As to the girl's misery in losing her lover, much as he loved her, true as it was that he was willing to devote himself and all that he had to her happiness, I do not think that at the present moment he was disturbed in that direction. It is hardly natural, perhaps, that a man should love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make her happy by giving her to another man. Roger told himself that Paul would be an unsafe husband, a fickle husband,--one who might be carried hither and thither both in his circumstances and his feelings,--and that it would be better for Hetta that she should not marry him; but at the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit.
And yet he had said not a word. He had referred Hetta to the man himself. He thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know, the state of Hetta's mind. She was wretched because she thought that while her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willingly allowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, and making to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her. This was not true. Roger knew that it was not true. But when he tried to quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out among themselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance.

As to the girl's misery in losing her lover - even though Roger was devoted to her happiness, I do not think that he was disturbed about that. He told himself that Paul would be an unsafe, fickle husband, and that it would be better for Hetta not to marry him. At the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit.
And yet he had not said a word. He had referred Hetta to Paul. He tried to quieten his conscience by saying that they must fight it out between themselves, but he was uneasy.


His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become tired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never for a moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. Roger had told him once that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject of further conversation between them. In answer to this, Father Barham had declared that he would never consent to remain as an intimate associate with any man on those terms. Roger had persisted in his stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his host's intention to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply, and the priest had of course been banished. But even this added to his misery. Father Barham was a gentleman, was a good man, and in great penury. To ill-treat such a one, to expel such a one from his house, seemed to Roger to be an abominable cruelty. He was unhappy with himself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come back to him.

His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become tired of the priest, who kept trying to convert him. Roger had told him that he did not wish to discuss religion with him any more; Father Barham had declared that he could never remain as a friend with any man on those terms. When Roger had persisted, the priest had suggested that his host wished to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply, and the priest was banished. But even this added to his misery. He felt he had been cruel to the priest, yet he could not bid him come back.


It was already being said of him among his neighbours, at Eardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that he either had become or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the priest's influence. Mrs. Yeld had even taken upon herself to write to him a most affectionate letter, in which she said very little as to any evidence that had reached her as to Roger's defection, but dilated at very great length on the abominations of a certain lady who is supposed to indulge in gorgeous colours.

His neighbours were already saying that he was about to become a Roman Catholic.


He was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at Sheep's Acre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry John Crumb. Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and accused by his neighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to that source of consolation which he found to be most easily within his reach. Since Ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was making himself generally a scandal and a nuisance. His landlord had interfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had always declared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause of it all; for now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the lover as he did to the girl. John Crumb wasn't in earnest. If he had been in earnest he would have gone after her to London at once. No;--he wouldn't invite Ruby to come back. If Ruby would come back, repentant, full of sorrow,--and hadn't been and made a fool of herself in the meantime,--then he'd think of taking her back. In the meantime, with circumstances in their present condition, he evidently thought that he could best face the difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, early in the day and all day long. This, too, was a grievance to Roger Carbury.

He was troubled, too, about old Ruggles, at Sheep's Acre, who had taken to drink, and was making himself a scandal and a nuisance. He declared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause; for now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to John Crumb as he did to the girl. This, too, was a grievance to Roger Carbury.


But he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the present moment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. He was making hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river side; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw John Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since the eventful journey to London; nor had he seen him in London; but he knew well all that had occurred,--how the dealer in pollard had thrashed his cousin, Sir Felix, how he had been locked up by the police and then liberated,--and how he was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, as far as arms were concerned, but as being very "soft" in the matter of love. The reader need hardly be told that Roger was not at all disposed to quarrel with Mr. Crumb, because the victim of Crumb's heroism had been his own cousin. Crumb had acted well, and had never said a word about Sir Felix since his return to the country. No doubt he had now come to talk about his love,--and in order that his confessions might not be made before all the assembled haymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meet him. There was soon evident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of delight. As Roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave a bit of paper that he had in his hands. "She's a coomin; she's a coomin," were the first words he uttered. Roger knew very well that in his friend's mind there was but one "she" in the world, and that the name of that she was Ruby Ruggles.

But he did not neglect his work. He was making hay at this time in some meadows down by the river; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw John Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since the eventful journey to London, but he had heard all that had happened. John was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, though very "soft" in the matter of love.
Roger hurried to meet him. Crumb's broad face beamed with a whole sunshine of delight. As Roger came closer he began to laugh, and to wave a bit of paper.
"She's a coomin; she's a coomin," were the first words he uttered.


