Mr. Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr. Melmotte, and Melmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support given by the "Breakfast Table" to his candidature. But Mr. Broune cut him short. "I never talk about the 'Breakfast Table,'" said he. "We endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended." Melmotte bowed. "I have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's friend, I have called to return the money to you." Mr. Broune did not like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him.

Melmotte had been very gracious to Mr. Broune, on account of the support given by the Breakfast Table to his candidature. But Mr. Broune cut short his speech of thanks.
"I never talk about the Breakfast Table," said he. "I have come about quite another matter. Sir Felix Carbury lately received a sum of money in trust from your daughter, and as Sir Felix's friend, I have called to return it to you." Mr. Broune did not like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough not to marry him.


"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he would have repressed if he could.

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Melmotte, with a scowl.


"We won't discuss that, Mr. Melmotte. I've drawn a cheque myself, payable to your order,--to make the matter all straight. The sum was 250, I think." And Mr. Broune put a cheque for that amount down upon the table.

"We won't discuss that, Mr. Melmotte. The sum was 250, I think." And Mr. Broune put a cheque for that amount upon the table.


"I dare say it's all right," said Mr. Melmotte. "But, remember, I don't think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel."


"At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's behalf. Good morning." Mr. Melmotte did put out his hand in token of amity. Then Mr. Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As Nidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned. "Well, my Lord, and how are you?" said he with his pleasantest smile. Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. "You don't look down in the mouth, my Lord."

"Good morning."
They shook hands; then Mr. Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As Nidderdale was shown in he put the cheque into his pocket, abandoning any idea of prosecuting Sir Felix.
"Well, my Lord, and how are you?" said he with his pleasantest smile.
Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint,


Then Lord Nidderdale,--who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law,--sang the refrain of an old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember.

and - to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law - sang the refrain of an old song:


"Cheer up, Sam; Don't let your spirits go down. There's many a girl that I know well, Is waiting for you in the town."


"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Melmotte, "very good. I've no doubt there is,--many a one. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie."

"Ha, ha," laughed Melmotte, "very good. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie."


"Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me."

"Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has given convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me."


"A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She's been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody."

"A silly little romantic baggage! She's been reading novels till she has learned to think she had to run off with somebody."


"She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr. Melmotte."


"No;--of course we had her back again from Liverpool."

"No; of course we had her back again from Liverpool."


"But they say that she got further than the gentleman."


"He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what he is now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I'm very sorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always. She's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy,--that is, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, I want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of course has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury."

"He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows that now. Of course, my Lord, I'm very sorry. You know that I've been square with you always. She's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. In a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. Now, my Lord, I hope this shall make no difference to you. I do not try to hide anything. This has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But after this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury."


"I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything."


"She won't forgive him. By George, she shan't. She shall hear the whole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever!"

"She won't forgive him. She shall hear the whole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever!"


"I don't know about that, Mr. Melmotte."


"Why not? You're not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly as that! He didn't even see her all the time."


"The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale."


"The money's all right, I've no doubt. And there isn't a man in all London would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than I would. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. Everybody knows it."

"The money's all right, I've no doubt. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. Everybody knows it."


"In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it."

"In three months everybody will have forgotten it."


"To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me the slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she did once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very much changed since then. The thing was off."

"To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me the slightest encouragement."


"No;--but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right to complain."


"You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come on Sunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday morning about noon?" Lord Nidderdale thought of his position for a few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning. After that Melmotte proposed that they two should go and "get a bit of lunch" at a certain Conservative club in the City. There would be time before the meeting of the Railway Board. Nidderdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the Board was "rot." "That's all very well for you, young man," said the chairman, "but I must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid fortune." Then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the front stairs. "Come this way, Nidderdale;--come this way. I must get out without being seen. There are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his mouth." And so they escaped by the back stairs.

"You just come to the house, and ask her again tomorrow, or on Sunday morning."
Lord Nidderdale thought for a few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning. After that Melmotte proposed that they should go and have lunch at a Conservative club, before the meeting of the Railway Board. Nidderdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the Board was "rot."
"That's all very well for you, young man," said the chairman, "but I must go there in order that you may enjoy a splendid fortune. Come this way, Nidderdale; there are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to business from morning to night without ever having to eat." And they escaped by the back stairs.


At the club, the City Conservative world,--which always lunches well,--welcomed Mr. Melmotte very warmly. The election was coming on, and there was much to be said. He played the part of the big City man to perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talking loudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club that Lord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course knew that Lord Nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter,--accepted, that is, by the rich man himself,--and the club knew also that the rich man's daughter had tried,--but had failed,--to run away with Sir Felix Carbury. There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and having done with it. The presence of Lord Nidderdale was almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, as it were, abolished. A little before three Mr. Melmotte returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; while Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering within his own mind whether it was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitor for Miss Melmotte's hand. He had an idea that a few years ago a man could not have done such a thing--that he would be held to show a poor spirit should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter what a man did,--if only he were successful. "After all it's only an affair of money," he said to himself.

At the club, Mr. Melmotte was warmly welcomed. He played the part of the big City man to perfection, talking loudly to a dozen men at once. He was glad to show the club that Lord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course knew that Melmotte's daughter had tried to run away with Sir Felix Carbury; and Lord Nidderdale's presence was an assurance that the misfortune had been wiped out.
A little before three Mr. Melmotte returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; while Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering whether he should continue to be a suitor for Miss Melmotte's hand.
"After all it's only an affair of money," he said to himself.


Mr. Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to indignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles Grendall was always ready with an answer. That Canadian Deputation was determined to settle the whole business this morning, and would not take itself away. And Sir Gregory Gribe had been obstinate, beyond the ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at the bank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication with Mr. Melmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were always most oppressive. At first Mr. Longestaffe was somewhat stunned by the Deputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth the potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr. Longestaffe of Caversham, a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and accustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock? When he had been in that waiting-room for two hours, it occurred to him that he only wanted his own, and that he would not remain there to be starved for any Mr. Melmotte in Europe. It occurred to him also that that thorn in his side, Squercum, would certainly get a finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth, and attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendall also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with Mr. Melmotte. "Then say that I can't wait any longer," said Mr. Longestaffe, stamping out of the room with angry feet.

Mr. Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to indignation. Miles Grendall informed him that the Canadian Deputation would not take itself away. Mr. Longstaffe was accustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock; and he would not be starved for any Melmotte in Europe. He attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendall also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be on most important business with Mr. Melmotte.
"Then say that I can't wait any longer," said Mr. Longestaffe, stamping out angrily.


