But the two young lords would not agree to this. "If you must go this very minute I'll meet you at the train with the money," said Nidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Of course he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair was one of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day? Then Herr Vossner came from his bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and Mr. Grendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due by the lords, but he was afraid that he had not money at his banker's sufficient for the greater claim. It was well understood that Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr. Grendall unless others would pledge themselves for the amount.

But the two young lords would not agree to this.
"If you must go I'll meet you at the train with the money," said Nidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Of course he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair was of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day?
Then Herr Vossner came from his bed, in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and Mr. Grendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due from Nidderdale and Grasslough, but he was afraid that he had not money at his bank sufficient for the greatest sum. It was known that Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr. Grendall unless others would guarantee it.


"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America," said Miles Grendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in the same boat with the lords.

"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America," said Miles Grendall.


"Just so. My partner, Montague, will tell you the address." Then bustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of Paul, shaking hands with them all round, and looking as though he cared nothing for the money, he took his leave. "One cheer for the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway," he said as he went out of the room.

"Just so. Montague will tell you the address." Then, shaking hands all round, he took his leave.


Not one there had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. He smoked his cigar after a fashion different from theirs, and spat upon the carpet. He said "my lord" too often, and grated their prejudices equally whether he treated them with familiarity or deference. But he had behaved well about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly. Sir Felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay a stranger with documents which, by tacit contract, were held to be good among themselves. But there was no use now in going back to that. Something must be done.

No one there had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. He spat upon the carpet. He said "my lord" too often. But he had behaved well about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly. Sir Felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay a stranger with their I.O.U.s. But there was no use now in going back to that. Something must be done.


"Vossner must get the money," said Nidderdale. "Let's have him up again."


"I don't think it's my fault," said Miles. "Of course no one thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way."

"I don't think it's my fault," said Miles. "Of course no one expected to be called upon in this way."


"Why shouldn't you be called upon?" said Carbury. "You acknowledge that you owe the money."


"I think Carbury ought to have paid it," said Grasslough.


"Grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you had lost it? I don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket;--nor do you!"

"Grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? I don't walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket - nor do you!"


"It's no good jawing," said Nidderdale; "let's get the money." Then Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be allowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing in I.O.U.'s, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He, the impecunious one,--the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute want of credit,--sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache.

"It's no good jawing," said Nidderdale; "let's get the money." Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be allowed. He had only lately come among them, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the debts of Miles Grendall. He, the impecunious one, sat silent, stroking his moustache.


There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner 450 at the end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German produced 322 10_s._ in notes and gold. This had taken some considerable time. Then a cup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which Nidderdale, with Montague, started off to meet Fisker at the railway station. "It'll only be a trifle over 100 each," said Nidderdale, in the cab.

There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay Herr Vossner 450 at the end of three months; and in return for this the German produced 322 10s. in notes and gold. Then a cup of tea was swallowed; after which Nidderdale and Montague set off to meet Fisker at the railway station.
"It'll only be a trifle over 100 each," said Nidderdale, in the cab.


"That 'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right for you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!"

"That'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. Poor Miles!"


They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and greatcoats with silk linings. "We've brought you the tin," said Nidderdale, accosting him on the platform.

They found Fisker on the platform. "We've brought you the tin," said Nidderdale.


"Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle."


"A man should always have his money when he wins."


"We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord."


"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up,--when we can. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant." Fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and between the American and the lord;--and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco. "He's not half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman," said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.

"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up, when we can." Fresh adieus were made, and then Fisker was taken off.
"He's not a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman," said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.


When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her son,--not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his nightly attendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of his fortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the cool effrontery with which Felix had spoken,--for without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking,--and had seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a woman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner. But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would accept in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, how glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference!

When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her son - expecting him to have gone to the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained to tell her of his fortune. She had watched the whispering, and without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking - and had seen the girl's timid face, eyes turned to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied.
As a woman who had herself been wooed, she had greatly disapproved of her son's manner. Yet if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would accept in return for his money a title as modest as her son's, how glorious should Felix be to her!

Chapter 12: Sir Felix in his Mother's House


"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went," said Henrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom.