[Illustration: "She's a coomin; she's a coomin."]
"I am delighted to hear it," said Roger. "She has made it up with her grandfather?"
"Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me. Know'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd she would."
"Has she written to you, then?"

"I am delighted to hear it," said Roger. "She has made it up with her grandfather?"
"Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me."
"Has she written to you, then?"


"Well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn't the way they does it. But it's all as one." And then Mr. Crumb thrust Mrs. Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's hand.
Roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of Mrs. Hurtle. Since he had first known Mrs. Hurtle's name, when Paul Montague had told the story of his engagement on his return from America, Roger had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman. It may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced against all Americans, looking upon Washington much as he did upon Jack Cade or Wat Tyler; and he pictured to himself all American women as being loud, masculine, and atheistical. But it certainly did seem that in this instance Mrs. Hurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity. "She is a lady," Crumb began to explain, "who do be living with Mrs. Pipkin; and she is a lady as is a lady."

"Well, squoire, she ain't, herself. But it's all as one." And Mr. Crumb thrust Mrs. Hurtle's note into Roger's hand.
Roger was not disposed to think kindly of Mrs. Hurtle. Since he had first heard her name from Paul, he had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing woman. But it certainly did seem that in this case Mrs. Hurtle was trying to do a good turn.


Roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he explained that he, too, knew something of Mrs. Hurtle, and that he thought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true. "True, squoire!" said Crumb, laughing with his whole face. "I ha' nae a doubt it's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was to blame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into him when I first heard as he was arter her. It's that as girls like. So, squoire, I'm just going again to Lon'on right away."

Roger said that he thought that what she said of Ruby might be true.
"True, squoire!" laughed Crumb. "I ha' nae a doubt it's true. When I dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. So, squoire, I'm going again to Lon'on right away."


Roger suggested that old Ruggles would, of course, receive his niece; but as to this John expressed his supreme indifference. The old man was nothing to him. Of course he would like to have the old man's money; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed that things would come right in time. But this he knew,--that he wasn't going to cringe to the old man about his money. When Roger observed that it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she might at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all the substantial comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea, that on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to church and be married to her out of hand. He had thrashed his rival, and what cause could there now be for delay?
But before he left the field he made one other speech to the squire. "You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin to yourself?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Crumb."

When Roger observed that it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she might at once return, John listed with a renewed grin all the comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea that on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby to church and be married out of hand.
But before he left the field he made one speech about Sir Felix. "You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was your coosin?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Crumb."


"That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and Ruby's once spliced, I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first day as he'll come to Bungay."
Roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation on the part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on his own part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in that matter of the street encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate and continued happiness of Mr. and Mrs. John Crumb.
"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said Crumb as he went exulting out of the field.
On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed him very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return any answer, or what answer. It was from Paul Montague, and was written by him but a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta with his own hands, at the door of her mother's house. Paul's letter to Roger was as follows:--
MY DEAR ROGER,--
Though I know that you have cast me off from you I cannot write to you in any other way, as any other way would be untrue. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to you in the name of justice.

"That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man no harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him."
Roger assured him that he thought that Crumb had behaved well in that encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. John Crumb.
"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said Crumb, as he went exulting out of the field.
On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed him very much. It was from Paul Montague, written a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta. Paul's letter to Roger was as follows:
My dear Roger,
Though I know that you have cast me off I cannot write to you in any other way. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to you in the name of justice.


You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I am justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right.

You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I feel sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right.


Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix, and that he had learned it from those people at Islington. But she has been told that which is untrue. Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. She supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months, although during that very time I have asked for and have received the assurance of her love. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs. Hurtle,--as to which nothing at present need be said,--it is certainly the truth that her coming to England was not only not desired by me, but was felt by me to be the greatest possible misfortune. But after all that had passed I certainly owed it to her not to neglect her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one. I went down to Lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place to her as one known to myself, and because I could not refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and you know also, as no one else does, that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been constrained to show her.

Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix. But she has not been told the truth. Nobody knows the truth as you do. She supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs. Hurtle, her coming to England was not desired by me; I felt it to be the greatest possible misfortune. But I owed it to her not to neglect her, as she was a foreigner unknown to anyone. I went to Lowestoft with her at her request, because I could not refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and you know also that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been forced to show her.


