"Get up, you wiper," said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. "You sholl get up," said John, taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. "Now, Ruby, he's a-going to have it," said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first attracted John Crumb's notice.

"Get up, you viper," said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. "You sholl get up," said John, lifting him by his collar. "Now, Ruby, he's a-going to have it." Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice, much more loudly than before.


Chapter 71: John Crumb Falls into Trouble


"Don't hit a man when he's down," said the baronet, pleading as though for his life.

"Don't hit a man when he's down," pleaded the baronet.


"I wunt," said John;--"but I'll hit a fellow when 'un's up." Sir Felix was little more than a child in the man's arms. John Crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left arm,--getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school,--struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing or caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a feature. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms. "He's about got enough of it," said John Crumb as he gave over his work. Then Sir Felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully. "I know'd he'd have to have it," said John Crumb.

"I wunt," said John; "but I'll hit a fellow when he's up." He raised Sir Felix as if he were a child, and catching him round the neck with his left arm, struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms.
"He's about got enough of it," said John Crumb as Sir Felix fell to the ground, moaning fearfully.


Ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And now the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which she made to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. It was in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been done before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. And John, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word against Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by her denunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards, he had "dropped into the baro-nite" just in time, and, having been successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such an operation necessary.

Ruby's screams of course brought the police. And now the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in her complaints to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was bitter in her denunciations of John Crumb. It was in vain that John endeavoured to make them understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow.
Sir Felix himself could say nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. And John would not say a word against Ruby. Having successfully "dropped into the baro-nite", he was not even angered by her denunciations of himself.


There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other persons,--cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the pavements to the poor-house wards. They all took part against John Crumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her young man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed his eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he had better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he was "so mashed and mauled" that she was sure he would never "come to" again. A precocious youth remarked that he was "all one as a dead 'un." A cabman observed that he had "'ad it awful 'eavy." To all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he did not much care whither.

There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other persons, who all took part against John Crumb. Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and thought that he had better be taken straight to hospital. One lady remarked that he was "so mashed and mauled" that she was sure he would never "come to" again. Sir Felix himself asked to be carried away somewhere, though he did not care whither.


At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. They had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felix was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable to Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave,--not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood,--and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. He was the offender;--for aught that any of them yet knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.

At last the policemen decided upon a course of action. They had learned Sir Felix's identity from Ruby and Crumb. He was to be carried in a cab to Bartholomew Hospital by one constable, who would then take his address. Ruby should be conducted to the address she gave. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. He was the offender; no one said a good word for him. He made no objection, buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.


Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs. Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover,--who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. But from Mrs. Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes;--the girl lived there and was--respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's name was given. "I'm John Crumb of Bungay," said he, "and I ain't afeared of nothin' nor nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I ain't. Mauled 'un! In course I've mauled 'un. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is engaged to be my wife."

Thus the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs. Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud with complaints against John Crumb. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment.
But from Mrs. Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes; the girl lived there and was respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl's improper lover.
John Crumb's name was given. "I'm John Crumb of Bungay," said he, "and I ain't afeared of nothin' nor nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking. In course I mauled 'un. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is engaged to be my wife."


"Well then, I never will," rejoined Ruby.


John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his heart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance how it all was, but that Mr. Crumb had better come along with him,--just for the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay made not the slightest objection.

John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his heart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw how it all was, but that Mr. Crumb had better come along with him, just for the present. To this arrangement he made no objection.


"Miss Ruggles," said Mrs. Hurtle, "if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom."

"Miss Ruggles," said Mrs. Hurtle, "if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you have no heart."


"Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. He's been and killed Sir Felix." Mrs. Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs. Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the three women all went to bed.

"Indeed and I have, and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. He's killed Sir Felix."
Mrs. Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs. Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that he had. After that the three women went to bed.