At the very door he met Mr. Melmotte. "Ah, Mr. Longestaffe," said the great financier, seizing him by the hand, "you are the very man I am desirous of seeing."

At the door he met Mr. Melmotte. "Ah, Mr. Longestaffe," said the great financier, seizing him by the hand, "you are the very man I wanted to see."


"I have been waiting two hours up in your place," said the Squire of Caversham.

"I have been waiting two hours," said the Squire of Caversham.


"Tut, tut, tut;--and they never told me!"


"I spoke to Mr. Grendall half a dozen times."


"Yes,--yes. And he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk. I do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that I hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the Board? It's just the time now."

"Yes, yes. I do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that I hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the Board now?"


"No;"--said Mr. Longestaffe. "I can stay no longer in the City." It was cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a Board by a chairman who had just lunched at his club.

"No," said Mr. Longestaffe. "I can stay no longer in the City.


"I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help myself," said Melmotte. "And when they get me there I can never get away again."


"My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering," said Mr. Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the collar of his coat.

My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering."


"Payments for Pickering!" said Melmotte, assuming an air of unimportant doubt,--of doubt as though the thing were of no real moment. "Haven't they been made?"

"Payments for Pickering!" said Melmotte, assuming an air of absent-minded doubt. "Haven't they been made?"


"Certainly not," said Mr. Longestaffe, "unless made this morning."


"There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My second cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at this moment. Let me see;--Pickering! Wasn't there some question of a mortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage."

"There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My second cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. Pickering! Wasn't there some question of a mortgage?"


"There was a mortgage, of course;--but that only made three payments necessary instead of two."

"Of course there was a mortgage; that made three payments necessary instead of two."


"But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--something occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't be inconvenienced, Mr. Longestaffe."

"But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers; something occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't be inconvenienced, Mr. Longestaffe."


"It's my son, Mr. Melmotte. He's got a lawyer of his own."


"I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money," said Melmotte laughing. "Oh, yes;--there were three payments to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak to Mr. Smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive. What; you won't come to the Board? I am sorry for that." Mr. Longestaffe, having after a fashion said what he had to say, declined to go to the Board. A painful rumour had reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him in a very quiet way by a very old friend,--by a member of a private firm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most eminent man of his acquaintance,--that Pickering had been already mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. "Mind, I know nothing," said the banker. "The report has reached me, and if it be true, it shows that Mr. Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It does not concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seems to be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title-deeds." Mr. Longestaffe thanked his friend, and acknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part. Therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. But nevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte's manner.

"I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money," said Melmotte, laughing. "Oh, yes; there were three payments to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak to Mr. Smith tomorrow - and tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. You won't come to the Board?"
Mr. Longestaffe declined. A painful rumour had reached him the day before, quietly communicated by a very old friend, a member of a private firm of bankers - that Pickering had been already mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. "If true," said the banker, "It shows that Mr. Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It does not concern you at all if you have got your price. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title-deeds."
Therefore, as Mr. Longstaffe left, he was low in spirits. But nevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte's manner.


Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did Paul Montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted. Lord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the City for that day, and Mr. Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman was therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe. But they were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as well as though those absentees had all attended. When the Board was over Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Cohenlupe retired together.

Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did Paul Montague. Lord Nidderdale had had enough of the City for that day, and Mr. Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman was therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe. But the work was got through as well as if those absentees had all attended, and then Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Cohenlupe retired together.


"I must get that money for Longestaffe," said Melmotte to his friend.


"What, eighty thousand pounds! You can't do it this week,--nor yet before this day week."


"It isn't eighty thousand pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes to the son, I can put the father off."

"It isn't eighty thousand. I've renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only fifty. If I can manage half of the son's money, I can put the father off."


"You must raise what you can on the whole property."


"I've done that already," said Melmotte hoarsely.


"Brehgert has had 40,000. I was obliged to keep it up with them. You can manage 25,000 for me by Monday?" Mr. Cohenlupe said that he would try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable difficulty in the operation.

"Brehgert has had 40,000. You can manage 25,000 for me by Monday?" Mr. Cohenlupe said that he would try, but that it would be very difficult.


The very greatness of Mr. Melmotte's popularity, the extent of the admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his commercial enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar bitterness in the opposition that was organised against him at Westminster. As the high mountains are intersected by deep valleys, as puritanism in one age begets infidelity in the next, as in many countries the thickness of the winter's ice will be in proportion to the number of the summer musquitoes, so was the keenness of the hostility displayed on this occasion in proportion to the warmth of the support which was manifested. As the great man was praised, so also was he abused. As he was a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend to others. And indeed there was hardly any other way in which it was possible to carry on the contest against him. From the moment in which Mr. Melmotte had declared his purpose of standing for Westminster in the Conservative interest, an attempt was made to drive him down the throats of the electors by clamorous assertions of his unprecedented commercial greatness. It seemed that there was but one virtue in the world, commercial enterprise,--and that Melmotte was its prophet. It seemed, too, that the orators and writers of the day intended all Westminster to believe that Melmotte treated his great affairs in a spirit very different from that which animates the bosoms of merchants in general. He had risen above any feeling of personal profit. His wealth was so immense that there was no longer place for anxiety on that score. He already possessed,--so it was said,--enough to found a dozen families, and he had but one daughter! But by carrying on the enormous affairs which he held in his hands, he would be able to open up new worlds, to afford relief to the oppressed nationalities of the over-populated old countries. He had seen how small was the good done by the Peabodys and the Bairds, and, resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions, was intent on projects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful bread by the moderate sweat of their brows. He was the head and front of the railway which was to regenerate Mexico. It was presumed that the contemplated line from ocean to ocean across British America would become a fact in his hands. It was he who was to enter into terms with the Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast country. He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from Moscow to Khiva. He had a fleet,--or soon would have a fleet of emigrant ships,--ready to carry every discontented Irishman out of Ireland to whatever quarter of the globe the Milesian might choose for the exercise of his political principles. It was known that he had already floated a company for laying down a submarine wire from Penzance to Point de Galle, round the Cape of Good Hope,--so that, in the event of general wars, England need be dependent on no other country for its communications with India. And then there was the philanthropic scheme for buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs from the Khedive of Egypt for thirty millions sterling,--the compensation to consist of the concession of a territory about four times as big as Great Britain in the lately annexed country on the great African lakes. It may have been the case that some of these things were as yet only matters of conversation,--speculations as to which Mr. Melmotte's mind and imagination had been at work, rather than his pocket or even his credit; but they were all sufficiently matured to find their way into the public press, and to be used as strong arguments why Melmotte should become member of Parliament for Westminster.

