"Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father can destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now--"

"Nidderdale has a settled property which he cannot destroy. But don't be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now-"


"No;--not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be shown to her. If you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before you leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour as a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my property to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind about that."

"No, not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be shown to her. If you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before you leave the room. But if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling."


"And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the twentieth of next month?"


"I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At any rate I won't see you short of money."


The terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. Melmotte himself dictated the words, which were not romantic in their nature. The reader shall see the letter.

The terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. Melmotte himself dictated the words, which were not romantic:


In consideration of the offers made by you to me, and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, and would bring down a father's curse upon your daughter, I hereby declare and promise that I will not renew my suit to the young lady, which I hereby altogether renounce.

In consideration of the offers made by you, and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, I hereby declare and promise that I will not renew my suit to the young lady, which I hereby altogether renounce.


AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE, Esq., --, Grosvenor Square.


The letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of the offices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.

The letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of the offices of the Railway.


"You'll give me that cheque for 200, Mr. Melmotte?" The financier hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque as promised. "And you'll see about letting me have those shares?"


"You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know." Sir Felix said that he would call in Abchurch Lane.

"You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know." Sir Felix said that he would.


As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happy in his mind. Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamed of himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew that he was behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried to console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his while to do so.

As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happy. Ignorant as he was about the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamed. He knew that he was treating the girl very badly. He tried to console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it worth his while to do so.


That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a great part of Mr. Melmotte's money. He did in fact lose much more than the 200; but when he found his ready money going from him he issued paper.

That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a great part of Mr. Melmotte's money. In fact he lost much more than the 200; but he paid in I.O.U.s.


Augustus Melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every direction,--mightier and mightier every day. He was learning to despise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. In truth he did recognise it as a fact that he must either domineer over dukes, or else go to the wall. It can hardly be said of him that he had intended to play so high a game, but the game that he had intended to play had become thus high of its own accord. A man cannot always restrain his own doings and keep them within the limits which he had himself planned for them. They will very often fall short of the magnitude to which his ambition has aspired. They will sometimes soar higher than his own imagination. So it had now been with Mr. Melmotte. He had contemplated great things; but the things which he was achieving were beyond his contemplation.

Augustus Melmotte was becoming greater and mightier every day. He was learning to despise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. He had not intended to play so high a game, but the game had become high of its own accord. A man cannot always keep his doings within the limits which he has planned. They will often fall short of his aspirations; they will sometimes soar higher than he had imagined. So it had been with Mr. Melmotte. He had contemplated great things; but the things which he was achieving were beyond his contemplation.


The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in England. Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. He had never read a book. He had never written a line worth reading. He had never said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had sprung out of some Californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father and mother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own audacity. But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessary impetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into almost unprecedented commercial greatness. When Mr. Melmotte took his offices in Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so great as when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had become not only an established fact, but a fact established in Abchurch Lane. The great company indeed had an office of its own, where the Board was held; but everything was really managed in Mr. Melmotte's own commercial sanctum. Obeying, no doubt, some inscrutable law of commerce, the grand enterprise,--"perhaps the grandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people," as Mr. Fisker with his peculiar eloquence observed through his nose, about this time to a meeting of shareholders at San Francisco,--had swung itself across from California to London, turning itself to the centre of the commercial world as the needle turns to the pole, till Mr. Fisker almost regretted the deed which himself had done. And Melmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of it all. The shares seemed to be all in Melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would; and it seemed also that when distributed and sold, and when bought again and sold again, they came back to Melmotte's pocket. Men were contented to buy their shares and to pay their money, simply on Melmotte's word. Sir Felix had realised a large portion of his winnings at cards,--with commendable prudence for one so young and extravagant,--and had brought his savings to the great man. The great man had swept the earnings of the Beargarden into his till, and had told Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir Felix had been not only contented, but supremely happy. He could now do as Paul Montague was doing,--and Lord Alfred Grendall. He could realize a perennial income, buying and selling. It was only after the reflection of a day or two that he found that he had as yet got nothing to sell. It was not only Sir Felix that was admitted into these good things after this fashion. Sir Felix was but one among hundreds. In the meantime the bills in Grosvenor Square were no doubt paid with punctuality,--and these bills must have been stupendous. The very servants were as tall, as gorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty,--and remunerated by much higher wages. There were four coachmen with egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference of calf less than eighteen inches.

The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in England. Fisker was, perhaps, not worthy of much thought. He had never read a book. He had never said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had sprung out of some Californian gully, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own audacity. But, such as he was, he had given the necessary impetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onward into almost unprecedented commercial greatness, thanks to the Mexican Railway. The great company had its own office, where the Board was held; but everything was really managed in Mr. Melmotte's offices at Abchurch Lane.
The enterprise had swung itself across from California to London, as a compass needle turns to the pole, till Mr. Fisker almost regretted the deed which he had done. And Melmotte was not only the head, but the body of it all. The shares seemed to be all in Melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would; and it seemed when sold, they came back to Melmotte's pocket. Men were content to buy shares simply on Melmotte's word.
Sir Felix had brought his winnings at cards to the great man, who had swept the money into his till, and had told Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir Felix was supremely happy. He could now do as Paul Montague was doing: get a perennial income, buying and selling. It was only after a day or two's reflection that he found that he had nothing yet to sell.
Sir Felix was just one among hundreds. In the meantime the bills in Grosvenor Square were no doubt paid - and these bills must have been stupendous. The very servants were as tall, gorgeous, and numerous as the servants of royalty.