The next day there was great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm, which communicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and even affected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor. Ruby Ruggles had gone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmer became aware of the fact. She had started early, at about seven in the morning; but Ruggles himself had been out long before that, and had not condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house for his breakfast. There had been a bad scene up in the bedroom overnight, after John Crumb had left the farm. The old man in his anger had tried to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would not go; and he had been frightened, when the maid came up crying and screaming murder. "You'll be out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name's Dannel Ruggles," said the farmer panting for breath. But for the gin which he had taken he would hardly have struck her;--but he had struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about;--and in the morning she took him at his word and was away. About twelve he heard from the servant girl that she had gone. She had packed a box and had started up the road carrying the box herself. "Grandfather says I'm to go, and I'm gone," she had said to the girl. At the first cottage she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and to Beccles she had walked. For an hour or two Ruggles sat, quiet, within the house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased with herself,--that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth he would trouble himself no more about her. But by degrees there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear, with perhaps some mixture of love, instigating him to make search for her. She had been the same to him as a child, and what would people say of him if he allowed her to depart from him after this fashion? Then he remembered his violence the night before, and the fact that the servant girl had heard if she had not seen it. He could not drop his responsibility in regard to Ruby, even if he would. So, as a first step, he sent in a message to John Crumb, at Bungay, to tell him that Ruby Ruggles had gone off with a box to Beccles. John Crumb went open-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knew that Ruby Ruggles had run away.

The next day there was great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm. Ruby Ruggles had gone away. The old farmer learnt of this from the servant girl at about noon. Ruby had left at seven in the morning; but Ruggles had not asked for her when he had his breakfast. There had been a bad scene up in the bedroom overnight, after John Crumb had left the farm. The old man in his anger had tried to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would not go; and the maid came up crying and screaming murder.
"You'll be out tomorrow as sure as my name's Dannel Ruggles," said the farmer, panting for breath. He had been drinking gin, and he struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about: and in the morning she took him at his word, packed a box and went. At the first cottage, she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and she had walked.
For an hour or two Ruggles sat quietly, telling himself that he was well rid of her, and that he would trouble himself no more about her. But by degrees there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear. She had been like a child to him, and what would people say if he allowed her to depart like this? Then he remembered his violence the night before, which the servant girl had heard. He could not drop his responsibility for Ruby. So he sent a message to John Crumb, to tell him that Ruby Ruggles had gone off with a box to Beccles. John Crumb went open-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knew that Ruby Ruggles had run away.

Chapter 34: Ruby Ruggles Obeys her Grandfather


After sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking, and at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. He held a part of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury would tell him what he ought to do. A great trouble had come upon him. He would fain have been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his terrors all were at work together,--and he found that he could not eat his dinner. So he had out his cart and horse and drove himself off to Carbury Hall.

After sending his message the old man sat thinking, and at last made up his mind to go to his landlord. Roger Carbury would tell him what he ought to do. His conscience and his heart and his terrors were all at work together, and he could not eat his dinner. So he drove himself off to Carbury Hall.


It was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated on the terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham, the priest. The old man was shown at once round into the garden, and was not long in telling his story. There had been words between him and his granddaughter about her lover. Her lover had been accepted and had come to the farm to claim his bride. Ruby had behaved very badly. The old man made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little as possible of his own violence. But he did explain that there had been threats used when Ruby refused to take the man, and that Ruby had, this day, taken herself off.

He found the squire seated on the terrace with Father Barham, the priest. The old man was not long in telling his story. He made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little as possible of his own violence. But he did explain that there had been threats used, and that Ruby had taken herself off.


"I always thought it was settled they were to be man and wife," said Roger.

"I thought it was settled they were to marry," said Roger.


"It was settled, squoire;--and he war to have five hun'erd pound down;--money as I'd saved myself. Drat the jade."


"She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else." Then old Daniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of a secret. The squire got up and walked round the garden with him,--and then the secret was told. The farmer was of opinion that there was something between the girl and Sir Felix. Sir Felix some weeks since had been seen near the farm and on the same occasion Ruby had been observed at some little distance from the house with her best clothes on.

"She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else." Old Daniel paused, and shook his head. Roger took him aside; and at last the secret was told. The farmer thought there was something between the girl and Sir Felix, who had been seen near the farm; and on the same occasion Ruby had been observed away from the house with her best clothes on.