The very greatness of Mr. Melmotte's popularity created bitter opposition against him at Westminster. As the great man was praised, so also was he abused. From the moment he declared his purpose of standing for Westminster, an attempt was made to drive him down the throats of the electors by assertions of his commercial greatness. His wealth was so immense, it was said, that he had no need for any personal profit. He would open up new worlds, and enable young nations to prosper. He was the head of the railway which was to regenerate Mexico. He was to enter into terms with the Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast country. He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from Moscow to Khiva. He had a fleet - or soon would have a fleet - of emigrant ships, ready to carry every discontented Irishman from Ireland to all quarters of the globe.
Some of these things were only speculation; but they all found their way into the public press, and were used as strong arguments why Melmotte should become member of Parliament for Westminster.


All this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves called upon by the demands of their political position to oppose Mr. Melmotte. You can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be a demi-devil. These very persons, the leading Liberals of the leading borough in England as they called themselves, would perhaps have cared little about Melmotte's antecedents had it not become their duty to fight him as a Conservative. Had the great man found at the last moment that his own British politics had been liberal in their nature, these very enemies would have been on his committee. It was their business to secure the seat. And as Melmotte's supporters began the battle with an attempt at what the Liberals called "bounce,"--to carry the borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of their candidate's virtues,--the other party was driven to make some enquiries as to that candidate's antecedents. They quickly warmed to the work, and were not less loud in exposing the Satan of speculation, than had been the Conservatives in declaring the commercial Jove. Emissaries were sent to Paris and Francfort, and the wires were used to Vienna and New York. It was not difficult to collect stories,--true or false; and some quiet men, who merely looked on at the game, expressed an opinion that Melmotte might have wisely abstained from the glories of Parliament.

The opposing Liberals were driven to make enquiries about his history. Messages were sent to Paris and Frankfurt, Vienna and New York. It was not difficult to collect stories - true or false.


Nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a proper Liberal candidate to run against him. The nobleman who had been elevated out of his seat by the death of his father had been a great Whig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense wealth and of popularity equal to its possessions. One of that family might have contested the borough at a much less expense than any other person,--and to them the expense would have mattered but little. But there was no such member of it forthcoming. Lord This and Lord That,--and the Honourable This and the Honourable That, sons of other cognate Lords,--already had seats which they were unwilling to vacate in the present state of affairs. There was but one other session for the existing Parliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in Melmotte's favour. Many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were either afraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence. Lord Buntingford was asked, and he and his family were good old Whigs. But he was nephew to Lord Alfred Grendall, first cousin to Miles Grendall, and abstained on behalf of his relatives. An overture was made to Sir Damask Monogram, who certainly could afford the contest. But Sir Damask did not see his way. Melmotte was a working bee, while he was a drone,--and he did not wish to have the difference pointed out by Mr. Melmotte's supporters. Moreover, he preferred his yacht and his four-in-hand.

Nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a Liberal candidate to run against him. Many were asked, but they were either afraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence. Lord Buntingford was asked, but he was nephew to Lord Alfred Grendall, and abstained. An overture was made to Sir Damask Monogram, who certainly could afford the contest. But Sir Damask preferred his yacht and his four-in-hand.


At last a candidate was selected, whose nomination and whose consent to occupy the position created very great surprise in the London world. The press had of course taken up the matter very strongly. The "Morning Breakfast Table" supported Mr. Melmotte with all its weight. There were people who said that this support was given by Mr. Broune under the influence of Lady Carbury, and that Lady Carbury in this way endeavoured to reconcile the great man to a marriage between his daughter and Sir Felix. But it is more probable that Mr. Broune saw,--or thought that he saw,--which way the wind sat, and that he supported the commercial hero because he felt that the hero would be supported by the country at large. In praising a book, or putting foremost the merits of some official or military claimant, or writing up a charity,--in some small matter of merely personal interest,--the Editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" might perhaps allow himself to listen to a lady whom he loved. But he knew his work too well to jeopardize his paper by such influences in any matter which might probably become interesting to the world of his readers. There was a strong belief in Melmotte. The clubs thought that he would be returned for Westminster. The dukes and duchesses fted him. The city,--even the city was showing a wavering disposition to come round. Bishops begged for his name on the list of promoters of their pet schemes. Royalty without stint was to dine at his table. Melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand of the brother of the Sun and of the uncle of the Moon, and British Royalty was to be arranged opposite, so that every one might seem to have the place of most honour. How could a conscientious Editor of a "Morning Breakfast Table," seeing how things were going, do other than support Mr. Melmotte? In fair justice it may be well doubted whether Lady Carbury had exercised any influence in the matter.

At last a candidate was selected, whose nomination created very great surprise. The press had of course taken up the matter. The Morning Breakfast Table supported Mr. Melmotte - perhaps under Lady Carbury's influence, but more probably because Mr. Broune saw the way the wind was blowing, and supported the commercial hero of the day. There was a strong belief in Melmotte. Dukes and duchesses fted him. Royalty was to dine at his table. Melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand of the Brother of the Sun and the Uncle of the Moon, with British royalty arranged opposite. How could the Editor of the Morning Breakfast Table do other than support him?


But the "Evening Pulpit" took the other side. Now this was the more remarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch as the "Evening Pulpit" had never supported the Liberal interest. As was said in the first chapter of this work, the motto of that newspaper implied that it was to be conducted on principles of absolute independence. Had the "Evening Pulpit," like some of its contemporaries, lived by declaring from day to day that all Liberal elements were godlike, and all their opposites satanic, as a matter of course the same line of argument would have prevailed as to the Westminster election. But as it had not been so, the vigour of the "Evening Pulpit" on this occasion was the more alarming and the more noticeable,--so that the short articles which appeared almost daily in reference to Mr. Melmotte were read by everybody. Now they who are concerned in the manufacture of newspapers are well aware that censure is infinitely more attractive than eulogy,--but they are quite as well aware that it is more dangerous. No proprietor or editor was ever brought before the courts at the cost of ever so many hundred pounds,--which if things go badly may rise to thousands,--because he had attributed all but divinity to some very poor specimen of mortality. No man was ever called upon for damages because he had attributed grand motives. It might be well for politics and literature and art,--and for truth in general, if it was possible to do so. But a new law of libel must be enacted before such salutary proceedings can take place. Censure on the other hand is open to very grave perils. Let the Editor have been ever so conscientious, ever so beneficent,--even ever so true,--let it be ever so clear that what he has written has been written on behalf of virtue, and that he has misstated no fact, exaggerated no fault, never for a moment been allured from public to private matters,--and he may still be in danger of ruin. A very long purse, or else a very high courage is needed for the exposure of such conduct as the "Evening Pulpit" attributed to Mr. Melmotte. The paper took up this line suddenly. After the second article Mr. Alf sent back to Mr. Miles Grendall, who in the matter was acting as Mr. Melmotte's secretary, the ticket of invitation for the dinner, with a note from Mr. Alf stating that circumstances connected with the forthcoming election for Westminster could not permit him to have the great honour of dining at Mr. Melmotte's table in the presence of the Emperor of China. Miles Grendall showed the note to the dinner committee, and, without consultation with Mr. Melmotte, it was decided that the ticket should be sent to the Editor of a thorough-going Conservative journal. This conduct on the part of the "Evening Pulpit" astonished the world considerably; but the world was more astonished when it was declared that Mr. Ferdinand Alf himself was going to stand for Westminster on the Liberal interest.