I appeal to you to let Hetta know that this is true. She had made me understand that not only her mother and brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the story of my acquaintance with Mrs. Hurtle. Neither Lady Carbury nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it. You, and you only, have known the truth. And now, though at the present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. You will understand me when I say that I feel that I am being destroyed by a false representation. I think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of setting me right, at any rate as far as the truth can do so. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that.
Yours always,
PAUL MONTAGUE.

Though you are angry with me, I appeal to you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. I think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of telling her the truth. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that.
Yours always,
Paul Montague.


What business is all that of mine? This, of course, was the first feeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's letter. If Hetta had received any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told no stories against his rival, whether true or false. He had been so scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And if any false impression had been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances or by untrue words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall upon him? Though every word in Montague's letter might be true, nevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him, even should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous impressions. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering to make Mrs. Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury. Such, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as he thought over all the circumstances. At any rate, it was no business of his to correct these wrong impressions.

What business is it of mine? This was Roger's first feeling. If Hetta had received any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told no stories against his rival, true or false. He had been so scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall upon him? It would be no more than justice if he were robbed at last of his love. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering to make Mrs. Hurtle his wife rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury. Such, at least, was Roger's verdict.


And yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. He did believe that every word in Montague's letter was true. Though he had been very indignant when he met Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together on the sands at Lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their coming there had been precisely that which Montague had stated. It took him two days to think over all this, two days of great discomfort and unhappiness. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girl did not care for him,--looked upon him as an old man to be regarded in a fashion altogether different from that in which she regarded Paul Montague. He had let his time for love-making go by, and now it behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not to lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could never attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings. And yet the passion which dominated John Crumb altogether, which made the mealman so intent on the attainment of his object as to render all other things indifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with Roger Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger, strong as his passion was, it was embarrassed by other feelings.

And yet he was ill at ease. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girl did not care for him; she looked upon him as an old man. He had let his time for love-making go by, and he ought not to lose himself in regrets for a happiness which he could never attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings.
And yet the passion which dominated John Crumb was equally strong with Roger Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger,


It never occurred to Crumb to think whether he was a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having a decided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him. But with Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamper him. John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should do. He had to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her whatever she might cost him. He was always confident though sometimes perplexed. But Roger had no confidence. He knew that he should never win the game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. The people around him, from old fashion, still called him the young squire! Why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years old,--so old that he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile spirits as those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend Hepworth.

unlike John Crumb, he knew that he would never win the game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. Why, he felt himself at times to be eighty years old.


Could he, by any training, bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?
In such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's letter,--and he answered it as follows:--
I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I do not know that I have any that I wish to tell in your favour, or that I could so tell if I did wish. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, and which you say no one else can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.
ROGER CARBURY.
Paul Montague, Esq.
You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!
There was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that spirit of self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself; and so he himself felt after the letter had been dispatched.

Could he bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?
In such a mood he did at last answer his enemy's letter, as follows:
I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I do not have any that I wish to tell in your favour. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.
Roger Carbury.
You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!
There was perhaps more hostility in this letter than the self-sacrifice Roger had intended; and so he felt after the letter had been sent.


Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the evening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead. Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance had busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were made instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale himself had assisted them in their departure; and the German, with the poor woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed according to Melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took the mother and the daughter. They did not start till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment would fain have been allowed to rest one other night in Bruton Street. But Lord Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand that the inquest would be held early on the following morning, and Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her point. So the poor woman was taken away from Mr. Longestaffe's residence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in Grosvenor Square, which she had not visited since the night on which she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China.

Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late that evening Madame Melmotte and Marie were moved to lodgings far away up at Hampstead. Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's request had seen that the rooms were instantly made ready. Nidderdale himself had helped them depart. They did not go till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte would fain have stayed one more night in Bruton Street. But Marie was imperious with her mother; so the poor woman was taken away.


On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The servants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them, learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned by prussic acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to testify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was there any doubt as to the cause.

On Saturday morning the inquest was held. The servants, the doctor, and the police inspector agreed that Melmotte had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, and that he had been found dead, poisoned by prussic acid. There was no doubt that he had destroyed himself - nor as to the cause.