And now there appeared a paragraph in the "Morning Breakfast Table," and another appeared in the "Evening Pulpit," telling the world that Mr. Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex property of Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq., of Caversham. And it was so. The father and son who never had agreed before, and who now had come to no agreement in the presence of each other, had each considered that their affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as Mr. Melmotte, and had been brought to terms. The purchase-money, which was large, was to be divided between them. The thing was done with the greatest ease,--there being no longer any delay as is the case when small people are at work. The magnificence of Mr. Melmotte affected even the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy a little property, some humble cottage with a garden,--or you, O reader, unless you be magnificent,--the money to the last farthing would be wanted, or security for the money more than sufficient, before we should be able to enter in upon our new home. But money was the very breath of Melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for money. Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London builder had collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at Chichester, and was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for Madame Melmotte. There were rumours that it was to be made ready for the Goodwood week, and that the Melmotte entertainment during that festival would rival the duke's.

And now there appeared a paragraph in the Morning Breakfast Table, and another in the Evening Pulpit, telling the world that Mr. Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex property of Adolphus Longestaffe. The purchase-money was to be divided between father and son. The thing was done with the greatest ease, for the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte affected even the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy some humble cottage, the money would be wanted to the last farthing before we should be able to enter our new home. But Melmotte's mere breath was taken for money. Pickering was his, and within a week a builder, with masons and carpenters, was at work upon the house.


But there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood week should come round in all of which Mr. Melmotte was concerned, and of much of which Mr. Melmotte was the very centre. A member for Westminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated. It was considered to be indispensable to the country that Mr. Melmotte should go into Parliament, and what constituency could such a man as Melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as Westminster does all the essences of the metropolis? There was the popular element, the fashionable element, the legislative element, the legal element, and the commercial element. Melmotte undoubtedly was the man for Westminster. His thorough popularity was evinced by testimony which perhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for any county or borough. In Westminster there must of course be a contest. A seat for Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by either political party without a struggle. But, at the beginning of the affair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate which the country could supply, each party put its hand upon Melmotte. And when the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested to Melmotte, then for the first time was that great man forced to descend from the altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decide whether he would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal. He was not long in convincing himself that the Conservative element in British Society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance which it would be in his province to give; and on the next day every hoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was the Conservative candidate for Westminster. It is needless to say that his committee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all that absence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous since the ballot was introduced among us. Some unfortunate Liberal was to be made to run against him, for the sake of the party; but the odds were ten to one on Melmotte.

But there was still much for Mr. Melmotte to do in London. The parliamentary seat for Westminster had fallen vacant, and it was considered vital to the country that Mr. Melmotte should go into Parliament. What constituency could be so fit as Westminster? When each party began to seek the most suitable candidate, each put its hand upon Melmotte. And that great man was forced to descend from the heights on which his mind dwelt, and to decide whether he would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal. The next day every hoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was the Conservative candidate for Westminster. Some unfortunate Liberal was to run against him; but the odds were ten to one on Melmotte.


This no doubt was a great matter,--this affair of the seat; but the dinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It was the middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on Monday, 8th July, now three weeks hence;--but all London was already talking of it. The great purport proposed was to show to the Emperor by this banquet what an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of course there was a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the occasion. Some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London, others that he was not a merchant, others again that he was not an Englishman. But no man could deny that he was both able and willing to spend the necessary money; and as this combination of ability and will was the chief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could only storm and scold. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work, throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generally transmuting the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion that two hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room of a British merchant.

This no doubt was a great matter; but the dinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It was now the middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on the 8th of July. The idea was to show the Emperor by this banquet what an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of course some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London, and not even an Englishman. But no one could deny that he was both able and willing to spend the necessary money. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work, knocking down walls, and generally transmuting the house in Grosvenor Square so that two hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room of a British merchant.


But who were to be the two hundred? It used to be the case that when a gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;--but when affairs become great, society can hardly be carried on after that simple fashion. The Emperor of China could not be made to sit at table without English royalty, and English royalty must know whom it has to meet,--must select at any rate some of its comrades. The minister of the day also had his candidates for the dinner,--in which arrangement there was however no private patronage, as the list was confined to the cabinet and their wives. The Prime Minister took some credit to himself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a private friend. But the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats. Melmotte had elected to stand for Westminster on the Conservative interest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were a Conservative cabinet present, with its Conservative wives. He was told that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment of the debt. But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. This was to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential that the Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants at the merchant's board. No doubt the Emperor would see all the merchants at the Guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair, paid for out of the funds of a corporation. This was to be a private dinner. Now the Lord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done? Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant guests were selected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen wives;--and subsequently the Lord Mayor was made a baronet on the occasion of receiving the Emperor in the city. The Emperor with his suite was twenty. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife. The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered at about eleven only;--each one for self and wife. Five ambassadors and five ambassadresses were to be asked. There were to be fifteen real merchants out of the city. Ten great peers,--with their peeresses,--were selected by the general committee of management. There were to be three wise men, two poets, three independent members of the House of Commons, two Royal Academicians, three editors of papers, an African traveller who had just come home, and a novelist;--but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come as bachelors. Three tickets were to be kept over for presentation to bores endowed with a power of making themselves absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment,--and ten were left for the giver of the feast and his own family and friends. It is often difficult to make things go smooth,--but almost all roughnesses may be smoothed at last with patience and care, and money and patronage.