But the Evening Pulpit took the other side. Now this was remarkable, because the Evening Pulpit had never supported the Liberal interest. It pronounced itself to be independent. So the newspaper's vigour on this occasion was all the more alarming; and the short articles which appeared almost daily about Mr. Melmotte were read by everybody.
Now newspaper proprietors are well aware that censure is far more attractive than praise - but also more dangerous. No proprietor was ever brought before the courts for over-praising. Censure, on the other hand, be it ever so truthful, brings the danger of ruin from a libel suit. A very long purse, or very high courage, is needed for the exposure of such conduct as the Evening Pulpit attributed to Mr. Melmotte.
The paper took up this line suddenly. After the second article Mr. Alf sent back to Mr. Miles Grendall, who was acting as Mr. Melmotte's secretary, the ticket of invitation for the dinner, with a note stating Mr. Alf could not dine at Mr. Melmotte's table in the presence of the Emperor of China. This conduct astonished the world considerably; but the world was more astonished when it was declared that Mr. Ferdinand Alf himself was going to stand for Westminster as a Liberal.


Various suggestions were made. Some said that as Mr. Alf had a large share in the newspaper, and as its success was now an established fact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious position which he filled, and was therefore free to go into Parliament. Others were of opinion that this was the beginning of a new era in literature, of a new order of things, and that from this time forward editors would frequently be found in Parliament, if editors were employed of sufficient influence in the world to find constituencies. Mr. Broune whispered confidentially to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool for his pains, and that he was carried away by pride. "Very clever,--and dashing," said Mr. Broune, "but he never had ballast." Lady Carbury shook her head. She did not want to give up Mr. Alf if she could help it. He had never said a civil word of her in his paper;--but still she had an idea that it was well to be on good terms with so great a power. She entertained a mysterious awe for Mr. Alf,--much in excess of any similar feeling excited by Mr. Broune, in regard to whom her awe had been much diminished since he had made her an offer of marriage. Her sympathies as to the election of course were with Mr. Melmotte. She believed in him thoroughly. She still thought that his nod might be the means of making Felix,--or if not his nod, then his money without the nod.

Some said that Mr. Alf intended to retire from his position at the newspaper, and go into Parliament. Mr. Broune whispered to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool, and was carried away by pride.
Lady Carbury shook her head. She did not want to give up Mr. Alf if she could help it. He had never said a civil word of her in his paper; but still she felt that it was well to be on good terms with so great a power. She felt much more awe for Mr. Alf than for Mr. Broune. Her awe for him had been much diminished since he had made her an offer of marriage. Of course in the election she supported Mr. Melmotte, still thinking that he might be the making of Felix.


"I suppose he is very rich," she said, speaking to Mr. Broune respecting Mr. Alf.

"I suppose Mr. Alf is very rich," she said to Mr. Broune.


"I dare say he has put by something. But this election will cost him 10,000;--and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allow another 10,000 for action for libel. They've already declared that they will indict the paper."

"I dare say he has put by something. But this election will cost him 10,000; and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allow another 10,000 for libel actions."


"Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?" This was a matter as to which Mr. Melmotte was supposed to have retired from Paris not with clean hands.

"Do you believe that about the Austrian Insurance Company?" This was a matter in which Mr. Melmotte was supposed to have retired from Paris not with clean hands.


"I don't believe the 'Evening Pulpit' can prove it,--and I'm sure that they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or four thousand pounds. That's a game in which nobody wins but the lawyers. I wonder at Alf. I should have thought that he would have known how to get all said that he wanted to have said without running with his head into the lion's mouth. He has been so clever up to this! God knows he has been bitter enough, but he has always sailed within the wind."

"I don't believe the Evening Pulpit can prove it - and it will cost them three or four thousand pounds to try. That's a game which nobody wins but the lawyers. I wonder at Alf. He has been so clever until now!"


Mr. Alf had a powerful committee. By this time an animus in regard to the election had been created strong enough to bring out the men on both sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there might only have been a warmth or possibly frigidity. The Whig Marquises and the Whig Barons came forward, and with them the liberal professional men, and the tradesmen who had found that party to answer best, and the democratical mechanics. If Melmotte's money did not, at last, utterly demoralise the lower class of voters, there would still be a good fight. And there was a strong hope that, under the ballot, Melmotte's money might be taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting. It was found upon trial that Mr. Alf was a good speaker. And though he still conducted the "Evening Pulpit," he made time for addressing meetings of the constituency almost daily. And in his speeches he never spared Melmotte. No one, he said, had a greater reverence for mercantile grandeur than himself. But let them take care that the grandeur was grand. How great would be the disgrace to such a borough as that of Westminster if it should find that it had been taken in by a false spirit of speculation and that it had surrendered itself to gambling when it had thought to do honour to honest commerce. This, connected as of course it was, with the articles in the paper, was regarded as very open speaking. And it had its effect. Some men began to say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to deserve confidence in his riches, and the Lord Mayor was already beginning to think that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse.

Mr. Alf had a powerful committee. The Whig Marquises and the Whig Barons came forward, and with them the Liberal professional men and tradesmen. There would be a good fight. And it was found that Mr. Alf was a good speaker. He addressed meetings of the constituency almost daily, and in his speeches he never spared Melmotte. No one, he said, had a greater reverence for mercantile grandeur than himself. But let them make sure that the grandeur was honest. How great would be the disgrace to Westminster if it should find that it had been taken in by a false spirit of speculation and gambling!
This was regarded as very open speaking. And it had its effect. Some men began to say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to deserve confidence, and the Lord Mayor was beginning to think that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse.