"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went," said Henrietta.


"He might have stayed to-night. Do you think he asked her?"

"He might have stayed tonight. Do you think he asked her?


"I should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. I feel sure he did,--and that she accepted him."

I feel sure he did - and that she accepted him."


"If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her."


"Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? A girl need not be odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about her."

"Why shouldn't he love her as well as anyone else? There is nothing disagreeable about her."


"No,--nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especially attractive."

"No. I do not know that she is especially attractive."


"Who is? I don't see anybody specially attractive. It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix."

"Who is? It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix."


"Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up."

"You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up."


"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with 20,000 a-year!"

"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with 20,000 a year!"


"If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be happy."


"You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles."


Then Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury absolutely sat up the whole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear his tidings. She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she sat opposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of false hair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. She could hide the unwelcome approach by art,--hide it more completely than can most women of her age; but, there it was, stealing on her with short grey hairs over her ears and around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by unobjectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion of herself which practice had made always possible to her in company, though it now so frequently deserted her when she was alone.

Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury sat up the whole night waiting for her son. She went up to her room, took off her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she sat before her mirror, she acknowledged that age was coming on her. She could hide the unwelcome approach by art; but there it was, stealing on her with grey hairs around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion which practice had always made possible in company, though it now frequently deserted her when she was alone.


But she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing old. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future,--never reached but always coming. She, however, had not looked for happiness to love and loveliness, and need not therefore be disappointed on that score. She had never really determined what it was that might make her happy,--having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame, in which was ever commingled solicitude respecting money. But at the present moment her great fears and her great hopes were centred on her son. She would not care how grey might be her hair, or how savage might be Mr. Alf, if her Felix were to marry this heiress. On the other hand, nothing that pearl-powder or the "Morning Breakfast Table" could do would avail anything, unless he could be extricated from the ruin that now surrounded him. So she went down into the dining-room, that she might be sure to hear the key in the door, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand.

But she was not unhappy because she was growing old. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future - never reached but always coming. She had never really determined what might make her happy - having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame, mixed with anxiety about money. But at present her great fears and hopes were centred on her son. She went down into the dining-room, where she would hear the key in the door, and waited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand.


Unfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been duly called about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full staring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him to the door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become again comfortable. She could not keep her mind to her book, and while she was awake the time seemed to be everlasting. And then it was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these! Why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be so indispensable to his great project, for the chance of winning something which in comparison with Marie Melmotte's money must be despicable! But at last he came! She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door. She had studied her part for the occasion. She would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile. "Mother," he said, "you up at this hour!" His face was flushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait. She had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her if such should be his condition.

Unfortunate woman! she might as well have gone to bed, for it was past eight when Felix's cab brought him to the door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing. While she was awake the time seemed everlasting. It was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at these hours! Why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, and the little money which he needed for his great project!
But at last he came. She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door. She had rehearsed her part. She would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile.
"Mother," he said, "you up at this hour!" His face was flushed, and she thought that he was unsteady. She had never seen him tipsy; it would be doubly terrible to her if that were so.


"I could not go to bed till I had seen you."

"I could not go to bed till I had seen you," she said.


"Why not? why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by-and-bye."

"Why not? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by-and-by."


"Matter;--what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among the fellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should."

"Matter - what should be the matter? There's been a row among the fellows at the club; that's all. I had to tell Grasslough my mind, and he didn't like it.


"There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?"


"What, duelling; oh no,--nothing so exciting as that. Whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up."


"Nothing particular." And he stood with his hand on the door as he answered her.

"Nothing particular." He stood with his hand on the door.


"Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think that a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?"

"Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?"


"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had been drinking. She could smell it in his breath.

"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She could smell the drink in his breath.


"I must go to the old fellow, of course."


"As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means to settle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me." Pulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother's hold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs.

"As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he will settle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me." Pulling himself away with some roughness, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs.