In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? Who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon earth? Such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. But let a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his side--a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute who had got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and had disgraced the House by being drunk there,--and, of course, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves, with their wits about them.

In such cases it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one has been mad at the time. Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, so that the body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad.
But let a Melmotte be found dead - a man who has become horrid to the world, a man who has pretended to be rich, a brute who has got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and has disgraced the House by being drunk there - he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity.


Just at this moment there was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his having tumbled over poor Mr. Beauclerk in the House of Commons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was _felo de se_, and therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But it may be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There were some, among them Croll and Mr. Brehgert, who absolutely knew that he had committed forgery. He had no money for the Longestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at once. He had assured himself long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not very long ago,--that he would brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs. Melmotte's back had been so utterly crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity.

There was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, and he was declared to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison.
All the same, I think that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch driven beyond his powers of endurance. He could foresee pretty well what would happen. He had committed forgery; he had no money for the Longestaffes, and was well aware what Squercum would do. Although he had assured himself that he would bear it all like a man, we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs.


But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing took place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made to the manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious. Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful things. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone alone that spoke of a monument.

His body was carried away, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that, there was a certain amount of whitewashing. In Westminster he was always odious; but Marylebone took him up quite with affection, while Finsbury delighted to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by unkind tongues.


Mr. Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of it a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town; and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much for Mr. Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking upon the stool in Mr. Squercum's office, where he now passed a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage.
"By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"

Mr. Longestaffe came back to his house alone. There was much for both him and Dolly to do, in working out how far they had been ruined. They could not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate.
Dolly, as he sat smoking in Mr. Squercum's office, said, "By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"


Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. "They say that the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them," said Squercum.
"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all done without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties." Then he uttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of "making it very hot for them."

Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be from the Melmotte estate. "They say that the furnishings, and the silver plate, and carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them."
"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything." Then Dolly uttered threats against the Bideawhiles, declaring he would "make it very hot for them."


It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the management of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively into the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence of Mr. Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had lately lived and had died. The dead man's papers were still there,--deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy;--and these could not be removed quite at once. "Mr. Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely necessary," said Mr. Longestaffe in answer to a message which was brought to him; "but he will of course see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible." But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had received.

It was an added annoyance to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the management of Melmotte's estate fell at last into the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and also energetic and patient. But he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Mr. Brehgert needed to be in the house, for the dead man's papers were still there - those that he had not destroyed - and could not yet be removed.
"Mr. Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, if it is absolutely necessary," said Mr. Longestaffe; "but he will relieve me from such intrusion as soon as possible." However, he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured after the injuries he had received.


All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr. Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of 300 due to him for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty per cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing by Melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before the father took anything. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and his own family, the house in London should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number, and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters. "I have suffered great wrongs," said Mr. Longestaffe, "but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience." From what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat.

All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr. Longestaffe agreed, as it included a sum of 300 due to him for the rent of the house in Bruton Street. Then it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of at least fifty per cent payable on debts which had been owing by Melmotte; an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that his house in London should be sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number.
All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters.
"I have suffered great wrongs," wrote Mr. Longestaffe, "but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. From my daughters I expect cheerful obedience." Exactly what led him to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it is difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down, while Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects.


I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but she said not a word even about that.


But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are anticipated. Mr. Longestaffe had remained in London actually over the 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of the year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion,--so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when Mr. Longestaffe's heart had been softened by that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr. Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old port wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening Mr. Brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe. The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to his own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which Mr. Longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart. "Of course there's a difference between me and you," he said.

While Mr. Longestaffe remained in London, he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and formed a kind of friendship with that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion. He once even asked Mr. Brehgert to dine with him in Bruton Street. Mr. Brehgert came, and there was a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old port wine.
Until then not a word had passed between them about the engagement with Georgiana, since the day on which her father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But this evening Mr. Brehgert spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe.
The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert made to his own affairs. His loss would be double Mr. Longestaffe's; but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart.
"Of course there's a difference between me and you," he said.


Mr. Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very wide difference. "In our affairs," continued Brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money."
"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard."
"I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely."
"I suppose so."

Mr. Longestaffe bowed his head graciously. "In our affairs," continued Brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money."
"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard."
"I can't even yet quite understand why he decided to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely."
"I suppose so."