Melmotte's committee was also very grand. If Alf was supported by Marquises and Barons, he was supported by Dukes and Earls. But his speaking in public did not of itself inspire much confidence. He had very little to say when he attempted to explain the political principles on which he intended to act. After a little he confined himself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the other side, and even in doing that was reiterative rather than diffusive. Let them prove it. He defied them to prove it. Englishmen were too great, too generous, too honest, too noble,--the men of Westminster especially were a great deal too high-minded to pay any attention to such charges as these till they were proved. Then he began again. Let them prove it. Such accusations as these were mere lies till they were proved. He did not say much himself in public as to actions for libel,--but assurances were made on his behalf to the electors, especially by Lord Alfred Grendall and his son, that as soon as the election was over all speakers and writers would be indicted for libel, who should be declared by proper legal advice to have made themselves liable to such action. The "Evening Pulpit" and Mr. Alf would of course be the first victims.

Melmotte's committee was also very grand, and included Dukes and Earls. But his public speaking did not inspire much confidence. He had very little to say when he attempted to explain his political principles. After a while he confined himself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the other side, and even in doing that he repeated himself. Let them prove it. He defied them to prove it. The men of Westminster were too high-minded to pay any attention to such charges as these till they were proved. Let them prove it.
He did not say much himself about libel - but assurances were made on his behalf by Lord Alfred Grendall and his son, that as soon as the election was over various people would be indicted for libel: the Evening Pulpit and Mr. Alf would of course be the first victims.


The dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th. The election for the borough was to be held on Tuesday the 9th. It was generally thought that the proximity of the two days had been arranged with the view of enhancing Melmotte's expected triumph. But such in truth was not the case. It had been an accident, and an accident that was distressing to some of the Melmottites. There was much to be done about the dinner,--which could not be omitted; and much also as to the election,--which was imperative. The two Grendalls, father and son, found themselves to be so driven that the world seemed for them to be turned topsey-turvey. The elder had in old days been accustomed to electioneering in the interest of his own family, and had declared himself willing to make himself useful on behalf of Mr. Melmotte. But he found Westminster to be almost too much for him. He was called here and sent there, till he was very near rebellion. "If this goes on much longer I shall cut it," he said to his son.

The dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th. The election was to be held on Tuesday the 9th. This accident was distressing to some of the Melmottites, for there was much to be done both about the dinner and about the election. The two Grendalls, father and son, found themselves to be so driven that the world seemed to be turned topsey-turvey.
"If this goes on much longer I shall cut it," said the elder to his son.


"Think of me, governor," said the son. "I have to be in the city four or five times a week."


"Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. What's my salary to the shares you've had? The thing is;--will it last?"


"There are a good many who say that Melmotte will burst up."


"I don't believe it," said Lord Alfred. "They don't know what they're talking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burst up. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell him after this that he must make it easier. He wants to know who's to have every ticket for the dinner, and there's nobody to tell him except me. And I've got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help me except that fellow from the Herald's office. I don't know about people's rank. Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a fellow who writes books?" Miles suggested that the fellow from the Herald's office would know all about that, and that his father need not trouble himself with petty details.

"I don't believe it," said Lord Alfred. "They don't know what they're talking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burst up. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell him after this that he must make it easier."


"And you shall come to us for three days,--after it's over," said Lady Monogram to Miss Longestaffe; a proposition to which Miss Longestaffe acceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as though a favour had been conferred upon her. Now the reason why Lady Monogram had changed her mind as to inviting her old friend, and thus threw open her hospitality for three whole days to the poor young lady who had disgraced herself by staying with the Melmottes, was as follows. Miss Longestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for Madame Melmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the Melmottes risen in general appreciation, that Lady Monogram had found that she was bound, on behalf of her own position in society, to be present on that occasion. It would not do that her name should not be in the printed list of the guests. Therefore she had made a serviceable bargain with her old friend Miss Longestaffe. She was to have her two tickets for the reception, and Miss Longestaffe was to be received for three days as a guest by Lady Monogram. It had also been conceded that at any rate on one of these nights Lady Monogram should take Miss Longestaffe out with her, and that she should herself receive company on another. There was perhaps something slightly painful at the commencement of the negotiation; but such feelings soon fade away, and Lady Monogram was quite a woman of the world.

"You shall come to us for three days - after it's over," said Lady Monogram to Miss Georgiana Longestaffe; to which Miss Longestaffe agreed, though not as if a favour had been conferred upon her.
The reason why Lady Monogram had changed her mind about inviting her old friend was as follows. Miss Longestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for Madame Melmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the Melmottes risen in society's appreciation, that Lady Monogram had found that she was bound to go. So she had made a bargain with Miss Longestaffe. She was to have her two tickets, and would receive Miss Longestaffe for three days as a guest. It had also been conceded that on one of these nights Lady Monogram should take Miss Longestaffe out with her. There was perhaps something slightly painful at the start of the negotiation; but such feelings soon fade away, and Lady Monogram was a woman of the world.


When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any way to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over half-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it possible that she could be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had sinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to her,--but also that he had done this in such a manner as to make his offence known to all her friends. Perhaps she had been too quick;--but there was the fact that with her own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carbury knew that it was so. After this it was, she thought, impossible that she should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carbury should certainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on the matter. She would never deny it; and though she knew that the man had behaved badly,--having entangled himself with a nasty American woman,--yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned.

When Hetta received the letter from Paul Montague, it did not alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it half-a-dozen times, she could not see how she could be reconciled to him.
It was not only that he had sinned against her by associating with another woman, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to her - but also that he had done this in such a way as to make his offence known to her friends. He had been rejected, and she thought it was impossible that she should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carbury should certainly know it, if he ever asked her. Though she knew that Paul had behaved badly, yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned.


And now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. He said that he could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his letter with entreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. It was too late now to remedy the evil; but she was not quite sure within her own bosom that she had not been unjust to him. The more she thought of it the more puzzled her mind became. Had she quarrelled with him because he had once been in love with Mrs. Hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding Mrs. Hurtle as her present rival? She hated Mrs. Hurtle, and she was very angry with him in that he had ever been on affectionate terms with a woman she hated;--but that had not been the reason put forward by her for quarrelling with him. Perhaps it was true that he, too, had of late loved Mrs. Hurtle hardly better than she did herself. It might be that he had been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go with the woman to Lowestoft. Having so gone with her, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected;--for how can it be that a man who is engaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another woman to whom also he was engaged a few months back? But still there might be hardship in it. To her, to Hetta herself, the circumstances were very hard. She loved the man with all her heart. She could look forward to no happiness in life without him. But yet it must be so.

And now he told her that she had been unjust to him. He did not fill his letter with entreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. It was too late now to remedy the evil; but she wondered if she had been unjust. The more she thought of it the more puzzled she became. Had she quarrelled with him because he had once been in love with Mrs. Hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding Mrs. Hurtle as a present rival? Maybe he had indeed been forced by circumstances to go with her to Lowestoft. Having done so, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected; but still there might be hardship in it.
To Hetta herself, it was very hard. She loved the man with all her heart. She could look forward to no happiness in life without him. But yet it must be so.