"He's been so little here, Daniel," said the squire.


"It goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does," said the farmer. "Girls like Ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one such as that, though they'll fall-lall with a man like John Crumb for years."

"Girls like Ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one such as that," said the farmer.


"Don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;--only she have gone some'eres. May be it's Lowestoffe. There's lots of quality at Lowestoffe a' washing theyselves in the sea."

"Don't know, squoire; maybe it's Lowestoffe."


Then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be cognisant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on such an occasion as this. "If she was one of our people," said Father Barham, "we should have her back quick enough."

They returned to the priest. "If she was one of our people," said Father Barham, "we should have her back quick enough."


"Would ye now?" said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and all his family had been brought up as Roman Catholics.


"I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we have," said Carbury.


"She'd catch herself. Wherever she might be she'd go to the priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way back to her friends."

"She'd catch herself. Wherever she might be she'd go to the priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her back with her friends."


"With a flea in her lug," suggested the farmer.

"With a flea in her ear," suggested the farmer.


"Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last thing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as a friend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look for sympathy."

"Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last thing they'd think of. But with us the poor know where to look for sympathy."


"She ain't that poor, neither," said the grandfather.


"I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor. And I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. It never was her way."

"And I don't think as our Ruby'd go to any clergyman. It never was her way."


"It never is the way with a Protestant," said the priest.


"We'll say no more about that for the present," said Roger, who was waxing wroth with the priest. That a man should be fond of his own religion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think that Father Barham was too fond of his religion. "What had we better do? I suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. There are not so many people leaving Beccles but that she may be remembered." So the waggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the station together.

"We'll say no more about that now," said Roger, who was growing annoyed. "I suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway station. Not many people leave Beccles, so she may be remembered." He ordered the carriage so that they could go to the station together.


But before they started John Crumb rode up to the door. He had gone at once to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had followed the farmer from thence to Carbury. Now he found the squire and the priest and the old man standing around as the horses were being put to the carriage. "Ye ain't a' found her, Mr. Ruggles, ha' ye?" he asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

But before they started John Crumb rode up. "Ye ain't a' found her, Mr. Ruggles?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.


"If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr. Carbury, I'd never forgive myself,--never," said Crumb.

"If she was to come to harm, Mr. Carbury, I'd never forgive myself," said Crumb.


"As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend," said the squire.


"In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there last night a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' been left alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over to Sheep's Acre. But,--oh!"

"It is and it ain't. I was over there last night a bothering of her. She'd a' come round maybe, if she'd a' been left alone. But - oh!"


"He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk, I've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronite has been and done this! Oh, Mr. Carbury! If I was to wring his neck round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now?" Roger could hardly answer the question. On general grounds the wringing of Sir Felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a performance have been what it might, would have seemed to him to be a good deed. The world would be better, according to his thinking, with Sir Felix out of it than in it. But still the young man was his cousin and a Carbury, and to such a one as John Crumb he was bound to defend any member of his family as far as he might be defensible. "They says as how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hiding himself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all. They've gals enough of their own,--them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;--if he's had a hand in this." Poor John Crumb! When he had his mistress to win he could find no words for himself; but was obliged to take an eloquent baker with him to talk for him. Now in his anger he could talk freely enough.

"He's a cousin o' yours, squoire; and I've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronite has done this! Oh, Mr. Carbury! If I was to wring his neck, you wouldn't say as I was wrong; would ye?"
Roger could hardly answer the question. On general grounds the wringing of Sir Felix's neck seemed a good idea. The world would be better with Sir Felix out of it. But still the young man was his cousin and a Carbury, and he was bound to defend him.
"They says as how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a skulking behind hedges. They've gals enough of their own, them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? If I learn as he did it, I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull." Poor John Crumb! In his anger he could talk freely enough.


"But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do with this, Mr. Crumb."


"In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as he did it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned!"-- And John Crumb clenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for him upon this occasion.