"It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of our house. The long and the short of it is that I shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds."
"That's a large sum of money."
"Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you."
This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr. Longestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most deserving of censure; but Mr. Longestaffe did not know how to pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact.
"It was so," said Brehgert.

"I ventured on a speculation with him; and the long and the short of it is that I shall lose about sixty thousand pounds."
"That's a large sum of money."
"Very large; so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you."
This indelicate reference to his daughter altogether upset Mr. Longestaffe. He was so anxious for Brehgert's assistance that he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed more than his normal dignity as he said that his daughter had never mentioned the fact.
"It was so.


"No doubt;"--and Mr. Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.
"Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would maintain a second house when we should be married."
"It was impossible," said Mr. Longestaffe,--meaning to assert that such hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question.
"It would have been quite possible as things were when that proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."
"There were other reasons," muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed voice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence.
"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not the slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason."
"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert; why mention this now? The subject is painful."

I had promised your daughter that I would maintain a second house when we should be married."
"It was impossible," said Mr. Longestaffe - meaning the marriage.
"It would have been quite possible as things were when I proposed. But on looking forward to the loss which I anticipated, I found it best to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."
"There were other reasons," muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed whisper.
"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me, she seemed to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason."
"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert? The subject is painful."


"Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman." Mr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from so dubious an oracle. "I am sure," continued Brehgert, "that I behaved like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself."
"Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended."
"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend." Finishing the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.

"Because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because I wish everyone to know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman and an honest man."
Mr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then nodded three times. "Perhaps less said the soonest mended."
"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing to mend." With this little speech Brehgert arose to take his leave, promising to do all in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.


As soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe opened the door and walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had conferred upon him by asking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not all Jews necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Brehgert.

As soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse himself from impurities. How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how little grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had shown him by asking him to dinner! A horrid Jew! Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis he could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Brehgert.


When the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very desolate. The task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the return to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this was so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed without anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she thought, would not dare to propose it. On each of these days,--three or four times daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed till he had received some particular letter, and would not even listen to the suggestion of a day. "I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday," Georgiana said on the Friday evening. "I don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind," the father replied. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion.

When the Melmottes left Caversham the house was very desolate. The Longestaffe ladies would have been comforted if the date of their return to London had been fixed. But days passed, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery was impossible. Their father would not dare to propose it.
Three or four times daily, hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to fix a day till he had received some particular letter. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less bold than Georgiana, and less anxious to go to London.


On the Sunday morning before they went to church there was a great discussion up-stairs. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. They were in their mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of their church-going toilet. It was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had certainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so Sophia asserted,--more disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen especially in reference to their bonnets. "You might as well wear them," said Lady Pomona, "for I am sure you will not be in London again this year."
"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.

On the Sunday, before church, there was a great discussion in Lady Pomona's room. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. It was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had certainly received a message from his lawyer. He had been unusually silent at breakfast, and - so Sophia asserted - more disagreeable than ever.
The question had now arisen in reference to their bonnets. "You might as well wear them," said Lady Pomona, "for I am sure you will not be in London again this year."
"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.


"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into his pocket. I know what his face means so well."
"It is not possible," said Sophia. "He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised."
"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose we must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he meant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could."

"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers into his pocket. I know what his face means."
"It is not possible," said Sophia. "He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised."
"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back to London, we must take his word for it. I suppose that he would take us back if he could."


"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on the part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own camp!
"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.
"Do!" Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. "Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do something, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be who it may."

"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana, outraged by her treachery.
"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.
"Do! Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do something! If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man that will take me."


"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."
"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us,--not the least,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here." The younger Miss Longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before her.
"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that," pleaded her sister.
"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable."
"I haven't got George Whitstable."

"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."
"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us - not the least; but he cares about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay here."
"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things," pleaded her sister.
"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable


"Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are."
"You are very unjust," said Lady Pomona, wailing, "and you say horrid things."
"I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the same as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his word."

, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are."
"You are very unjust," wailed Lady Pomona.
"I ain't unjust. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his word."


Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall. "Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?" Of course they were all going to church. They always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and would more especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of the bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, Lady Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During the service Mr. Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated the responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he had been an example to the parish all his life. The three ladies knelt on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention.