At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs. Hurtle herself if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course he had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to Mrs. Hurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or four days,--unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it from herself was possible,--and had been read and re-read till she knew every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could hear the story as it might be told by Mrs. Hurtle, a good deal that was now dark might become light to her. As she continued to read the letter, and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger. Paul had of course behaved badly, very badly,--but had it not been for them she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had driven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could now see no escape. There had been a plot against her, and she was a victim. In the first dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story of the American woman,--which had, at the moment, struck her with a horror which was now becoming less and less every hour,--she had fallen head foremost into the trap laid for her. She acknowledged to herself that it was too late to recover her ground. She was, at any rate, almost sure that it must be too late. But yet she was disposed to do battle with her mother and her cousin in the matter--if only with the object of showing that she would not submit her own feelings to their control. She was savage to the point of rebellion against all authority. Roger Carbury would of course think that any communication between herself and Mrs. Hurtle must be most improper,--altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago she thought so herself. But the world was going so hard with her, that she was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and delicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom she altogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly still loved her,--of that she was beginning to have no further doubt,--accused her of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for a corroboration of his story. She would appeal to Mrs. Hurtle. The woman was odious, abominable, a nasty intriguing American female. But her lover desired that she should hear the woman's story; and she would hear the story,--if the woman would tell it.

At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs. Hurtle herself if she wanted corroboration of his story. Of course he knew that she could not go to Mrs. Hurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or four days - unanswered, but constantly re-read - she began to think that if she could hear Mrs. Hurtle's story, a good deal that was now dark might become light to her.
As she continued to brood over the letter, by degrees her anger turned from her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger. Paul had of course behaved very badly - but had it not been for them, she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had driven her on to a rejection from which she could now see no escape. In the first agony caused by that awful story of the American woman, she had fallen head foremost into the trap laid for her.
She was almost sure that it was too late to recover her ground. But she could still do battle with her mother and her cousin - if only to show that she would not submit her feelings to their control. She was savage against all authority. Roger Carbury would of course think that any communication between herself and Mrs. Hurtle must be most improper and indelicate. But she was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and delicacy to the winds.
She would appeal to Mrs. Hurtle. The woman was odious, a nasty scheming American female. But Paul desired that she should hear the woman's story.


So resolving, she wrote as follows to Mrs. Hurtle, finding great difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither too little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrained by no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about herself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for its purpose.

So she wrote as follows to Mrs. Hurtle, finding great difficulty in composing a suitable letter. It was stiff, but it sufficed for its purpose.


Mr. Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him and you. It is right that I should tell you that I was a short time since engaged to marry him, but that I have found myself obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of what I have been told as to his acquaintance with you. I make this proposition to you, not thinking that anything you will say to me can change my mind, but because he has asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me of injustice towards him. I do not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will make it my business to call any afternoon you may name.

Mr. Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him and you. It is right that I should tell you that I was a short time ago engaged to marry him, but that I have been obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of what I have been told about his acquaintance with you. I write to you, not thinking that anything you will say can change my mind, but because he has asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me of injustice towards him. I do not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will call any afternoon you may name.


When the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but very much afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in a newspaper! She had heard that everything was put into newspapers in America. What if this Mrs. Hurtle should send back to her some horribly insolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother, instead of herself! And then, again, if the American woman consented to receive her, would not the American woman, as a matter of course, trample upon her with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter aside, and almost determined that it should not be sent;--but at last, with desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted it herself. She told no word of it to any one. Her mother, she thought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and made her wretched for ever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy in her present distress. There was no friend who would sympathise with her. She must do everything alone.

When the letter was written and posted she was not only ashamed of it, but afraid of it also. What if this Mrs. Hurtle should send back some horribly insolent answer - or send such answer to her mother, instead of herself! She told no word of the letter to anyone. She could not ask her mother for sympathy. There was no friend who would sympathise with her. She must do everything alone.


Mrs. Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she would retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted. It is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half resolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mind before she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she had assured herself that this should be the conclusion,--after she had told Paul Montague that it should be so,--there came back upon her at times other half resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written a letter to the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then abstained from sending it, and had then shown it to the man,--not intending to give it to him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that she might ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that he had not deserved it. Then she had parted with him, refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had told Mrs. Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. At that moment everything was done that could be done. The game had been played and the stakes lost,--and she had schooled herself into such restraint as to have abandoned all idea of vengeance. But from time to time there arose in her heart a feeling that such softness was unworthy of her. Who had ever been soft to her? Who had spared her? Had she not long since found out that she must fight with her very nails and teeth for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be trodden into the dust? Had she not held her own among rough people after a very rough fashion, and should she now simply retire that she might weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? And she had been so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her own wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph! There were moments in which she thought that she could still seize the man by the throat, where all the world might see her, and dare him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean.

Mrs. Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last decided to retire from the contest, though not without many changing phases of her mind. But she had parted with Paul, and had told Mrs. Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. The game had been played and the stakes lost.
But from time to time there arose in her heart a wish for vengeance. Who had spared her? Should she now simply retire to weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? There were moments when she thought that she could still seize the man by the throat, and dare him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean.


Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and Hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had so long been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion should write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to increase either her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that it was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only natural,--had almost told herself that it was right. She and this young Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild,--fitter for the woods than for polished cities. It had been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised man. The result had been disastrous, as might have been expected. She was angry with him,--almost to the extent of tearing him to pieces,--but she did not become more angry because he wrote to her of her rival.

Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and Hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. She was amazed that he should write such a letter; but it did not increase either her anger or her sorrow. She told herself that she and this young Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild - fitter for the woods than for cities. It had been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound to him by tenderness; and the result had been disastrous, as might have been expected.


Her only present friend was Mrs. Pipkin, who treated her with the greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about the lost lover. "That letter was from Mr. Montague?" said Mrs. Pipkin on the morning after it had been received.

Mrs. Pipkin, who had been told her engagement was ended, asked her, "That letter was from Mr. Montague?


"I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come frequent."

One gets to know handwritings when letters come frequent."


"Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of his life, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs. Hurtle?"

"Why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love."


"It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over, and there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on Saturday week."

"It is all over, and there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on Saturday week."


"I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came over here for a certain purpose, and that has--gone by. Now I may just go back again."


"I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has."


"I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin."


"I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind out free. I know it would me if I'd been served in that way."


"If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to the gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never speak of it again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you."

If I had anything to say it would be to the gentleman, and no one else. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you."