Then the heiress herself had accepted her son! If so, surely the thing might be done. Lady Carbury recalled to mind her old conviction that a daughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent in a contention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. But then the girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover. In this case, however, there was as yet no reason for supposing that the great man would object. As far as outward signs went, the great man had shown some partiality for her son. No doubt it was Mr. Melmotte who had made Sir Felix a director of the great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received in Grosvenor Square. And then Sir Felix was Sir Felix,--a real baronet. Mr. Melmotte had no doubt endeavoured to catch this and that lord; but, failing a lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet? Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him an acceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as Mr. Melmotte;--not money in the funds, not a real fortune, not so many thousands a-year that could be settled;--the man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary;--but such a one as Mr. Melmotte would not like outward palpable signs of immediate poverty. There should be means enough for present sleekness and present luxury. He must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the means of making presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, most fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if he went on gambling Chance would certainly take it all away again. For aught that the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so already. And then again, it was indispensable that he should abandon the habit of play--at any rate for the present, while his prospects depended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmotte. Of course such a one as Mr. Melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the City. Why, with such a preceptor to help him, should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or among the brokers, or in the purlieus of the Bank? Lady Carbury would at any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as director of the Great Mexican Railway,--which position ought to be the beginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own account. But what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes be over with Mr. Melmotte should he ever learn that his daughter's lover reached home and tumbled up-stairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning?

Then the heiress had accepted her son! If so, surely the thing might be done. But to beat a hard-hearted parent in an argument about marriage, a girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover.
However, there was no reason for supposing that Mr. Melmotte would object. He had shown some partiality for her son, in making him a director of the great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received in Grosvenor Square. And then he was a real baronet. If Mr. Melmotte had failed to catch a lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet?
Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him acceptable to Mr. Melmotte; not a real fortune - the man's own enormous wealth made this unnecessary - but Melmotte would not like outward signs of poverty. There should be means enough for sleekness and luxury. Felix must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and above all the means of giving presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if he went on gambling Chance would certainly take it all away again. For all that the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so already.
He must abandon the habit of play - at any rate while his prospects depended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmotte. Such a one as Mr. Melmotte would not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the City. Why should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or among the brokers? Lady Carbury would at any rate urge him to be diligent in his position as director of the Great Mexican Railway. But what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes be over if Mr. Melmotte should ever learn that his daughter's lover tumbled upstairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning?


She watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at once on the subject.

She watched for Felix's appearance at breakfast on the following day, and began at once on the subject.


"Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for Whitsuntide."


"To Carbury Manor!" said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which the cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. "I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more."

"To Carbury Manor!" said he. "I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more."


"I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object."


"Oh; I didn't know. I thought that perhaps she mightn't like it."


"I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't give way to her."


"No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we should all go."


"Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at Carbury Manor?"

"What on earth should I do at Carbury Manor?" demanded Felix.


"Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to Caversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend."


"Explains what, Felix?" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly Longestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visit to Caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that delightful young heir.

"Explains what, Felix?" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly Longestaffe, and feared that he might also have some matrimonial purpose in reference to Miss Melmotte's visit.


"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to have that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!"

"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to buy that for himself. There's some bother because Dolly won't join his father in selling it. So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!"


"And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England."


"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; and why shouldn't we run down to the family place?"

"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide."


"All very natural if you can manage it, mother."


"If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and night," said Felix.


His mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously made.


It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta Carbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that duty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against herself,--the offence against her own dignity as a woman,--was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her ears from any other source. Had he said to her,--when her heart was softest towards him,--I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;--had he told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening for anger. And he doubtless would have so told it, had not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly. He was then forced to exculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,--and to admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and which had already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. It was that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,--a journey as to which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacy worse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what that meant. And during this very hour he had been,--well, perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to her, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make her understand that he intended to make love to her. Of course they had really understood it, since they had met at Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself to dance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen times. Of course she had not intended him then to know that she would receive his love with favour; but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it. She had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this very time was spending his hours with a--woman, with a strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain from telling him that everything must be over between them? Everybody was against him,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that she had not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A wretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her that a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a creature;--but that he should have come to her with a second tale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;--perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first! Of course she could not forgive him! No;--she would never forgive him. She would break her heart for him. That was a matter of course; but she would never forgive him. She knew well what it was that her mother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with Montague she would force her also into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken. She would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man. As she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;--for though she was altogether in accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those iniquities.