A loud voice called from the hall. "Are you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?"
Of course they were going to church, because of the bishop and the bonnets. They trooped downstairs, Georgiana stalking along. She passed her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home.
During the sermon the ladies sat without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention.


They did not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. It was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not a meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop preached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would not have complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept at Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach for ever! After the service they came back to lunch, and that meal also was eaten in silence. When it was over the head of the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently meaning to be left alone there. In that case he would have meditated upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoon with comfort.

It was nothing to them what the bishop was speaking about. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a suitable husband. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept at Caversham all summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach for ever!
After the service they came back to lunch, which was eaten in silence. Then Mr. Longestaffe settled into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently intending to sleep in comfort.


But this was denied to him. The two daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed; and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out" with her father, and Sophia had of course remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. When the last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began. "Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know about engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago."
"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your engagement."

But this was denied to him. The two daughters remained; and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out" with her father. When the last tray had been taken out, she began.
"Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there."
"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't go."


"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning."
"You can't do anything of the kind."
"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady Pomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time, as a compromise.
"Then you can't have a day fixed," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?" said Sophia, in a low constrained voice.

"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning."
"You can't do anything of the kind."
"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady Pomona. There was a pause. Even Georgiana would have accepted some distant, undefined time, as a compromise.
"You can't have a day fixed," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"How long shall we be kept here?" said Sophia, in a low constrained voice.


"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live."
"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by in silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time.
"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr. Longestaffe, turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands.
"Do you mean that that is settled?" said Lady Pomona.
"I mean to say that that is settled," said Mr. Longestaffe.

"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home."
"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia. Georgiana waited in silence, biding her time.
"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr. Longestaffe, turning abruptly to his newspaper. "That is settled."


Was there ever treachery like this! The indignation in Georgiana's mind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now she was told that the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get back to London,--even to the house of the hated Primeros,--without absolutely running away from her father's residence! "Then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us."
"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"
"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress,--by law."

Was there ever treachery like this! Georgiana's indignation approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now the promise was to be absolutely broken!
"Then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and premeditatedly broken your word to us."
"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"
"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress, by law."


"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house."
"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and entertain these people?"

"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room."
"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come here and entertain these people?"


"I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you." Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her father's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting with anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils.
[Illustration: She marched majestically out of the room.]
"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said.

"I will not argue with an insolent child. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you."
Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into another room, and stood panting with anger.
"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said when Lady Pomona followed.


"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them." This was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some little trouble of that kind. "I have never got myself talked about with any body. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have written his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you were ill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two at the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?"

"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them." This was a cut at her elder sister. "I have never got myself talked about. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have written his letters for him till I have been sick. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?"


"I understood so, my dear."
"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the blame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way."
"You do that for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.
"It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake," said Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair,--to an ancient flirtation, in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortune was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness.
"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia. "It's easy enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and nobody cares for a person."

"I understood so, my dear."
"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the blame. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way."
"You keep straight for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.
"It is more than you've been able to do," said Georgiana, alluding to an ancient flirtation, when Sophia had made a foolish and futile attempt to run away with an impoverished officer of dragoons. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never mentioned except in moments of great bitterness.
"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia. "It's easy enough when nobody cares for a person."


"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.
"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana. "Does he expect me to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all."
"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a chuck of her head.
"Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come to that quite yet."
"You were talking of running away with somebody."

"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.
"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana. "Does he expect me to find anybody here? Poor George Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all."
"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a toss of her head.
"Thank you, but I haven't come to that quite yet.


"I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that. I'll tell you what I shall do,--I will write papa a letter. I suppose he'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the Melmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but to have them here was terrible!"

I shall write papa a letter. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry is that we condescended to be civil to the Melmottes. To have them here was terrible!"


During that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passed between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities of life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almost reconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable at a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which was always an excuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr. Longestaffe went to sleep. Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the next morning the head of the family found the following letter on his dressing-table;--
MY DEAR PAPA,--

During that afternoon nothing more was said. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was almost reconciled to staying in the country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable only ten miles away did of course make a difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, and Mr. Longestaffe went to sleep. The next morning he found the following letter on his dressing-table:
My dear Papa,


I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things.

I don't think you ought to be surprised that our going up to town is so important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. It does not signify for Sophia, but it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and there would be no expense for horses, and we could dress very cheap.