But who were the two hundred guests to be? The Emperor of China could not sit at the table without English royalty. The list also included the Prime Minister, his cabinet and their wives. The Opposition desired their share of seats. As a Conservative candidate, Melmotte was advised that he must have Conservative members, with their wives; he owed it to his party.
But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. It was essential that the Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother-merchants at the dinner. Yet the Lord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done? Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; fifteen merchant guests were selected, with their fifteen wives - and the Lord Mayor was made a baronet.
The Emperor with his suite was twenty people. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife. The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but only eleven were coming. Five ambassadors were to be asked. There were the fifteen city merchants. Ten great peers, with their peeresses, were selected. There were to be three wise men, two poets, three independent members of the House of Commons, two Royal Academicians, three editors of papers - Mr. Alf, Mr. Broune and Mr. Booker; an African traveller who had just come home, and a novelist; but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come alone. Three tickets were kept for last-minute presentation - and ten were left for Melmotte and his own family and friends.


But the dinner was not to be all. Eight hundred additional tickets were to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fight for these was more internecine than for seats at the dinner. The dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a fashion that there was not much visible fighting about them. Royalty manages its affairs quietly. The existing Cabinet was existing, and though there were two or three members of it who could not have got themselves elected at a single unpolitical club in London, they had a right to their seats at Melmotte's table. What disappointed ambition there might be among Conservative candidates was never known to the public. Those gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public. The ambassadors of course were quiet, but we may be sure that the Minister from the United States was among the favoured five. The city bankers and bigwigs, as has been already said, were at first unwilling to be present, and therefore they who were not chosen could not afterwards express their displeasure. No grumbling was heard among the peers, and that which came from the peeresses floated down into the current of the great fight about the evening entertainment. The poet laureate was of course asked, and the second poet was as much a matter of course. Only two Academicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was no ground for jealousy there. There were three, and only three, specially insolent and specially disagreeable independent members of Parliament at that time in the House, and there was no difficulty in selecting them. The wise men were chosen by their age. Among editors of newspapers there was some ill-blood. That Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune should be selected was almost a matter of course. They were hated accordingly, but still this was expected. But why was Mr. Booker there? Was it because he had praised the Prime Minister's translation of Catullus? The African traveller chose himself by living through all his perils and coming home. A novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted another ticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to come in after dinner. His proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and he joined amicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festival altogether.

But the dinner was not all. Eight hundred additional tickets were to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fight for these was fiercer than for seats at the dinner.


We should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story were we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the feud as it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right to indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning passion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not be indulged. The value of the privilege was so great that Madame Melmotte thought that she was doing almost more than friendship called for when she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that unfortunately there would be no seat for her at the dinner-table; but that, as payment for her loss, she should receive an evening ticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. Georgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted the compromise. What she did with her tickets shall be hereafter told.

The value of the privilege was so great that Madame Melmotte thought that she was doing more than friendship called for when she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that unfortunately there would be no seat for her at the dinner; but that instead she should receive an evening ticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. Georgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted the compromise. What she did with her tickets shall be told later.


From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr. Melmotte of the present hour was a very different man from that Mr. Melmotte who was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle. Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without his being allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to catch a simple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfred when he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges. He was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the great man. It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the world the great man was perched at that moment. Miss Longestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how great a man her host was. Lady Monogram when she refused to go to Grosvenor Square, or even to allow any one to come out of the house in Grosvenor Square to her parties, was groping in outer darkness. Madame Melmotte did not know. Marie Melmotte did not know. The great man did not quite know himself where, from time to time, he was standing. But the world at large knew. The world knew that Mr. Melmotte was to be Member for Westminster, that Mr. Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China, that Mr. Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway in his pocket;--and the world worshipped Mr. Melmotte.

From all this it will be understood that Mr. Melmotte needed no manuvres now to catch a duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfred, when he was called by his Christian name, felt no aristocratic twinges, but was only too anxious to make himself necessary to the great man. The world worshipped Mr. Melmotte.


In the meantime Mr. Melmotte was much troubled about his private affairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this marriage,--not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand a year was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twenty thousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six months after the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum at once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept waiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish for them a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the young people were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a week or so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papers that Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides that Nidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money was not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then, at that time, Melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce, the very navel of the commercial enterprise of the world,--as all men now regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much less stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first to exact.

In the meantime Mr. Melmotte was much troubled about his private affairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this marriage. Fifteen thousand a year was to be settled on Marie and her first son, and twenty thousand pounds were to be paid to Nidderdale six months after the marriage. This delay, Melmotte said, was so that he could purchase and furnish for them a house in town. It was also said in the papers that the young people were to have Pickering Park; and that Nidderdale was doing very well for himself. The money was not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but at that time, Melmotte had not been the strong, impregnable tower of commerce, as all men now regarded him. Nidderdale and his father were content with the bargain.