They all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the Beccles post office,--so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as Bungay. At the railway station Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken a second-class ticket by the morning train for London, and had gone off without any appearance of secrecy. She had been decently dressed, with a hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have been expected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going. So much was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could be learned there. Then a message was sent by telegraph to the station in London, and they all waited, loitering about the post office, for a reply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl as was described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her box for her to a cab had gone away for the day. It was believed that she had left the station in a four-wheel cab. "I'll be arter her. I'll be arter her at once," said John Crumb. But there was no train till night, and Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do any good. It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first step towards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body of Sir Felix Carbury. Now it was not at all apparent to the squire that his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. It had been made quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his granddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not because she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of her refusing to marry John Crumb. John Crumb had gone over to the farm expecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been no fear about Felix Carbury. Nor was it possible that there should have been communication between Ruby and Felix since the quarrel at the farm. Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and the baronet had been acquainted,--and such acquaintance could not but be prejudicial to the girl,--not on that account would the baronet be responsible for her abduction. John Crumb was thirsting for blood and was not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter out coolly, and Roger, little as he loved his cousin, was not desirous that all Suffolk should know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed within an inch of his life by John Crumb of Bungay. "I'll tell you what I'll do," said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder. "I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can trace her better than Mr. Crumb can do, and you will both trust me."

They all went to the Beccles Station, where Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken a second-class ticket on the train for London, and had gone off without any appearance of secrecy. She had been wearing a hat and cloak, and had some luggage; but nothing more could be learned.
Then they went to the post office to send a message by telegraph to the station in London, and waited for a reply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl, but the man who had carried her box to a cab had gone away for the day.
"I'll be arter her at once," said John Crumb. But there was no train till night, and Roger Carbury doubted whether his going would do any good. Crumb evidently felt that the first step towards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in Sir Felix Carbury's body.
Now it was not clear to the squire that his cousin had anything to do with this affair. The old man had quarrelled with his granddaughter not because she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but because she had refused to marry John Crumb. When John Crumb had gone over to the farm to arrange it all, there had been no fear about Felix Carbury. Nor could Ruby have communicated with Felix since the quarrel at the farm.
Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and the baronet had met, the baronet had not abducted her. John Crumb was thirsting for blood, and Roger, little as he loved his cousin, did not wish all Suffolk to know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed by John Crumb of Bungay.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder. "I'll go up myself by the first train tomorrow. I can trace her better than Mr. Crumb can do, and you will both trust me."


"There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon," said the old man.


"But you'll let us know the very truth," said John Crumb. Roger Carbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know the truth. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover returned together to Bungay.

"But you'll let us know the truth," said John Crumb. Roger Carbury made an indiscreet promise of this. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover returned together to Bungay.


Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably felt but little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He had spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and had attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had always contrived "to carry on the game." He had eaten and drunk, had gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion considered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept up till now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all things. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up all his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a little roll of Mr. Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps to a couple of hundred pounds,--and Mr. Melmotte owed him 600. But where was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually he learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool,--how Marie had gone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's money had been repaid to Mr. Melmotte by Mr. Broune, and how his failure to make the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to his club. He could not go to Melmotte's house. He was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day. He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,--nor was she willing to yield as she had yielded.

Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had suffered little from his own shortcomings. He had spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had lost friendships and made no new ones; he had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister. Yet he had eaten and drunk, gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally like a young man about town.
But now an end seemed to have come. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, and a little roll of Miles Grendall's I.O.U.s, amounting to a couple of hundred pounds - and Mr. Melmotte owed him 600. But what was he to do with himself?
Gradually he learned the story of Marie's journey to Liverpool and back, how Marie's money had been repaid by Mr. Broune, and how his own failure to go to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to his club, or to show himself in the streets. He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant marriage had broken down, and he had to depend on her for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn; nor was she willing to yield as before.

Chapter 67: Sir Felix Protects his Sister


One thing only was clear to him. He must realise his possessions. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To the former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time, and he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of 200;--but that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter Mr. Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr. Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger, or to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr. Melmotte that there was a sum of 600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent to him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the house in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum claimed,--insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. The clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known,--and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,--but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took them;--and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--the scrip had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,--or, more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident.