Hetta Carbury was very miserable after she decided that she had to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against her dignity as a woman was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her ears from another source. If he had said to her, I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so - you may be sure that she would not have been angry.
But he had been forced to confess rather than tell his own story, and to admit facts which had been concealed. It was that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy, and had been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there; and meanwhile had been behaving to herself in a manner which implied love for her. She had told herself that her heart was given away to this man; and yet he was spending his hours with a strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? She would never forgive him. She would break her heart for him.
She knew well what her mother wanted. Her mother thought that a quarrel with Montague would force her into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her mother would find out that she was mistaken. Hetta would never marry her cousin, though she would always acknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man.


Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which Paul had given her! It had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her,--to her dying day,--the one precious thing that had been given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must be sent back;--and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration of affection. She had given her answer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personal correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.

With what slow fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its case the brooch which Paul had given her! It had been his only present to her. Now it must be sent back; and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced by such a demonstration of affection. As she would have no further personal correspondence with Paul Montague, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.


"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing else?"


"No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him,--without a word. You won't say anything,--will you, mamma?"

"No, mamma; nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him - without a word."


"There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understand you."


"I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that."


"He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning," said Lady Carbury.

"He has behaved very, very badly, from the beginning," said Lady Carbury.


But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards! "It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more."

But Hetta certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her - only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards!
"It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more."


"He is quite unworthy," said Lady Carbury.


"I can't bear to--have him--abused," said Hetta sobbing.

"I can't bear to - have him - abused," said Hetta, sobbing.


"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time. But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once."

"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. But you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once."


"Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say any more."


"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of course you must be married."

"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it. Of course you must be married."


"Of course you must be married," continued Lady Carbury, "and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune."


"Yes,--to Mr. Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr. Broune told me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--your cousin and Mr. Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out of London,--probably abroad."

"Yes; I had to pay a sum for Felix. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep this house. And they tell me - your cousin and Mr. Broune - that it is my duty to take Felix out of London, probably abroad."


"It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!"

"Perhaps that may not be necessary. What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!"


"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of me always as though I were a burden?"


"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want."

"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you - if you will only yield in ever so little - you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother."


"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?"


"Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown nonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger."

"Why not? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger."


"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. "Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly,--and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite--quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse." Then, without waiting for a reply she left the room and betook herself to her own apartment.

"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. "Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly - and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. I shall never marry anyone. If you won't take me with you, I must stay behind and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse." Without waiting for a reply she left the room.


Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the opportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the other lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter,--as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--in order that her child might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. Deep as was the sorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. If there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet she, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! At the present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny.

Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her child, so that she might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums. If there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet she believed that she delighted in romantic poetry!
At present she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her destiny.


In these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and of her own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seen or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy had been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played at being friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks,--since she had refused his offer,--they had really learned to know each other. In the exquisite misery of her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. There was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had told her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The consequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for she told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And, on that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune in her back room, she told him of both occurrences. "If the girl has got the money--," she began, regretting her son's obstinacy.

In these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and of her own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him than she ever had before. Previously their intimacy had been fictitious; they had played at being friends, knowing little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks since she had refused his offer, they had really learned to know each other. In her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. There was no longer any flattery between them.
In consequence she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize.
It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And, on that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune, she told him of both occurrences.
"If the girl has got the money-" she began.


"I don't believe a bit of it," said Broune. "From all that I can hear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that way. I would not have anything to do with it."

"I don't believe it," said Broune. "I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers. I would not have anything to do with it."


"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?"


"A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested." It was now between nine and ten in the evening. "But as I came away from my room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to stand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property."

"He will have to stand trial for forgery, without a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property."


"What an extraordinary career it has been!"


"Yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by his reckless personal expenditure."

"Yes, the strangest thing that has come up in our days.


"Because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his competitors."

He thought that he could conquer the world, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too."


"Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet."


"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her."


"Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side, and I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his." Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that even Melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in want of assistance as her son. "At any rate do not think of it any more." Then she told him her grief about Hetta. "Ah, there," said he, "I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion."

"Certainly. I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his."
Lady Carbury shook her head. Then she told him her grief about Hetta.
"Ah, there," said he, "I feel less able to express an opinion."


