moved away from the table,--as he might have done had he been picking a lock;--and then Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and Mr. Melmotte appeared.

"Of course Melmotte did it," said Dolly.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. The lawyer jumped on to his feet and moved away from the table. Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice; and Mr. Melmotte appeared.


Now Mr. Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It was known that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special hour,--and he might well have surmised with what view. There was now declared hostility between both the Longestaffes and Mr. Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet them on this occasion. "Gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you think that I am intruding at the present moment." No one said that he did not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr. Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor.

His presence had not been expected; he was usually in the City at this hour.
"Gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you think that I am intruding."
The elder Longestaffe bowed very coldly. Mr. Bideawhile thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel, as his way of expressing his surprise at the appearance of his debtor.


"I fear that you do think I am intruding," said Melmotte, "but I trust that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir," he said, turning to Mr. Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer, "that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before."
"The drawer was locked when I left it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked."
"Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it."
"No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions,--but I left it locked and I found it open."
"I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion," said Dolly; "and that would be that somebody else had opened it."
"This can answer no purpose at all," said Bideawhile.

"I trust that what I have to say will excuse me. I see, sir," said Melmotte, glancing at the still open drawer, "that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before."
"The drawer was locked when I left it," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it."
"No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions - but I left it locked and I found it open."
"I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion," said Dolly; "and that would be that somebody else had opened it."


"It was but a chance remark," said Melmotte. "I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business." He paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dolly to ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. "Mr. Bideawhile, I believe," suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. "If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients--"
"Squercum is my lawyer," said Dolly.
"That will make no difference."
"It makes a deal of difference," said Dolly.

"I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to squabble about the lock," said Melmotte. "I thought this a good opportunity for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business." He paused a moment, but no one spoke. "Mr Bideawhile; if I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients-"
"Squercum is my lawyer," said Dolly.
"That will make no difference."
"It makes a deal of difference," said Dolly.


"I wrote," continued Melmotte, "offering my bills at three and six months' date."
"They couldn't be accepted, Mr. Melmotte."
"I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused before."
"You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became,--well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. You say you have another offer to make, Mr. Melmotte."

"I wrote," continued Melmotte, "offering my bills at three and six months' date."
"They couldn't be accepted, Mr. Melmotte."
"I would have allowed interest. I have never had my bills refused before."
"You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became - well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most unusual proceeding."


"Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell,"--Mr. Melmotte as he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room,--"but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is the amount due to these two gentlemen,--ready for payment on Friday at noon."
"I have taken no proceedings as yet," said Bideawhile.
"It's Squercum," says Dolly.

"Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been to run down my credit, and with my credit has fallen the value of stocks in which I have invested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came to pay, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell," - Mr. Melmotte raised his voice - "which may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds ready for payment on Friday at noon."
"I have taken no proceedings as yet," said Bideawhile.
"It's Squercum," said Dolly.


"Well, sir," continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, "let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But what Mr. Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should have been paid,--and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false.

"Well, sir," continued Melmotte, addressing Dolly, "let me assure you that if these proceedings are stopped the money will be forthcoming; but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to say that about such a small sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor tomorrow. The accusations against me are damnably false


I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer."
Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was at Dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. "I, on behalf of my client," said Mr. Bideawhile, "will consent to wait till Friday at noon."
"I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much," said the elder Longestaffe.

; but, false as they are, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer."
Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. "I, on behalf of my client," said Mr. Bideawhile, "will consent to wait till Friday at noon."
"I presume, Adolphus, that you will agree," said the elder Longestaffe.


Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but Melmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorry for the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though he had been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged,--and did not now go so far into the matter as to abandon that conviction,--he had been talked into crediting the reasons given for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that the money would be paid on Friday. Something of the effect which Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they now also had on Dolly Longestaffe. "I'll ask Squercum, you know," he said.
"Of course Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him," said Bideawhile.
"I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than that. And upon my word, Mr. Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble."

Dolly Longestaffe had been moved by Melmotte's eloquence. It was not that he was sorry for the man: he was still sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged - but he had been talked into a belief that the money would be paid on Friday.
"I'll ask Squercum, you know," he said.
"Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him," said Bideawhile.
"I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than that. And upon my word, Mr. Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble."


Melmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made,--Dolly stipulating that as his father would be attended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To this Mr. Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.

Melmotte with a smile apologized. It was settled that they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made - Dolly stipulating that Squercum should also attend. To this Mr. Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.


Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter,--ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, but in which she had received no reply,--when two gentlemen met each other in a certain room in Liverpool, who were seen together in the same room in the early part of this chronicle. These were our young friend Paul Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. Melmotte had died on the 18th of July, and tidings of the event had been at once sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks before this Montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company,--describing its condition in England as he then believed it to be,--and urging Fisker to come over to London. On receipt of a message from his American correspondent he had gone down to Liverpool, and had there awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend Mr. Ramsbottom. In the mean time Hetta's letter was lying at the Beargarden, Paul having written from his club and having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well managed. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter,--which would have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever before written.
"This is a terrible business," said Fisker, immediately on entering the room in which Montague was waiting him. "He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way."

Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter - ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, but to which she had received no reply - when two gentlemen met each other in Liverpool. These were our young friend Paul Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. News of Melmotte's death had been sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks earlier, Montague had written to Fisker about the condition of the Railway Company in England, urging him to come to London.
On receiving a reply he had gone to Liverpool, taking counsel with his friend Mr. Ramsbottom, and had awaited Fisker's arrival. In the meantime Hetta's letter was lying at the Beargarden. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well managed. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter.
"This is a terrible business," said Fisker, immediately on entering the room. "He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way."


"He was utterly ruined."
"He wouldn't have been ruined,--and couldn't have thought so if he'd known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd have understood how to play it."
"We don't think much of the South Central here now," said Paul.
"Ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of course, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit."
"There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself."

"He was utterly ruined."
"The South Central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd understood how to play it."
"We don't think much of the South Central here now," said Paul.
"Ah; that's because you don't have spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit."
"He had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection which drove him to kill himself."


"I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!"
"I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco," suggested Paul.
"Bu'st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu'st up? D'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?"
"He took poison."

"I call it damn clumsy from beginning to end. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!"
"I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco," suggested Paul.
"Not if I know it. Why should it be?


"Or p'ison either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'm going to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm sorry for him because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done 'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?"

I'll tell you what I'm going to do. These shares are at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I'm sorry for him; but what he's done'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?"


In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would not return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at the proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly,--nay, generously,--by his partner, having recognised the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should be good, and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind in gross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man so great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague?

Paul asserted that he would not return to San Francisco, that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would have nothing more to do with it.
Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased. He had convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner. Fisker had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. The work of robbing mankind was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life.