One thing was clear to him. He must get his money. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte - making no mention of Marie, but merely asking for the amounts due to him. Mr. Grendall sent him no answer whatever. And Melmotte's answer was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the house, and handed Felix a scrip in the Railway to the amount claimed, explaining that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed a receipt and took the scrip.
This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known, and the shares in the railway were very low indeed. When Sir Felix hurried off into the City he found that they might be worth about half the money due to him. The broker said they might recover; or, more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident.


But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink. He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him. Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.

But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the lack of amusement. He did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed; he could eat and drink, smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him. Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.


Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs. Pipkin told her that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as she, Mrs. Pipkin, chose. "Am I to be a slave?" Ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. Then Mrs. Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While she was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and asked for her at the door. It happened that Mrs. Pipkin herself had opened the door,--and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was in the house. But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for Mrs. Hurtle, or for John Crumb,--or for any person or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs. Hurtle had asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that he "supposed he might as well some day." "There," said Ruby, "there!"--shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs. Pipkin had been very weak. Instead of calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal. "There must be an end of this," said Mrs. Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. "You must not come here, Sir Felix," said Mrs. Pipkin, "unless you puts it in writing." To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realised the money for the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months,--and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity.

Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been angry and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Mrs. Pipkin told her that she was free to go, but that if she did, she was not free to return. Then Mrs. Hurtle talked to her, and poor Ruby was quelled by the American lady's superior strength. But she was very unhappy. John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit after all, or he would have come to look after her.
At this point Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and asked for Ruby at the door. Mrs. Pipkin denied that she was there. But Ruby heard her lover's voice, and rushed up and threw herself into his arms. She swore that she didn't care for her aunt, or for John Crumb, or for anything: only for her lover.
Mrs. Hurtle asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix said that he "supposed he might as well some day."
"There," shouted Ruby in triumph, "there!"
Mrs. Pipkin weakly allowed the lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room; but when the half-hour was over, she said, "There must be an end of this. You must not come here, Sir Felix, unless you puts your intentions in writing."
To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps when he had realised the money for the shares he would take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months; which seemed almost an eternity.


That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words,--thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her. And she,--as she had told him that she loved him,--would be true to him through everything! In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. "I promised to give you a message," she said.

Before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words; yet tinting her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her.
She gave Felix a short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. "I promised to give you a message."


"But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you."

"But I must tell you what she said. I think that she really loves you.


"But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her."


"She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."

She wants you to let her know what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."


"How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter."


"Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?"


"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her."

"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men. All of you here put me up to marry her."


"Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her."

"Mother did. And now because it did not go off, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her."


"Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague." Hetta blushed, but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. "I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington."

"I dare say. Other men are just as bad as I am - and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague." Hetta blushed, but said nothing. "I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington."


"Mr. Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe it."

"Mr. Montague - engaged - to an American widow! I don't believe it."


"You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it."

"You'd better believe it, for it's true. He travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it."


"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,--or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. "Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?"

"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though she felt faint, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke, or trick. "Felix, how dare you say such wicked things to me?"


"What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. There," said he, "that's where she is;"--and he wrote Mrs. Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.

"Wicked? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging in Islington. There," said he, "that's where she is;" and he wrote Mrs. Hurtle's name and address down on a scrap of paper.


"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. "I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way."

"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat. "I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way."


"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," said Felix, jumping up. "If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington."


"I do not believe it," said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment.


"By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you."

"Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true?"


"Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it,--and has seen the woman."

"He will. He knows all about it, and has seen the woman.


"I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her."

By heaven! Master Paul shall answer to me. But my mother will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her."


"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife?

"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. She sat upon her bed and cried. Yet why should the man have come to her, asking her hand in marriage, if the tale were really true?


Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs. Hurtle. Mrs. Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and Mrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of its details,--not quite with all,--had come round to Lady Carbury's ears. "What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you."