"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't only my feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings only, as their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a godsend you've been to me this summer;--have I? I've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're going away!" Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob.

"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, you've been a Godsend to me this summer - I've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're going away!" Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob.


"I suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go," said Mrs. Hurtle.


"She don't deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a word about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being better than Mrs. Buggins's children. That's all."


"She'll be all right when he has once got her home."


"And I shall be all alone by myself," said Mrs. Pipkin, with her apron up to her eyes.


It was after this that Mrs. Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had as yet returned no answer to Paul Montague,--nor had she intended to send any written answer. Were she to comply with his request she could do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than to him. And though she wrote no such letter she thought of it,--of the words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she would have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve whether she would tell the tale,--if she told it at all,--in a manner to suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were she so minded. She could certainly have her revenge after that fashion. But it was a woman's fashion, and, as such, did not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurtle's feelings. A pistol or a horsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and bitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge. If she abandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman.

It was after this that Mrs. Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had as yet returned no answer to Paul Montague, although she had thought of writing to the girl, and had pondered the words that she would use - whether she would tell the tale in a manner to suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring him utterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck if she wished. But such a revenge did not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurtle. She would have preferred a pistol or a horsewhip.


Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,--so like the letter of an Englishwoman, as Mrs. Hurtle said to herself. Mrs. Hurtle smiled as she read the letter. "I make this proposition not thinking that anything you can say to me can change my mind." Of course the girl's mind would be changed. The girl's mind, indeed, required no change. Mrs. Hurtle could see well enough that the girl's heart was set upon the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt but that she could tell the story after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girl should marry him,--if she chose to do so.

Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true - so like the letter of an Englishwoman, thought Mrs. Hurtle, smiling as she read it. She could see well enough that the girl's heart was still set upon the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt that she could tell the story so as to make it impossible for the girl to marry him - if she chose to do so.


At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. What was it to her? Let them fight their own lovers' battles out after their own childish fashion. If the man meant at last to be honest, there could be no doubt, Mrs. Hurtle thought, that the girl would go to him. It would require no interference of hers. But after a while she thought that she might as well see this English chit who had superseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she had condescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was to be abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word so as to smooth away the existing difficulties? Wild cat as she was, kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wrote to Hetta making an appointment.

At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. What was it to her? But after a while she thought that she might as well see this English chit who had superseded her in Montague's affections. And if all revenge was to be abandoned, why should she not say a kind word so as to smooth away difficulties? Wild cat as she was, kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wrote to Hetta.


If you could make it convenient to yourself to call here either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and four, I shall be very happy to see you.

If you could call here either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and four, I shall be very happy to see you.


Melmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's antecedents were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen there in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes from sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those parts knew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London. The purchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all the Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his past frauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest man in England. Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also been communicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not recognised as being "real Suffolk" himself, was so far connected with Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality respecting the Melmottes generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned. Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmotte fashion. Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably Conservative, did not believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member of Parliament. Suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the other day, as Suffolk counts days, since the original Longestaffe was in trade. This selling of Pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmotte, was a mean thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmotte had picked the very bones of every shareholder in that Franco-Austrian Assurance Company.

Melmotte's success, wealth, and history were much discussed in Suffolk at this time. He had stayed at Caversham, and many in those parts knew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London. The purchase of the Pickering estate had been noticed in the Suffolk newspapers, as had rumours of his past frauds. Miss Melmotte's attempt at running away had also been reported in the papers.
Suffolk is very old-fashioned; and did not like the Melmotte fashion. Although Conservative, Suffolk did not believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member of Parliament. Suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and remembered that it was barely the other day since the original Longestaffe was in trade. This selling of Pickering to Melmotte was a mean thing.


Mr. Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking about him,--or talking rather of the attempted elopement. "I know nothing about it," said Roger, "and I do not intend to ask. Of course I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I did believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father had consented or not I never enquired."

Mr. Hepworth was with Roger one morning, and they were talking about the attempted elopement.
"I know nothing about it," said Roger, "Of course I knew when they were down here that Sir Felix hoped to marry her.


"Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the 'Gazette' before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it."

But nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. Melmotte will probably be bankrupt before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it."


"You think Melmotte will turn out a failure."


"A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end,--too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?"

"A failure! Of course he's a failure - a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end. What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?


"At just a table here and there," suggested his friend.


"No;--it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so can I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate they believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the approval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general."

These leaders of fashion who invite him know he is a swindler. But men reconcile themselves to swindling. Dishonesty is no longer odious to them."


Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero was discussed under a different heading. "He has given 200," said the Bishop, "to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man could spend his money much better than that."

Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and Melmotte was again discussed.
"He has given 200 to the Curates' Aid Society," said the Bishop. "I don't think a man could spend his money better."


"Clap-trap!" said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter.


"The money is not clap-trap, my friend. I presume that the money is really paid."


"Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the election."


"And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?"


"Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,--and I am always for encouraging useful men."

"Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society, and I am always for encouraging useful men."


"Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?"

"Even though their aims may be vile and pernicious?"


"There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we should say that it is vile in this man." Roger frowned and shook his head. "Of course Mr. Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a Conservative constituency. But the country is changing."

"There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte wishes to get into Parliament. I do not know why we should say that ambition is pernicious or vile." Roger frowned and shook his head. "Of course Mr. Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you regard as fitting for a Conservative constituency. But the country is changing."


"It's going to the dogs, I think;--about as fast as it can go."


"We build churches much faster than we used to do."


"Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?" asked the Squire.


"It is very hard to see into the minds of men," said the Bishop; "but we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury, by following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them."

"I think that men on the whole live better lives than they did a hundred years ago," said the Bishop. "There is a wider spirit of justice and mercy, a more lively charity, and if less religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury, simply by doing as their fathers did."


"I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would be done by."


"There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be saved even if they have not practised at all times that grand self-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit,--of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in that way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or the causes of them; and do you never judge others after that fashion?"

"There can be no safer lesson. But who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit, of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in that way yourself?"


"I do not put myself forward as an example."


"I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in general. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich and the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the world at large."

"I apologise; a clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in general. Taking society as a whole, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small things, and ignore the course of the world at large.


"But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when Horace wrote."


"But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?"

And as for freedom, has it not grown almost every year?


"In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do you remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured the Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar to post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear Melmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the man to be Conservative member for Westminster?"


"Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?"


"I think I know that they are deserved."


"That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man is what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of his punishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad time of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps is managed more justly than you think, Mr. Carbury."


"My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart," said Roger, as he took his leave.

"My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart," said Roger.


"Very likely,--very likely. Only don't say so to the Prime Minister, or I shall never get any of the better things which may be going."


The Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in general than Roger Carbury. To Roger everything seemed to be out of joint. He had that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury, reminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come to her of great need. It had come very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in the least begrudge the hundred pounds which he had already sent to his cousin; but he did begrudge any furtherance afforded to the iniquitous schemes of Sir Felix. He felt all but sure that the foolish mother had given her son money for his abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal had been made to him. He alluded to no such fear in his letter. He simply enclosed the cheque, and expressed a hope that the amount might suffice for the present emergency. But he was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the Carbury family. There was Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as Mrs. Hurtle down to Lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing his visits to her, and, as Roger thought, utterly unable to free himself from his toils,--and yet, on this man's account, Hetta was cold and hard to him. He was conscious of the honesty of his own love, sure that he could make her happy,--confident, not in himself, but in the fashion and ways of his own life. What would be Hetta's lot if her heart was really given to Paul Montague?

But to Roger everything seemed to be out of joint. He had that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury, reminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come to her of great need. It had come very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in the least begrudge her the hundred pounds which he sent; but he did begrudge any money going to the iniquitous schemes of Sir Felix.
He was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the Carbury family. There was Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as Mrs. Hurtle down to Lowestoft, utterly unable, Roger thought, to free himself; and yet on Montague's account, Hetta was cold and hard to him. He was sure that he could make her happy; or rather, his way of life could. What would be Hetta's lot if her heart was given to Paul Montague?


When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. An accident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment. The wind had blown the roof off his cottage; and Roger Carbury, though his affection for the priest was waning, had offered him shelter while the damage was being repaired. Shelter at Carbury Manor was very much more comfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roof on, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham was reading his own favourite newspaper, "The Surplice," when Roger entered the room. "Have you seen this, Mr. Carbury?" he said.

When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. The wind had recently blown the roof off the priest's cottage; and Roger Carbury, though his affection for him was waning, had offered him shelter while the damage was being repaired. Carbury Manor was very much more comfortable than the priest's home, and Father Barham was in clover.
Father Barham was reading his favourite newspaper, The Surplice, when Roger entered the room.
"Have you seen this, Mr. Carbury?" he said.


"What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongs peculiarly to 'The Surplice.'"


"That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican Church. Mr. Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man, and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the globe."

"Mr. Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man."


"Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I'll make you a present of him, and thank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such good riddance."

"Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I don't believe it."


Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of "The Surplice." "Mr. Augustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church of St. Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied by a letter from Mr. Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little doubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member, and no inconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during the next session."

Then Father Barham read out: "Mr. Augustus Melmotte, the great financier, has presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church of St. Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. An accompanying letter leaves little doubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member of the Catholic party in the House, during the next session."


"That's another dodge, is it?" said Carbury.


"What do you mean by a dodge, Mr. Carbury? Because money is given for a pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a dodge?"


"But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave 200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the Bishop exulting in this great act of charity."

"The other day, the great man gave 200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the Bishop exulting over it."


"I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the Church to which he belonged in his darkness."

"I don't believe that - or it may be a parting gift to his former Church."


"And you would be really proud of Mr. Melmotte as a convert?"

"Would you really be proud of Mr. Melmotte as a convert?"


"I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul," said the priest; "but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the great."


"A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of Mr. Melmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, it is a great sign to us that the Truth is prevailing." Roger Carbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed.

"A man is great who has made for himself such a position as Mr. Melmotte's. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, it is a sign to us that the Truth is prevailing."
Roger Carbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed.


"This is so kind of you," said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's hand as she got out of the carriage.

Chapter 15: "You Should Remember that I am his Mother"


"The kindness is on your part," said Roger.


"I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And--and--"

"I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury."


"Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull."


"Oh no," said Hetta smiling. "You ought to remember that I am never dull in the country."

"Oh no," said Hetta, smiling. "I am never dull in the country."


"The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,--and the Hepworths."

"The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming to dine tomorrow, and the Hepworths."


"I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more," said Lady Carbury.


"I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen."

"He is a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen


"Yes,--a new neighbour;--Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in this parish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to know something of his family."

Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here. I used to know his family."


"Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes."

"Certainly. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond his priest's pay, which is not much more than a labourer's. He told me the other day that he was forced to buy second-hand clothes."


"How shocking!" said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands.


"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be quite friends."


"Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull."

"Why not? I've told the bishop all about him, and he wishes to know him. He won't hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull."


"I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury," said Henrietta.


"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here," said Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down on Saturday, with the intention of returning on Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between Caversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness to Marie Melmotte.

"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here," said Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down from Saturday until Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between the Manor House and Caversham.


"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday," said Roger.


"I think they arrived yesterday. There is always a flustering breeze in the air and a perturbation generally through the county when they come or go, and I think I perceived the effects about four in the afternoon. They won't come, I dare say."


"They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and they know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."

"They never do. They probably have a house full of guests, and they know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."


"I know they are to have guests," said Lady Carbury.


"The Melmottes are coming to them." Lady Carbury, as she made the announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession were failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she would any matter that was indifferent to her.

"The Melmottes." Lady Carbury felt that her voice and self-possession were failing her.


"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been brought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte in the country.

"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been brought here solely in order that her brother might have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte.


"Oh yes,--Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate."


"Mr. Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!"


"I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have been induced to ask them here."


"I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary assistance."

"I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe needs a little pecuniary help."


"And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't as they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all for the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that such a man as Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr. Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room." Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger Carbury knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and then tried to make some half apology. "I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country."

"And he condescends to get it in this way! I should have thought that Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such a man as Mr. Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room."
Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed, as she remembered that Roger knew she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and tried to make some half apology. "I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country."


Then there was a movement. The ladies were shown into their rooms, and Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he understood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in order that she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in this which he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of him that she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have been brought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her presence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, even while he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with the object of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object would be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, though he could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been gratified. But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in order that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might be furthered!

Then the ladies were shown into their rooms, and Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he understood it all. Lady Carbury had come to his house not for love of him, but to be near the Melmottes! He and his house had been simply used in order to further a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other!


As he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in the garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty, as she well knew how to do. And now she dressed her face in her sweetest smiles. Her mind, also, was full of the Melmottes, and she wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good that might come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. "I can understand, Roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should not like those people."

As he was thinking all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in the garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty. And now she dressed her face in her sweetest smiles. She wished to explain to her stern cousin the good that might come by an alliance with the heiress.
"I can understand, Roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should not like those Melmottes."


"I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? I dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the reputation of being rich."


"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people. I was thinking of the Longestaffes then."

"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people."


"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own gratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I find pleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here for any good that they will do me?"

"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own pleasure?