I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.
You certainly did say that if we would come down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.
This was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to that threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with somebody.

I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham must be to me, without anyone worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.
You certainly did say that if we came down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.


I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and I should not in the least object to reminding her, only it should be done at once. Their house in Queen's Gate is very large, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa.
Your affectionate daughter,
GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.

I suppose that it is useless for me to ask you to take us back this summer - though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them earlier on, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and Julia's groom would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa.
Your affectionate daughter,
Georgiana Longestaffe.


Mr. Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. He, though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to some extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his authority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. If not, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not read much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating and drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. To stand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which he belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family.

Mr. Longestaffe read this. Though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter severely, he was somewhat afraid of her; and he dreaded the weariness of continued domestic strife. He thought that his daughter liked a row. He himself hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. To stand about the public rooms of his clubs, and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family


He would be contented to drag through long listless days at Caversham, and endeavour to nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it. By assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving, the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son from his wife's mother,--some 2,000 or 3,000 a year, magnified by the world into double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the Sussex property in order that the Suffolk property might be relieved. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the most careless of men, was always on his guard in any dealings with his father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. The father could not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. Melmotte had done something for him,--but in doing this Melmotte was very hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, when at Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that with such an establishment in the country he was not entitled to keep a house in town.

By living with a certain useless pomp, by powdering his footmen's heads and bewigging his coachmen, by aping the ways of grander men, he had run into debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son Adolphus from his wife's mother - some 2,000 or 3,000 a year - and the knowledge of this had reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would consent to sell the Sussex property to pay the debts. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and though careless in most respects he was always on his guard in dealings with his father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless he got half the proceeds. The father found his troubles very hard upon him.
Melmotte had done something for him - but he had been hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, while at Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that he was not entitled to keep a house in town.


Mr. Longestaffe had then said something about his daughters,--something especially about Georgiana,--and Mr. Melmotte had made a suggestion.

Mr. Longestaffe had said something about his daughters - especially about Georgiana - and Mr. Melmotte had made a suggestion.


Mr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. But if there was one man he hated more than another, it was his neighbour Mr. Primero; and if one woman, it was Mrs. Primero. Primero, whom Mr. Longestaffe regarded as quite an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He paid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. He had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and borough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. He was a radical, of course, or, according to Mr. Longestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. And now there had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr. Primero was to have a peerage. To others the rumour was incredible, but Mr. Longestaffe believed it, and to Mr. Longestaffe that belief was an agony. A Baron Bundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron Bundlesham, would be more than Mr. Longestaffe could endure. It was quite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros.

Mr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. But he regarded the Primeros as upstarts. Mr. Primero was not a gentleman. He owed no man anything. He paid his tradesmen punctually. He had spent many thousands in county elections, and was now a Member of Parliament - a radical, according to Mr. Longestaffe's views. And now there was a rumour that Mr. Primero was to have a peerage. That would be more than Mr. Longstaffe could endure. It was quite impossible that his daughter should stay in London with the Primeros.


But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been laid on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by letter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed her a note to read. "Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course you must judge for yourself." This was the note;--
MY DEAR MR. LONGESTAFFE,
As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.

But another suggestion had been made. On the morning after Georgiana's letter, Lady Pomona handed her a note, saying,
"Your papa has given it me. Of course you must judge for yourself."
The note read:
My dear Mr. Longestaffe,
As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.


Yours truly,
AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.
Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. It was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both her father and mother had heard her speak of these Melmottes, and knew what she thought of them. There was an insolence in the very suggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of that. "Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?" she asked.

Yours truly,
Augustus Melmotte.
Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced over this paper, looked in vain for the date. It had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both her father and mother knew what she thought of the Melmottes. There was an insolence in the very suggestion.
"Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?" she asked.


"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially."
"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful."
"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana."
"It is that,--or staying here?"
"I think so, my dear."
"If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfully disagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!"

"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them."
"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes."
"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana."
"It is that - or staying here?"
"I think so, my dear."
"It will be awfully disagreeable,- absolutely disgusting!"


"Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that if I'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did you not see it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself.

"Pooh, mamma! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She'll be frightfully vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself.


I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful to look at as he is?"
"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona. "The Duchess of Stevenage has been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie. Everybody goes to their house."
"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma,--to have to sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that woman!"
"Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs."