At dinner all sat silent. Soon afterwards Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles.
Then Lady Carbury again attacked her daughter. Felix had told her what he had learned from Ruby, who had seen Paul Montague at the house, and knew that he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. Mrs. Pipkin had said they were engaged.
"What Felix has told you, my dear, is true.


"He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house."


"I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?"

"I do not know, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him will you believe what he says?"


"Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him."


"But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented."

"Why not? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true - that the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented."


"Satisfied that what we tell you is true."


"I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but it can't be that."


The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the whole story. "If," she said, "you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me." Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague's life? "You know," she said, "what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,--and also yourself."

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though her daughter's agony pained her. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that Roger might succeed. That night before she went to bed she wrote to him.
"If," she said, "you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me. You know what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us - and also yourself."


Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day,--good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could now be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been secured. Now there might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the villany of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved against him,--which might come to certain proof in less august circumstances,--matters would hardly be pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! So many persons would then be concerned! Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nidderdale.

Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day. If he were the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe: charges would hardly be pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! But he had not yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nidderdale.


There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the manner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned,--but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the House? But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become as it were a Conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still. The new farthing newspaper, "The Mob," was already putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. "The Mob" thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. I do not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in "The Mob;" but in practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds.

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to how Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate, the party had intended that his election - if he were elected - should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph. He was elected, but the trumpets had not yet sounded. The party had suddenly become ashamed of their man.
But there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become a Conservative man of the people. The new farthing newspaper, The Mob, was putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, calling him a Napoleon of the business world who might be forgiven certain irregularities. The Mob thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover his sins.


Mr. Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the unfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary way in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make themselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this would suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmotte would raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves. It would have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves,--as a suggestion,--and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,--as they believed,--with other papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of Longestaffe senior. But if the money could be paid, that would set everything right. Squercum evidently thought that the money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. On the receipt by Mr. Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt reply Mr. Squercum was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr. Squercum replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.

Mr. Melmotte, therefore, was able to hold his head higher than on the unfortunate night of the banquet. He had replied to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile with a note, in which he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery; and they hoped to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum. If Melmotte raised the money, there was no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature.
But still the money had not been paid. Squercum charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. He was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr. Squercum replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.


But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain degree recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his money,--and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was no crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly from either? And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these days! But they who had expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived.

In this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation, and Melmotte had partly recovered his position. It was pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his money; but there was no crime in that. The Longestaffes, father and son, had probably been very foolish. And Slow and Bideawhile might have been remiss in their duty. But those who had expected to see Melmotte behind bars by now felt that they had been deceived.


Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political ally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, no such popular Conservative offered his services. "I don't think we ought to throw him over," Mr. Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought, quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was very intimate with Mr. Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was not the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and everybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had territorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anything there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else would do it. "It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton," said Mr. Beauclerk. "Not at all," said Lupton; "but I also, like Nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too bashful." Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the House at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears,--that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew that he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here again fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an apostle and an expounder,--who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude,--he happened to be entering the House, as his late host was claiming from the door-keeper the fruition of his privilege. "You had better let me accompany you," said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his party! When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had been proved to be altogether false. Was not this a guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

It would normally have been the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to introduce Melmotte to the House. But no popular Conservative offered his services. It was suggested that Lord Nidderdale might do it; but though he was a good fellow, he never did anything in Parliament.
Melmotte, who knew little about it, went down to the House at four o'clock, carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears. He knew that he was a Member, and he would assume his right. But fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party happened to be entering the House at the same time.
"You had better let me accompany you," said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his party! Was not this a guarantee of the man's respectability?


Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte should be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he did not believe the rumours. He was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. "Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it," said the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld Reekie.

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt about his son's marriage to Marie. He was aware of the ruin that would follow if the rumours about Melmotte proved to be true. But he did not believe the rumours, though he was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage took place.
"Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it," said the father. Cure was the family lawyer.


"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir," said the son.


"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done till the parson has said the word."

"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns."


"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?" suggested the son.

"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred, could you, sir?" suggested the son.