But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented at her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no concern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, and himself fixed some day in August for the wedding. "It is no use, father, for I will never have him," said Marie.

But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented to accept the young lord, told both the young lord and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father scowled and told her that her mind was of no concern. She would marry Lord Nidderdale in August.
"It is no use, father, for I will never have him," said Marie.


"Is it about that other scamp?" he asked angrily.


"If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to you and told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue."

"If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him."


"You'll both starve, my lady; that's all." Marie however was not so wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as to be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to suffer if married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any long discussion. As he left her he took hold of her and shook her. "By ----," he said, "if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, not you, you little fool!"

"You'll both starve, my lady; that's all." And Melmotte took hold of her and shook her. "By -," he said, "if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a petticoat. He wants money, not you, you little fool!"


But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale spoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off;--and now the young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl. He was not very skilful at making love,--but he was thoroughly good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give pain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and hardly any kindness which he would not do,--so that the labour upon himself was not too great. "Well, Miss Melmotte," he said; "governors are stern beings: are they not?"

But she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale spoke to her. The young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl. He was not very skilful at making love, but he was thoroughly good-humoured, anxious to please, and averse to give pain.
"Well, Miss Melmotte," he said; "parents are stern beings: are they not?


"What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think you understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; I was indeed."


"I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale."


"That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and I can't marry without leave from the governors."

You know well enough that you and I can't marry without leave from them."


"Nor with it," said Marie, nodding her head.


"I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere,--I don't quite know where."--The hitch had been with himself, as he demanded ready money. "But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?"

"I don't know about that. There was some hitch somewhere. But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?"


"No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can."


"I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it. I have seen more of things since then."

"I do mean it. I knew nothing before. I have seen more of things since then."


"And you've seen somebody you like better than me?"


"I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought to blame me, my lord."


"There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn't it now?"

"It was you that withdrew first. Wasn't it now?"


"The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one."

"I don't think any father has a right to make anybody marry anyone."


"I agree with you there;--I do indeed," said Lord Nidderdale.

"I agree with you there," said Lord Nidderdale.


"And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal about it since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine."


"But I don't know why you shouldn't--just marry me--because you--like me."

"But I don't know why you shouldn't just marry me - because you - like me."


"Only,--just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale."


"I like you ever so,--only marrying a person is different."

"I like you ever so, Lord Nidderdale; only marrying a person is different."


"And I don't mind telling you," said Marie with an almost solemn expression on her countenance, "because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody else;--oh, so much."

"And I don't mind telling you," said Marie solemnly, "because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape, that I do like somebody else - oh, so much."


"It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think of it again?"

It's a deuced pity. We should have been awfully jolly. You couldn't think of it again?"


"Oh, ah;--yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket." And so Nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away,--not however without an idea that the marriage would still come off. There was always,--so he thought,--such a bother about things before they would get themselves fixed. This happened some days after Mr. Broune's proposal to Lady Carbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she might hear from him,--and entrusted her letter to Didon.

"Oh, ah; yes. It's an awful bore. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket." And so Nidderdale went away. This happened more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she might hear from him, and entrusted her letter to Didon.


Roger Carbury's half formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home while Lady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to the ground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hetta's yielding to his prayer. But he had in fact not made a prayer, and Hetta had certainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady Carbury started with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone. In the ordinary course of his life he was used to solitude. During the greater part of the year he would eat and drink and live without companionship; so that there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in this desertion. But on the present occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the loneliness of his lot in life. These cousins of his who were his guests cared nothing for him. Lady Carbury had come to his house simply that it might be useful to her; Sir Felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy; and Hetta herself, though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious through pity rather than love. On this day he had, in truth, asked her for nothing; but he had almost brought himself to think that she might give all that he wanted without asking. And yet, when he told her of the greatness of his love, and of its endurance, she was simply silent. When the carriage taking them to dinner went away down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling himself that there was nothing left for him in life.

That evening, Lady Carbury went to dine at Caversham with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone. He was used to solitude. For most of the year he would eat and drink and live without companionship; there was to him nothing particularly sad in it. But on this occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the loneliness of life.
His cousins cared nothing for him. Lady Carbury had come to his house simply because it might be useful to her; Sir Felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy; and Hetta herself was soft and gracious to him through pity rather than love. On this day he had almost brought himself to think that she might give all that he wanted without asking. And yet, when he told her of the greatness of his enduring love, she was simply silent. When the carriage took them away, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling himself that there was nothing left for him in life.


If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he valued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his mind exact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inward condemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to anyone the services he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hetta he had alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. But he felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed it to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought that if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should have retired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring himself to forgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that his friend had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and it was Paul Montague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at Carbury when Hetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of the house. He sat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on the table. Then he crept in and ate,--so that the man might not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in his hand seeming to read. But he read not a word, for his mind was fixed altogether on his cousin Hetta. "What a poor creature a man is," he said to himself, "who is not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling like this."

If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he valued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor exact. The more he considered it, the more strongly he condemned his friend. He had never mentioned to anyone the services he had given to Montague. But he felt that Montague had owed it to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; he should have retired as soon as he learned the truth. Roger could not bring himself to forgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that Montague had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over. Without Paul, Hetta might now have been mistress of Carbury.
He sat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on the table. Then he crept in and ate, so that the man might not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in his hand seeming to read. But he read not a word, for his mind was fixed on Hetta.
"What a poor creature a man is," he said to himself, "who is not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling like this."