They make me shudder."
"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona. "The Duchess of Stevenage has been there over and over again."
"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma!"


"But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! Only think of it!"
"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear."


"Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, oh dear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure. If papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think of it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so much of being with the right set."

"Of course I am. What other chance have I? And I am so tired of it! Papa does not have to work half as hard as I do. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me ill. Horrid, horrid people! And papa has always been so proud of being with the right set."


"Things are changed, Georgiana," said the anxious mother.
"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman compared with Mr. Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with Madame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such people it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine."

"Things are changed, Georgiana."
"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. But I'll go. I don't believe that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa has altered his ideas; and so I had better alter mine."


Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona informed Mr. Longestaffe that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be accepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, and Georgiana would go up on the Friday following. "I hope she'll like it," said Mr. Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. It was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor Lady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like to live in a house with Mr. and Madame Melmotte!

Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona informed him that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be accepted. Georgiana would go to London on the Friday following.


On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station, which was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head as usual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her even in the presence of her sister. "Sophy, I do so envy you staying here."
"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."
"Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not going to disgrace yourself."
"There's no disgrace in it, Georgey."

On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure. She had tried to hold up her head, but had failed. She was cowed even in front of her sister.
"Sophy, I do so envy you staying here."
"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."
"Yes; I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here.


"Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and housemaids would be much better."
"Then don't go, Georgey."
"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain down here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow."

But I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous."
"Then don't go, Georgey."
"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. Whitstable has no debt, and he isn't a bad sort of fellow.


"Is he, now?"
"Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at home. But he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it has been papa's doing."
And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the Melmottes.

He hasn't much to say for himself, but he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"As for me, I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it has been papa's doing."
And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the Melmottes.


How eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form to Marie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood. "My dear Felix," she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon, "pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip."
"It's everything to get him in a good humour," pleaded Sir Felix.
"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used."
"There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him about money? That's the question."
"I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix."
"Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down; or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with."

Lady Carbury was eager that her son should go at once to Marie's father. "My dear Felix," she said, standing over his bedside just before noon, "pray don't put it off."
"I need to get him in a good humour," pleaded Sir Felix.
"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used."
"There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him about money? That's the question. Nidderdale asked for a certain sum down, to be paid before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with."


"You wouldn't mind having it settled?"
"No;--I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me,--say 7,000 or 8,000 a year. I wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while."
"But you have nothing left of your own."
"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out," said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains.
"Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way."
"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money."
"You want to marry her yourself."

"You wouldn't mind having it settled?"
"No; I'd consent to that if the money was paid down, and the income insured to me - say 7,000 or 8,000 a year. It wouldn't be worth while for less."
"But you have nothing left of your own."
"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out," said the son, using an argument which he thought might be effective with his mother; though no man lived less likely to cut his own throat.
"Oh, Felix! how brutal."
"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money."
"You want to marry her yourself."


"I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one means to take,--and whether one is sure to get it."
"I don't think there can be any doubt."
"If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know."
"Of course he'd pay the money first."

"I want her money; and if I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be like cutting my throat. There'd be no going back."
"Of course he'd pay the money first."


"It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. You can't carry 10,000 a year about in your pocket, you know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up."

"Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. If you'll go, mother, I might think of getting up."


Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix in the future. All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now;--position, a title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something! Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than the baronet's present condition.

Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the wealth and celebrity of the man, and weigh that against the absolute pennilessness of her son. Felix's condition was hopeless. Lord Nidderdale's embarrassments were only temporary. There were the family estates, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix. All he would ever have, he had now; position, a title, and a handsome face. Even the ruins of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than his present condition.


And then, though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter's position? She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. "I think you should be content to run a little risk," she said.
Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in a humour to resent interference. "I wish you'd leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business."
"Is it not my business too?"
"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to meddle with me."
"You ungrateful boy!"

And though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt about his riches now.
She visited her son again the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. "I think you should be content to run a little risk," she said.
Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and was sulky.
"I wish you'd leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business."
"Is it not my business too?"
"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do, and I don't want anybody to meddle."
"You ungrateful boy!


"I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't do everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set me against it all."
"How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness."

Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? You have no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness."


"That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort."
"He is the best friend I have." What would Roger have thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?

"That's what Roger says, is it?"
"He is the best friend I have."