"He doesn't owe a shilling," said Lady Carbury, "and he is really a fine gentleman."


"Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love."


"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense."


"Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the ground like this Mr. Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight since we all thought him the greatest man in London." Mr. Broune only smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never held that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.

"Yes; and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it."


On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr. Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of indifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the room she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probably willingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American woman. But now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were or were not such as she ought to accept.

On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying undiscovered on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr. Montague had delivered it.
She put it aside with assumed indifference. But as soon as the girl had left the room she seized her treasure. She opened it, and ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking whether the excuses made by her lover were such as she ought to accept.


I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before I had ever seen you, and that I have certainly never wavered in my determination since I saw you. I can with safety refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so determined, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.

I think you have been most unjust to me. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and then I had no opportunity to tell you till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that I could not marry her before I had ever seen you, and that I have never wavered in my determination. I can refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so decided, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.


If I understand it all right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs. Hurtle since I so determined. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. You may blame me for that if you please,--though it cannot have been a fault against you. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to refuse? I think that that would have been unkind. It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.

If I understand it right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs. Hurtle since then. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to refuse? It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.


She asked me to renew my engagement. I am bound to tell you that, but I know in telling you that it will go no farther. I declined, telling her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been anger and sorrow,--anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded. As far as she was concerned my trouble was over,--except in so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to me,--when, on a sudden, I found that the story had reached you in such a form as to make you determined to quarrel with me!

She asked me to renew my engagement. I declined, telling her that I intended to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been anger and sorrow - anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded.


Of course you do not know it all, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me,--or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.

Of course you do not know all the story, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me - or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.


I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know what I am writing, and take first one outrageous idea into my head and then another. My love for you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you, now that you have once owned that you have loved me. I cannot think it possible that love, such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't. I don't think it is natural that we should be parted.

I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know what I am writing. My love for you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you. I cannot think it possible that your love could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't.


If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs. Hurtle. Anything is better than that we both should be broken-hearted.

If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs. Hurtle. Anything is better than that we should both be broken-hearted.


Sir Felix, when he promised to meet Ruby at the Music Hall on the Tuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte for New York on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool on the Wednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy himself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor little Ruby. The details of his journey were settled between him and Marie, with no inconsiderable assistance from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor Square, on the previous Sunday,--where the lovers had again met during the hours of morning service. Sir Felix had been astonished at the completion of the preparations which had been made. "Mind you go by the 5 P.M. train," Marie said. "That will take you into Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station. Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to have one cabin between us. You must get yours to-morrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room."

Sir Felix was to start with Marie Melmotte for New York on the Thursday, and to go down to Liverpool on the Wednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy himself to the last by seeing Ruby. The details of his journey had been settled between him and Marie, with help from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor Square. Sir Felix had been astonished at the completeness of the preparations.
"Mind you go by the 5 p.m. train," Marie said. "That will take you into Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station. Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to share a cabin. You must get yours tomorrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room."

Chapter 49: Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready


"Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure to suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We leave at 7 A.M. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. Robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?"

"Pray don't miss that train. We leave at 7 a.m. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. Robert will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?"


"Yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. Think of that! What a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and Madame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but I shall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all my jewels. I'm not going to leave them behind. They'll go off in our cab. We can get the things out behind the house into the mews. Then Didon and I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near nine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted."

"My wedding dresses. Think of that! What a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and the shop in Mount Street! And I shall have all my jewels. They'll go in our cab, then Didon and I follow in another cab. Nobody is ever up before nine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted."


"I don't think they'd tell. But if I was to be brought back again, I should only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent me marrying."


"She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if she knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be like that."--And she looked up into his face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be.

"I don't think she'd tell if she knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix, I hope you won't be like that." She looked into his face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be.


"I'm all right," said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the time. This great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been a pleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the great heiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed,--and executed after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wished that he had not undertaken it. It must have been much nicer when men ran away with their heiresses only as far as Gretna Green. And even Goldsheiner with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison with this which he was expected to perform. And then if they should be wrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented. He did repent, but he had not the courage to recede. "How about money though?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm all right," said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable. This great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been a pleasurable excitement in talking about running away with the heiress, but now that the deed had to be done, he almost wished that he had not undertaken it. And then if they should be wrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented, but he had not the courage to withdraw.
"How about money though?" he said hoarsely.