"No, I couldn't," replied the father with a very determined aspect.


"So am I." Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after sitting there ten minutes went away home.


Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and went to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full of news. "You've heard it, I suppose," said Miles in an awful whisper.

Lord Nidderdale went to the Beargarden, where he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table.
"You've heard it, I suppose," said Miles in an awful whisper.


"I believe he doesn't know!" said Lord Grasslough. "By Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others."


"Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner has bolted!"


"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was just going to eat his soup.

"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping his spoon.


"Bolted," repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the features of all the dining members. "Bolted by George! He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called 'Flatfleece.'"

"Bolted," repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay worn by all the members. "He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' called Flatfleece."


"I know him," said Nidderdale shaking his head.


"I should think so," said Miles ruefully.


"A bottle of champagne!" said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house. "Good G----," exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendall shook his head. Grasslough shook his head.

"A bottle of champagne!" He appealed to the waiter in almost a humble voice. The waiter whispered the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house.
"Good G___," exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. The others shook their heads.


[Illustration: "Not a bottle of champagne in the house."]


"It's true," said another young lord from the table on the other side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle of July.


"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had been already consumed. "Send out and get some brandy," said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded.

"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had already been consumed. "Send out and get some brandy," said Nidderdale; but he had to take silver from his pocket before it could be done.


Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not to Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece. Mr. Flatfleece had spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this moment Dolly Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heard the story,--but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. "Here's a go," said Dolly. "One thing atop of another! There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left."

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. And the numerous I.O.U.s written by the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece.
At this moment Dolly Longestaffe came in, having heard the story.
"Here's a go," he said. "One thing atop of another! Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale?


"Had to send round the corner for it, to the public."


"We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?"


"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale. "He's all right I think."

"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale. "He's all right, I think."


"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about 1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink 1,500 in less than six months!"

"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece showed me notes of mine for about 1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink 1,500 in less than six months!"


"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly," said Lord Grasslough.


"He's paid some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.

"It's some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.


"I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U.'s while that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?" Nidderdale said that he did think so. "I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner." With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.

"How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! I wish Melmotte wouldn't go and write my name. Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner."
With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. After he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.


In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the majority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very common-place affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,--and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one Mr. Brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required some courage certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothing of the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr. Brown was tedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr. Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been made and repeated, containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate he desired to show the House that Mr. Brown did not know what he was talking about,--because Mr. Brown had not come to his dinner. When Mr. Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the House were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative benches, and there he remained for a time unnoticed. He sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never until now been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected.
For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of anything that was said. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising to say the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very commonplace affair.
Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte listened: the gentleman was proposing some addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by importing gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte cared nothing about gloves, and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte really did know something, and he pricked up his ears.
It seemed to him that a gentleman, one Mr. Brown, whom he knew very well in the city - and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner - understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for revenge - and for showing the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required some courage certainly; but he had determined that nothing should cow him. He saw no reason why he should not put the old fool right, although he knew nothing of the forms of the House.
Melmotte was still doubting whether to speak, when suddenly Mr. Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been made containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance. Nobody at once rose. The subject would have dropped; but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.


Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by another party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not only in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of approbation.

Not in living memory had a member got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. Some had thought that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate Jail. But here he was, standing up! The courteous attention which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended to Melmotte.


As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr. Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace,--and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr. Brown.

As soon as he was on his legs, and found that everybody was silent and listening, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him - of men who had not seemed at all great a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it; while Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace - and all those eyes! He forgot the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr. Brown.


But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. "Mr. Brown is all wrong," he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he rose. Mr. Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.

But his courage was too high to allow him to be quelled. Though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter.
"Mr. Brown is all wrong," he said. Mr. Brown turned slowly and looked up at him. Some one behind him suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.


"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, "is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair."

"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, "is perhaps not yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address the chair."


"You should take your hat off," said the good-natured gentleman behind.

"You should take your hat off," said the man behind.


In such a position how should any man understand so many and such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. "What he said was all wrong," continued Melmotte; "and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better." Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr. Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. "I ought to know something about it," said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.