At Caversham there was a very grand party,--as grand almost as a dinner party can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the bishop and his wife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and the parson's family, and the people staying in the house, made twenty-four at the dinner table. As there were fourteen ladies and only ten men, the banquet can hardly be said to have been very well arranged. But those things cannot be done in the country with the exactness which the appliances of London make easy; and then the Longestaffes, though they were decidedly people of fashion, were not famous for their excellence in arranging such matters. If aught, however, was lacking in exactness, it was made up in grandeur. There were three powdered footmen, and in that part of the country Lady Pomona alone was served after this fashion; and there was a very heavy butler, whose appearance of itself was sufficient to give clat to a family. The grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. It was not above once in the year that this kind of thing was done at Caversham; but when it was done, nothing was spared which could contribute to the magnificence of the fte. Lady Pomona and her two tall daughters standing up to receive the little Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat smaller scale, while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though ashamed of themselves, was a sight to see. Then the Carburys came, and then Mrs. Yeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly full; but nobody had a word to say. The bishop was generally a man of much conversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were well pleased with her listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on this occasion nobody could utter a word. Lord Loddon pottered about, making a feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. Lord Alfred stood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand. That much greater man, Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and was impassible. The bishop saw at a glance the hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. The master of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and then devoted his mind to expectation of the next comer. Lady Pomona and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb. In accordance with the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been entertained civilly for four entire days. It could not be expected that the ladies of Caversham should come forth unwearied after such a struggle.

At Caversham there was a very grand dinner party. There were the Earl and Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet, and the bishop and his wife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and the parson's family, and the people staying in the house, made twenty-four at the dinner table. There were three powdered footmen, unique to that part of the country; and a very heavy and imposing butler. The grand saloon was thrown open, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. This kind of thing was done at Caversham only once a year; but when it was done, nothing was spared which could add to its magnificence.
Lady Pomona and her two tall daughters stood up to receive the Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet. Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though ashamed of themselves. The grand room was soon fairly full; but nobody had a word to say. Lord Loddon pottered about, making a feeble attempt, while Lord Alfred stood stock-still stroking his grey moustache. Augustus Melmotte put his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and was impassive. The bishop saw at a glance the hopelessness of the occasion, and did not try to make conversation. Lady Pomona and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but dumb and weary after four days of civilly entertaining Madame Melmotte.


When dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie Melmotte. There can be no doubt but that the Caversham ladies did execute their part of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this arrangement would be desirable to the Melmottes, and they made it. The great Augustus himself went in with Lady Carbury, much to her satisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now, if ever, it would be her duty to exert herself. "I hope you like Suffolk," she said.

When dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie Melmotte. The great Augustus went in with Lady Carbury, much to her satisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now it would be her duty to talk.
"I hope you like Suffolk," she said.


"Pretty well, I thank you. Oh, yes;--very nice place for a little fresh air."

"Pretty well, I thank you. Very nice place for a little fresh air."


"Yes;--that's just it, Mr. Melmotte. When the summer comes one does long so to see the flowers."

"Yes; that's just it, Mr. Melmotte. When the summer comes one does long to see the flowers."


"We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here," said Mr. Melmotte.


"No doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world at large. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a London street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor Square."

"No doubt; because you can command the floral tribute of the world. Money can turn a London street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor Square."


"If you have got plenty of money, Mr. Melmotte."


"And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do you live in London, ma'am?" He had quite forgotten Lady Carbury even if he had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common to men, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to dinner.


"Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being entertained by you there." This she said with her sweetest smile.


"Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always just remember."

"Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always remember."


"How should you,--with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will remember."

"How should you - with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will remember."


"Yes; I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there, next to my daughter."


"I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness in that way now. They've got other things to think of."

"I don't know about that. Young men don't get their happiness in that way now. They've got other things to think of."


"He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr. Melmotte."


"Oh;--that's his business!" said Mr. Melmotte, with a grim smile.

"Oh; that's his business!" said Mr. Melmotte, with a grim smile.


Lady Carbury was very clever as to many things, and was not ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as to the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she saw the names in a catalogue. "I trust that he is diligent, there," she said; "and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in having the advantage of your counsel and guidance."

Lady Carbury was clever and well-informed about many things, but she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as to the duties of Directors. "I trust that he is diligent there," she said; "and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in having your counsel and guidance."


"He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much." After this Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's position in the city. She endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation; but she found Mr. Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while she had to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in favour of Protestantism at the bidding of the Caversham parson, who sat on the other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm by some mention of Father Barham's name.

"He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much."
Lady Carbury said no more about her son's position in the city. She tried to talk of other things; but she found Mr. Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while she had to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to the Caversham parson, who sat on her other side.


Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. "I have told mamma," Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. She was now full of the idea so common to girls who are engaged,--and as natural as it is common,--that she might tell everything to her lover.

Opposite her sat Sir Felix and his love. "I have told mamma," Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. She was now full of the idea that she might tell everything to her lover.


"Did she say anything?" he asked. Then Marie had to take her place and arrange her dress before she could reply to him. "As to her, I suppose it does not matter what she says, does it?"