"I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and not a shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not let me have it back."

"I have only the two hundred pounds which your father paid me. I don't see why he should keep my money."


"Look here," said Marie, and she put her hand into her pocket. "I told you I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets."

"Look here," said Marie. "There is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets."


"And whose is this?" said Felix, taking the bit of paper with much trepidation.


"It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the house and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't." Felix looked at the cheque and saw that it was payable to House or Bearer, and that it was signed by Augustus Melmotte. "If you take it to the bank you'll get the money," said Marie. "Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on board the ship?"

"It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to pay for things, but she gets so muddled that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't." Felix saw that the cheque was payable to House or Bearer, and was signed by Augustus Melmotte. "If you take it to the bank you'll get the money," said Marie. "Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on board the ship?"


Felix thought over the matter very anxiously. If he did go on the journey he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. He liked the feeling of having money in his pocket. Perhaps if Didon were entrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. But then might it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself he might be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money? "I think Didon had better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me to-morrow, at four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club." If the money did not come he would not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the expense of his ticket for New York. "You see," he said, "I'm so much in the City that they might know me at the bank." To this arrangement Marie assented and took back the cheque. "And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning," he said, "without looking for you."

Felix thought this over very anxiously. He would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. But if he presented the cheque himself, might he be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money?
"I think Didon had better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me tomorrow afternoon, to the club." If the money did not come he would not go down to Liverpool. "You see," he said, "I'm so much in the City that they might know me at the bank. And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning without looking for you."


"Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till we are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you think? Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman on board. I wonder whether he'd marry us."

"Oh dear, yes. And don't know us till we are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we are walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix; Didon has found that there is to be an American clergyman on board. I wonder whether he'd marry us.


"Won't that be jolly? I wish it was all done. Then, directly it's done, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? Of course he'll make the best of it."

Won't that be jolly? Then, when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and be penitent and good. Of course he'll make the best of it."


"When there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. But I don't think he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything;--misfortunes and all. Things go wrong so often that if he was to go on thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. It'll be all right in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see him. He never can say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged, but it was he broke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!" Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so. As to what the other man had done, he cared nothing at all.

"Just for the moment. But I don't think he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything. Things go wrong so often that he can't go on thinking of them for ever. It'll be all right in a month. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged, he never once kissed me!" Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so.


Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each other again till they met on board the boat. All arrangements were made. But Felix was determined that he would not stir in the matter unless Didon brought him the full sum of 250; and he almost thought, and indeed hoped, that she would not. Either she would be suspected at the bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the money on her own account when she got it;--or the cheque would have been missed and the payment stopped. Some accident would occur, and then he would be able to recede from his undertaking. He would do nothing till after Monday afternoon.

Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each other again till they met on the boat. But Felix was determined that he would not stir unless Didon brought him the 250; and he almost hoped that she would not. Either she would be stopped at the bank, or she would run off with the money. Then he would be able to withdraw. He would do nothing till after Monday afternoon.


Should he tell his mother that he was going? His mother had clearly recommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approve of the measure. His mother would understand how great would be the expense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stock of money. He determined that he would tell his mother;--that is, if Didon should bring him full change for the cheque.

Should he tell his mother that he was going? She had recommended him to run away with the girl, and must approve. She would understand the great expense of such a trip, and might perhaps give him some money. He determined that he would tell his mother, if Didon brought him the full amount for the cheque.


He walked into the Beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the Monday, and there he found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank within him as he saw her. Now must he certainly go to New York. She made him a little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft and fat with rich enclosures. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a little waiting-room counted the notes. The money was all there;--the full sum of 250. He must certainly go to New York. "C'est tout en rgle?" said Didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. Sir Felix nodded his head, and Didon took her departure.

He walked into the Beargarden at four o'clock on the Monday, and found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank. She made him a little curtsey, and handed him a fat envelope. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a side room counted the notes. The money was all there. Now he must certainly go to New York.
"It is all in order?" whispered Didon when he returned. Sir Felix nodded, and she departed.