Melmotte did take off his hat, and was made more confused by doing so.
"What he said was all wrong," he continued; "and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better."
Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent outburst of laughter from both sides of the House. Melmotte stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr. Brown, determined not to be put down, but still utterly unable to find words. "I ought to know something about it," he said, sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.


"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member."

"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks."


But Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he could assume.

But Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had at any rate shown his courage, if not much eloquence. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out in as stately a way as he could.


"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.

"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, the honourable member for Staines, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.


"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place."

"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. It seems to be a stupid sort of place."


"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.

"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe, looking up into his friend's face.


"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either," said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; "do you leave Mr. Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken."

"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe," said Melmotte, getting into his carriage; "leave him and his money to me. I hope you are not scared by what fools say."


"Oh, dear; yes;" said Cohenlupe apologetically. "You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything." But at that moment Mr. Cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the British police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.

"Oh, dear, no," said Cohenlupe. But he was meditating his own escape from England, and was trying to remember what happy country would not interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.


That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale; but she did not say anything about Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.


A few days before that period in our story which we have now reached, Miss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for Madame Melmotte's grand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram,--the place on the cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmotte had the honour of inviting to meet the Emperor and the Princes, having been left blank; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each lady was disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible,--in which desire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to a bargain. It had of course been settled that Lady Monogram was to have the two tickets,--for herself and her husband,--such tickets at that moment standing very high in the market. In payment for these valuable considerations, Lady Monogram was to undertake to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during the time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the Melmotte's on whom to depend for her London gaieties. At this moment Miss Longestaffe felt herself justified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving a fair equivalent. The Melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high. They had just culminated. They fell a little soon afterwards, and at ten P.M. on the night of the entertainment were hardly worth anything. At the moment which we have now in hand, there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram had already secured the tickets. They were in her desk. But, as will sometimes be the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the stipulated price.

A few days before the dinner, Miss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for the grand reception had been given to the Monograms; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each lady wanted to get as much and to give as little as possible. In return for the two tickets, Lady Monogram was to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during that time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the Melmottes.
Miss Longestaffe felt that she was hardly receiving a fair price. The Melmotte tickets had reached their height, and there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram already had them in her desk. But the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the price.


"As for that, my dear," said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the rise in Melmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of her old manners, "I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's junior partner."

"As for that, my dear," said Miss Longestaffe, who had endeavoured to resume something of her old manners, "I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's junior partner."


"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner has, in some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr. Goldsheiner anywhere."

"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner hunts, and Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham.


"Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr. Melmotte, of course, entertains all the City people. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine here." Lady Monogram managed everything herself with reference to her own parties; invited all her own guests, and never troubled Sir Damask,--who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends; but she was very clever in the use which she made of her husband. There were some aspirants who really were taught to think that Sir Damask was very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house.

I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine here." Sir Damask had nothing to do with the matter; but Lady Monogram was very clever in the use which she made of her husband.


"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?" asked Miss Longestaffe, who was very urgent on the occasion.

"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?" asked Miss Longestaffe.


"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are little things which a man and his wife must manage together without interference."

"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that."


"Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert, it does sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, that that kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as West-end people."

"But Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert, it does sound odd. City people are just as good as West-end people."


"A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't make the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort of way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my neighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who come here will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir Damask. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr. Brehgert if I were to see him."

"A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr. Brehgert if I were to see him."


"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you said once, you're glad enough to go there."

"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and you're glad enough to go there."


"Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to throw that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don't at all think of asking them to my house. But if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used to it as I am. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner." Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.

"Quite true, my dear. And there's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. If they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner." Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.


"He is not a bit like a butcher," said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up in real wrath.


"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?"

"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?"


"You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too free behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there he is."

"You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there it is."


"He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with me, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say Mr. Brehgert is good-natured."


"He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large fortune."


"And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a comfort."


"If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you find it lonely enough."


"Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are trying to be ill-natured, Georgiana."


"Why did you say that he was a--butcher?"

"Why did you say that he was a butcher?"