"Did she say anything?" he asked. Marie had to take her place and arrange her dress before she could reply.


"She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not rich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear." So much she had been able to say during the bustle.


Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the subject very willingly. "Have you been riding?" he asked.

Felix changed the subject very willingly. "Have you been riding?" he asked.


"No; I don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is. How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?"

"No; I don't think there are horses here for visitors. How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?"


"None at all," said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. "I just rode home quietly. I go to town to-morrow."

"None at all," said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. "I just rode home quietly. I go to London tomorrow."


"And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long." This she said bringing her voice down to a whisper.

"And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long," she whispered.


"Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the city. Does he go every day?"


"Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him then. Lord Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they play cards. I think the city will be best."

"Oh yes. He's always back about seven. Sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him then. Lord Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they play cards. I think the city will be best."


"Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will ever turn me. I think papa knows that." Felix looked at her as she said this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had ever read there before. Perhaps she would consent to run away with him; and, if so, being the only child, she would certainly,--almost certainly,--be forgiven. But if he were to run away with her and marry her, and then find that she were not forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to starve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? Looking at the matter in all its bearings, considering among other things the trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could not afford to run away with her.

"Oh, yes; indeed I will. Nothing will ever turn me. I think papa knows that."
Felix looked at her as she said this, and thought that he saw more in her face than he had ever read there before. Perhaps she would consent to run away with him; and, if so, being the only child, she would certainly - almost certainly - be forgiven. But if he were to elope with her, and then find that she were not forgiven, where would he be then? Considering the trouble and the expense of it, he thought that he could not afford to run away with her.


After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the same big room in which they had been assembled before the feast,--seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation. Again nobody talked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there to take them all home. "They arranged that you should sit next to her," said Lady Carbury to her son, as they were in the carriage.

After dinner he hardly spoke to her. Indeed, nobody talked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there to take them all home.
"They arranged that you should sit next to her," said Lady Carbury to her son, in the carriage.


"Oh, I suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young woman, you know."


"Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it unless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melmotte. Oh, Felix! if you can bring it about."

"They would not have done that unless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melmotte. Oh, Felix! if you can bring it about."


"I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it."


"No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved beautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together. Good night, Felix, and God bless you!" she said again, as they were parting for the night. "I shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in England if this comes about."

"No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved beautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together. God bless you, Felix! I shall be the happiest and proudest mother in England if this comes about."


On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr. Alf's paper, the "Evening Pulpit," a very remarkable article on the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing more remarkable than in this,--that it left on the mind of its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed,--that in the "Evening Pulpit" was a matter of course,--and, above all things, ironical. Next to its omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to the "Evening Pulpit." There was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served Mr. Melmotte. There was a little praise, given of course in irony, to Mr. Melmotte's Board of English Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilising Mexico by joining it to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there was something said of the universality of Mr. Melmotte's commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercial splendour, no one could tell.

On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr. Alf's paper, the Evening Pulpit, a very remarkable article on the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. This article attracted a great deal of attention, but the most remarkable thing about it was that it expressed no opinion about the railway at all. The Editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become reality, or whether it should collapse amidst a horde of swindlers. The article was mysterious, amusing, well-informed, and above all ironical. Whether the writer thought the railway would be a failure or an unequalled success, no one could tell.


It was generally said at the clubs that Mr. Alf had written this article himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men possessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides Pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last forty years, professed that he saw through the article. The "Evening Pulpit" had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could in denouncing Mr. Melmotte without incurring the danger of an action for libel. Mr. Splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. These new publications generally were mean. Mr. Splinter was constant in that opinion; but, putting the meanness aside, he thought that the article was well done. According to his view it was intended to expose Mr. Melmotte and the railway. But the Paides Pallados generally did not agree with him. Under such an interpretation, what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted to men? Old Splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was not wit enough left now even among the Paides Pallados to understand a shaft of irony. There could be no doubt, however, at the time, that the world did not go with old Splinter, and that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise.

It was generally said that Mr. Alf had written this article himself. Some thought that the Evening Pulpit had wanted to go as far as it could in denouncing Mr. Melmotte without incurring the danger of being sued for libel. But other readers did not agree; and the article served to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise.


Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the railway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own advantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life. He was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was a Director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the great commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. And he was a baronet. Very wild ideas occurred to her. Should she take Mr. Alf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be brought together what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte, and Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she could flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she could construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands? And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with Marie, could not forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind ranged still farther. Mr. Broune might help, and even Mr. Booker. To such a one as Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken support of the Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway as to which Mr. Broune and Mr. Alf would combine in saying that it was managed by "divinity"? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but from day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself.

Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the railway, and took great joy in it. She had a somewhat confused notion that if she could only induce her son to open his eyes, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might become his handmaid and luxury his habit. He was the beloved of Marie Melmotte. He was a Director of this great company. He was the handsomest young man in London. And he was a baronet. Should she take Mr. Alf into her confidence? If he and Melmotte could be brought together, what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte, and Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would visit her and be smiled upon and flattered, would not the great man become putty under her hands? And if meanwhile, Felix ran away with Marie, could not forgiveness be made easy?
Her creative mind ranged still farther. Mr. Broune might help, and even Mr. Booker. To such a one as Melmotte, the support of the Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway which Mr. Broune and Mr. Alf both praised to the heavens? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but she worked hard to make them clear to herself.