Yes; he must go now. He had Melmotte's money in his pocket, and was therefore bound to run away with Melmotte's daughter. It was a great trouble to him as he reflected that Melmotte had more of his money than he had of Melmotte's. And now how should he dispose of his time before he went? Gambling was too dangerous. Even he felt that. Where would he be were he to lose his ready money? He would dine that night at the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. On the Tuesday he would take his place for New York in the City, and would spend the evening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start for Liverpool,--according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that he had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well nobody would know that. All the fellows would give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America.

Yes; he must go. How should he dispose of his time before he went? Gambling was too dangerous: even he felt that. He would dine that night at the club, and in the evening go to his mother. On the Tuesday he would book his place for New York, and would spend the evening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start for Liverpool, according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that he had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well, all the fellows would give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America.


At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck Street--"What; Felix?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.

At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck Street.
"What; Felix?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.


"You're surprised; are you not?" Then he threw himself into a chair. "Mother," he said, "would you mind coming into the other room?" Lady Carbury of course went with him. "I've got something to tell you," he said.

"Mother," he said, "would you mind coming into the other room?" Lady Carbury followed him. "I've got something to tell you," he said.


"Good news?" she asked, clasping her hands together. From his manner she thought that it was good news. Money had in some way come into his hands,--or at any rate a prospect of money.


"That's as may be," he said, and then he paused.


"The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie off."


"You said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore I'm going to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing."

"You said it was the right thing to do - so I'm going to do it. But one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing."


"Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. I've had it in my mind for the last fortnight."


"And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed."


"It was your own idea, you know. We're going to;--where do you think?"


"You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn't have done at all for us. We're going to--New York."


"To New York! But when will you be married?"


"There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't go without telling you."


"Come now;--that's kind. You don't mean to say it wasn't you that put me up to it. I've got to get my things ready."


"Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?"

"I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?"


"For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?" He attempted to laugh. "When I spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling."

"For New York! Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?


"I am going to take your advice." This was dreadful to the poor mother. "There is money settled on her."


"On Marie;--money which he can't get back again."

Marie; money which he can't get back again."


"She doesn't know;--but a great deal; enough for them all to live upon if things went amiss with them."


"But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to give to her husband."

"But the money can't be her own, Felix."


"Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the pull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for me about money, mother?"

"Melmotte will find that it is. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than anyone would think. What can you do for me about money, mother?"


"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it."


"That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't 20 at the bank altogether."

"That's not true, Felix. Oh, I am so sorry I ever said that! I have no money in the bank."


"They would let you overdraw for 50 or 60."


"I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but I have not money to give you."

"I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some clothes for you, and pay for them if you cannot - but I have no money to give you."


"That's a blue look out," said he, turning himself in his chair,--"just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."

"That's a blue look out," said he, "just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."


"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have some money?"

"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in such a trip as this. You have some money?"


"Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me." Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque for 30, although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker's.

"Some; yes. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me."
Before the evening was over she gave him a cheque for 30.


After this he went back to his club, although he himself understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. "Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."

Then he went back to his club, even though he understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together.
"Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."


"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix. "I hate three-handed loo."


"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together." Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. "By-the-bye, Grendall,--look here." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a petition that some of the I. O. U.'s might be converted into cash.

"I don't think I'll play tonight, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together."
Miles sat silently smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike of playing with him.
"By-the-bye, Grendall." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a request that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into cash.


"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.

"I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.


"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and standing with his back to the fire-place. There were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a glass of brandy on re-entering the club.

"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and speaking so that everyone in the room should hear. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had just taken a glass of brandy.


"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."

"Don't let's have that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."


"Of course," said Miles. "I won't say a word about the matter down here. It isn't the proper thing."


"Come up into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix, getting up from his chair. "It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say." But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had anything to say, he could say it.

"Come into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix. "Come up, now; and Dolly shall come and hear what you say."
But Miles objected. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play.


"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly. "One has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club."


"He likes a row,--Carbury does," said Miles.


"I should like my money, if I could get it," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.

"I should like my money," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.