On the Sunday afternoon Mr. Booker called on her and talked to her about the article. She did not say much to Mr. Booker as to her own connection with Mr. Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was essential in the present emergency. But she listened with all her ears. It was Mr. Booker's idea that the man was going "to make a spoon or spoil a horn." "You think him honest;--don't you?" asked Lady Carbury. Mr. Booker smiled and hesitated. "Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions."

On the Sunday afternoon Mr. Booker called and talked to her about the article. She prudently did not say much to Mr. Booker about her own connection with Melmotte, but she listened with all her ears.
"You think him honest, don't you?" she asked. Mr. Booker smiled and hesitated. "Of course, I mean as honest as men can be in such very large transactions."


"Perhaps that is the best way of putting it," said Mr. Booker.


"If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?"

"If a thing can be made a great boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?"


"At the expense of veracity?" suggested Mr. Booker.

"At the expense of truth?" suggested Mr. Booker.


"At the expense of anything?" rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. "One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule."


"You would do evil to produce good?" asked Mr. Booker.


"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."

"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are thirsty. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."


"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."


"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. "Did I hold your place, Mr. Booker, in the literature of my country,--"

"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady Carbury, picking her words carefully. "If I held your distinguished place, Mr. Booker,


"Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this."

I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this."


"I should be dismissed to-morrow," said Mr. Booker, getting up and laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as regarded Mr. Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr. Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular Tuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them. She had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham, telling him that on a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did for him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation.

"I should be dismissed tomorrow," said Mr. Booker, laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that she had only thrown out a word that could not do any harm. On the Tuesday evening - her regular Tuesday - all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man. She had taken the bull by the horns, and had written a very pretty note to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence.


The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate wing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "Pulpit." Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte's undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. "Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady. The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte's guests.

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him gracefully under her wing. She said a word about their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not allow him to be there, and then boldly brought up the article in the Pulpit. Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of his undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something inaudible.
"Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady. When she did, Mr. Alf explained that he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte's guests.


"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see," said Mr. Melmotte.

"There were a great many there I never saw," said Mr. Melmotte.


"I was one of the unfortunates," said Mr. Alf.


"I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me."

"If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me."


"Ah,--if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

"Ah - if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. His irony was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.


Lady Carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. "Mr. Melmotte," she said, whispering to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr. Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Broune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And they declare, you know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, "that his commercial articles are gospel,--absolutely gospel." Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing.

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this introduction, tried another.
"Mr. Melmotte," she whispered to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune, who manages the Breakfast Table. There is hardly a more influential man in London." The two men were introduced to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated; but not out of hearing.


"It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June."

"It was over 70 in the city today. I call that very hot for June."


"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was over. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune. Then the conversation was over, and Mr. Broune sidled away. Lady Carbury told herself that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks. Perseverance, however, was needed.


But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. "It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--very good." Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. "And I came," continued Mr. Melmotte, "because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. "My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man."

But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say before he left the house.
"It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury; very good. And I came because I had something particular to say. Your son has proposed to my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes, and clasped her hands together. "My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man.


"You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?"


"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board."

I won't give her a shilling if she marries anyone else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board."


"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.

"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll tell my daughter that he withdraws from his offer, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte departed without another word.


Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world! Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and disinterested.

Here was a promise by the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him! There was much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr. Melmotte's city influences. But the wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! The young people would have nothing before them but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled. Her beautiful boy - so glorious, so fit for all the graces of the grand world!


But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? His daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; but would he not make the best of the marriage if it took place? His daughter would return to him with a title, though a lower one than his ambition desired.


She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes. His advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on Mr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf. She had almost begun to think that Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But Mr. Broune was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend. Mr. Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old goose" was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. "Hetta," she said, "I have something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune." And so they were left alone.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend whom she might consult. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even if he had been there she could not have consulted him about the Melmottes. Dear Roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which had been good in its way; but which had now passed on.
Then her eye settled on Mr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf, who was proving difficult to manage. But Mr. Broune was softer. He had been very courteous to her lately - so much so that she had almost feared that he was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use of his susceptibility. When her guests began to leave, she spoke to him, saying she wanted his advice. Would he stay behind for a few minutes?
He did, and she asked her daughter to leave them.


"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said smiling. He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. "I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man."

"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said, smiling. He had seated himself close to her arm-chair. In reply, he shook his head and laughed.
"I was sorry for it," said Lady Carbury, "for he certainly is a wonderful man."


"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little, I said less."

"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie in conversation. Though, indeed, if he said little, I said less."


"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."

"It didn't come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."


"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.


She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord. "Stupid old goose!" she said to herself. "And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?" The editor nodded his head. "He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again. "Stupid old goose!" she thought; and then said, "You know my boy, Felix? He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."


"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?" Then Lady Carbury nodded her head. "Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."

"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte? I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."


"She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her." She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but lying had become her nature. "Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny."

"She is desperately in love with Felix, as is he with her. Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny."


"Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?"

"Do you mean that he volunteered that, as a threat?"


"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it."

"Just so. It was more candid than civil.


"He would be sure to make some such threat."


"Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."

In these days young people are not often stopped from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But he also told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."


"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.