On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. This was done after a little hesitation. The money was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. "Dear, dear;" said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York. Of course he would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his last night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her she could not blame him.

On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. A gentleman behind the desk begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account.
"Dear, dear," said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes. "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he decided that since she had broken her appointment everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her, she could not blame him.


Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his club. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but the payments punctual. The I. O. U.'s had been nearly all converted into money,--with the assistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those of Miles Grendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him the determination of the committee. "Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this." Miles had declared that he would "stump up." But on this occasion Miles was absent.

He went back to his club very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he had an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the usual men - except Miles. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. Ready money was on the table; indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of I.O.U.'s, and they had been nearly all converted into money, excepting those of Miles Grendall. The committee had decided to take no more I.O.U.s.


At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.


But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New York without delay.

But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had left the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and had gone on to New York without delay.


Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any rate with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation turned naturally to Mr. Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes almost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two propositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her residence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir Felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should take possession of Carbury manor for six months. "And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.

Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable about her son that she was unable to be as active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had returned to Suffolk; so in need of assistance and consolation she turned naturally to Mr. Broune. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury every day. She told him of Roger's proposals: first, that she should take Sir Felix abroad to live in some second-rate French or German town, and, secondly, that she should live at Carbury manor for six months.
"And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.


"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to." Mr. Broune shook his head. Mr. Broune did not think that an offer so quixotically generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies. "That he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the mean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. He had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet the world. "As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."

"There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to."
Mr. Broune shook his head. He did not think that an offer so quixotically generous should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether it was worth the sacrifice. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies.
"So that he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune.
Sir Felix was still in the doctor's hands upstairs. There was not in truth much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. At present, however, he preferred to be an invalid rather than to meet the world.
"As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."


"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but it was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still means to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth about it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something." The "we" of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the "Morning Breakfast Table."

"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor today on some charge of fraud; but it was postponed. And I was told Nidderdale still means to marry the girl."


But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to "ask himself;" and she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written account of Mrs. Hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:--

In all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition. She received two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had not met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving her convinced that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction.
Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment - with not a word that suggested the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; but now she did not know how to answer it. Roger had told her to "ask Paul himself." So she wrote to Paul, as follows:


She found that after that which had passed between them she could not call him "My dear Sir," or "My dear Mr. Montague," and that it must either be "Sir" or "My dear Paul." He was dear to her,--very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul,"--but she made her choice, and so commenced.

(Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul.")


A strange report has come round to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But I fear,--I fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell me. He said,--"Ask himself." And so I ask you. Of course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about this. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.

A strange report has come to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid. But I fear there is something true that will be very sad for me to hear. I first heard it from my brother, and I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all, but he will not tell me. And so I ask you. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.


Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration which must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribed herself,


"Most affectionately your own Hetta" would have been the form in which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written to him.


Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a second or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong against such written communications. A man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs. Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--"Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to you." And then he and his beloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying up to London.

Paul received this letter at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that he needed to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back - almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. When he was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But a man hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And a writer cannot show tenderness by tone of voice. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying to London.


He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then, up-stairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it with her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would not again accept her lover till this story of Mrs. Hurtle had been sifted to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room and suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather see Mr. Montague herself. Felix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.

He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury.
Upstairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, with her mother's consent. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say. Felix, who was there, suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf; but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather go herself. Felix did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.


When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his arms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she had prepared herself for it. "Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this--first." She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found himself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her.

When she entered the parlour Paul stepped forward to take her in his arms. She had prepared herself for this.
"Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this first." She sat down at some distance from him.


"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.


"Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."

"Yes. Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."


"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think your brother is as well informed."

"Oh yes; Roger knows the whole history. I don't think your brother is as well informed."


"Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?"

"Perhaps not. But - isn't it a story that - concerns me?"


"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."

"Certainly you ought to know it, Hetta. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."


"I will believe anything that you will tell me."


"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."

"Well, then, I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."


"Is she a widow?"--He did not answer this at once. "I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."

"Is she a widow? I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."


"Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced."

"Yes; she is a widow. She was divorced."


Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."

Montague did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."


"Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.

"Oh, certainly. But if you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.