"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?"


"Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."


"Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving."


"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him."

"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway, so is connected to him."


"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."

"Sir Felix's name was put there merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought Felix would not interfere. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."


"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that."


"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?"

"You think he should marry the girl then, in spite of the father?"


Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply. She wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an elopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time. "Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong?"

Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied. But Lady Carbury wanted someone to support her in her view of an elopement.
"Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong?"


"That is a question very hard to answer."

"That is very hard to answer," said Mr. Broune.


"People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."


"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion."

"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. You know it is said that Lady Julia's mother arranged the elopement herself, as the safest way of securing the young man and his fortune.


"I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--I think he would."

Nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards - I think he would."


"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance."

"And I feel certain that you should not depend on that promise of assistance in the City."


"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you," said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. "You have been so very kind." Then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night.

"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you," said Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. "You have been so very kind." She gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell.


"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."


Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's Acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made without any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and remained hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market. An early hour had been named; but hours may be mistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was her lover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well mistake the afternoon for the morning. If he would come at all she could easily forgive such a mistake. But he did not come, and late in the afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he called her into the house.

Sir Felix Carbury agreed to meet Ruby Ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden of Sheep's Acre farm. He made this appointment without any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and hung about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from Harlestone market. She thought that a fine London gentleman like her lover might well be late. But he did not come, and she was obliged at last to go into the house.


After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover, but she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible. One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and told her that her country lover was coming to see her. "John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man. "See and have a bit o' supper ready for him."

After that for three weeks she heard nothing of him, but she was always thinking of him; and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible.
One afternoon her grandfather told her that her country lover was coming to see her.
"John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man. "See and have a bit o' supper ready for him."


"John Crumb coming here, grandfather? He's welcome to stay away then, for me."

"John Crumb? He's welcome to stay away, for me."


"That be dommed." The old man thrust his old hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well understood by Ruby. "Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband? Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this. John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said."

"That be dommed." The old man thrust his hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair by the kitchen-fire. Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, as Ruby knew. "Why not welcome? Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an end o' this. John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said."


"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his saying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm willing."

"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop him. But no parson can marry me without I'm willing."


"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?"


He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;--nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which she was well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. "Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "out o' this place you go. If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay."

He turned round sharp, and threw his old hat at her. She picked it up, and returned it to him with cool indifference.
"Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "if you go from here as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner, and a dance, and all Bungay."


"Who cares for all Bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."

"Who cares for all Bungay - beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."


"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life." And the old farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon the table.

"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life." And the old farmer rattled his fist upon the table.


"It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb. I knows him."


"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise?"

"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye promise?"


"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and I shan't be the last."

"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word."


"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,--for you won't have me."

"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, for you won't have me."


"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather."


"Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings."

"Very well. John Crumb's a coming here tonight, and you may settle it along wi' him. I know of your doings."


"What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. You don't know nothing ag'in me."


"He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and the dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he ain't."

"If you can make it up wi' him, well and good.


"Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait."


"Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you don't. If you don't like to take it,--leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too."

There's five hun'erd pound, and if you don't like to take it - leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too."


"Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the stoopidest place in all England."


"Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind. I'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. Stoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's Acre, afore you've done."

"Stoopid, is it? Then find another. If Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, you'd best find another home."


In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr. Crumb, Miss Ruggles went about her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her grandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's house. But as she did this, she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. Upon that she was now fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among them. And she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the meal-man, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely a lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other! "It's no good going against love," she said to herself, "and I won't try. He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me." And then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. She would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of Sheep's Acre.

Miss Ruggles prepared supper for John Crumb; she knew that she owed that service to her grandfather. But she determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife. As she went about the kitchen, cutting slices of ham, and trussing the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could see the mealy, floury head of the one, his hair stiff with dust, and the sweet glossy well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was always longing to twine her fingers among them.
And she remembered the heavy, flat, honest face of the meal-man, with his slowly-moving mouth, and his broad white nose, and his great staring eyes; and then she remembered the white teeth, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely even one year of Paradise with him would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other!
"It's no good going against love," she said to herself. "He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me." And with this resolution she popped the fowl into the pot. Her grandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. She knew how to take care of herself.


Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John Crumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did he come alone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man at his marriage. John Crumb's character was not without many fine attributes. He could earn money,--and having earned it could spend and keep it in fair proportion. He was afraid of no work, and,--to give him his due,--was afraid of no man. He was honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. He was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all forms of expression. He knew good meal from bad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair profit at the selling. He knew the value of a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in truth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all Bungay. His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her acknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light under a bushel. Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted. Now when he came to settle the day,--having heard more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,--he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. "If here isn't Joe Mixet," said Ruby to herself. "Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb? There's no end to his being stoopid."

At seven o'clock John Crumb knocked at the door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the baker of Bungay, who was to be his best man at his wedding. John Crumb had many fine attributes. He was not afraid of work, nor of any man, and he was honest. After his fashion he had chivalrous ideas: he was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman.
But Ruby had told the truth in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to expressing himself. Joe Mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that anyone taking John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was probably right; but there had been a lack of worldly wisdom in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip. He was proud of Ruby's beauty, and of his status as her lover; and he did not hide it. Now, when he came to settle the wedding day - having heard that there was a difficulty with Ruby - he brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph.