"Let it be so, but still do as I ask you." Sir Felix chucked the cigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up to the spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the first greeting of the day between the two men.

"Maybe, but still do as I ask you." Sir Felix chucked the cigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up and kicked it away.


After lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating him to go over at once to Caversham. "How the deuce am I to get there?"

After lunch Lady Carbury urged her son to go over at once to Caversham.
"How the deuce am I to get there?"

Chapter 17: Marie Melmotte hears a Love Tale


"He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than I am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with insolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard and ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course."

"He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than I am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with insolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard and ask for a horse and saddle as a matter of course.


"I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. I don't want anything grand."


"He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday."


"I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him for a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, he may lump it." About half an hour after this he found his cousin. "Can I have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?" he said.

"I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and if you don't, he insults you. I shall ask him for a horse, and if he does not like it, he may lump it."
About half an hour after this he found his cousin. "Can I have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?" he said.


"Our horses never go out on Sunday," said Roger. Then he added, after a pause, "You can have it. I'll give the order." Sir Felix would be gone on Tuesday, and it should be his own fault if that odious cousin ever found his way into Carbury House again! So he declared to himself as Felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how probable it was that Felix himself would be the owner of Carbury. And should it ever come to pass,--as still was possible,--that Henrietta should be the mistress of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive her brother. He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as he cantered away upon the road, listening to the horse's feet. The young man was offensive in every possible way. Who does not know that ladies only are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon roads? A gentleman trots his horse, and his friend's horse. Roger Carbury had but one saddle horse,--a favourite old hunter that he loved as a friend. And now this dear old friend, whose legs probably were not quite so good as they once were, was being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub! "Soda and brandy!" Roger exclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the discomfiture of that early morning. "He'll die some day of delirium tremens in a hospital!"

"Our horses never go out on Sunday," said Roger. Then he added, after a pause, "You can have it." Sir Felix would be gone on Tuesday, and need never come to Carbury House again! So he declared to himself as Felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how probable it was that Felix himself would be the owner of Carbury. And if ever Henrietta should be the mistress of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive her brother.
He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin canter off down the road. The young man was offensive in every possible way. Who does not know that only ladies are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon roads? A gentleman trots his friend's horse. Roger Carbury had only one saddle horse - a favourite old hunter, whose legs were not so good as they once were. And now this dear old friend was being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub!
"Soda and brandy!" Roger exclaimed to himself. "He'll die some day of delirium tremens!"


Before the Longestaffes left London to receive their new friends the Melmottes at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr. Longestaffe, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded daughter. The daughter on her side undertook that the guests should be treated with feminine courtesy. This might be called the most-favoured-nation clause. The Melmottes were to be treated exactly as though old Melmotte had been a gentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return for this the Longestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town. But here again the father had carried another clause. The prolonged sojourn in town was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July the Longestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder of the year. When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the father became absolutely violent in his refusal. "In God's name where do you expect the money is to come from?" When Georgiana urged that other people had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time was coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over her head. This, however, she took as having been said with poetical licence, the same threat having been made more than once before. The treaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to carry it out with fair honesty. The Melmottes were being treated with decent courtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled.

Before the Longestaffes left London for Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr. Longestaffe and Georgiana, his strong-minded daughter. The daughter undertook that the guests should be treated with courtesy, exactly as though old Melmotte had been a gentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return for this the Longestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town.
But here again the father carried another clause. The stay in London was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July the Longestaffes were to remove to the country for the rest of the year. When a foreign tour was proposed, the father became absolutely violent in his refusal.
"Where in God's name do you expect the money to come from?" He told Georgiana that a time was coming when she might think herself lucky to have a roof over her head. This she took as poetic licence, since he had made the same threat before. However, both parties to the treaty were prepared to carry it out honestly.


The idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned. Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course either by his father or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie Melmotte. Therefore when the Longestaffes heard that Sir Felix was coming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining him at Caversham. He had been lately talked of in London as the favourite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of her own against Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix's prospects. Soon after the Melmottes' arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting Sir Felix. "There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, Miss Melmotte." Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. "I think you know Sir Felix Carbury," continued Georgiana.

The faint idea that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte had been abandoned. Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, and he certainly would not marry her. Therefore the Longestaffes had no special objection to entertaining Sir Felix at Caversham. He had been talked of in London as the favourite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of her own against Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix's prospects.
Soon after the Melmottes' arrival she managed to say a word to Marie. "There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, Miss Melmotte. I think you know Sir Felix Carbury."


Marie, still abashed by the grandeur and fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, said, "Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury."


"He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like."

"He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be what he would like."


"I don't think he is coming because of me," said Marie blushing. She had once told him that he might go to her father, which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her power of acceptance went. Since that she had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to Mr. Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind that she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on constancy. But she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.

"I don't think he is coming because of me," said Marie, blushing. She had once told him that he might go to her father, which she felt had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as she was able. Since then she had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to Mr. Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind that she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on constancy. Yet she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.


"We had heard," said Georgiana, "that he was a particular friend of yours." And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame Melmotte certainly could not have surpassed.


Sir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on the lawn, and he also found Mr. Melmotte there. At the last moment Lord Alfred Grendall had been asked,--not because he was at all in favour with any of the Longestaffes, but in order that he might be useful in disposing of the great Director. Lord Alfred was used to him and could talk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and drink. Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked to Caversham, and Lord Alfred had come, having all his expenses paid by the great Director. When Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his entertainment by talking to Mr. Melmotte in a summer-house. He had cool drink before him and a box of cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how hard the world had been to him. Lady Pomona was languid, but not uncivil in her reception. She was doing her best to perform her part of the treaty in reference to Madame Melmotte. Sophia was walking apart with a certain Mr. Whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight,--they who decided the question might have said thirty-one without falsehood,--it was considered that Mr. Whitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be expected. Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of the offers which she had rejected. Her friends on the other hand were apt to tell of her many failures. Nevertheless she held her head up, and had not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables. At the present moment her hands were empty, and she was devoting herself to such a performance of the treaty as should make it impossible for her father to leave his part of it unfulfilled.

Sir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on the lawn, and he also found Mr. Melmotte there. At the last moment Lord Alfred Grendall had been asked, since he could talk to Melmotte, and he had come, with all his expenses paid by the great Director. When Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his keep by talking to Mr. Melmotte in a summer-house, with a cool drink and a box of cigars.
Sophia was walking apart with a certain Mr. Whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight - in fact she was thirty-one - Mr. Whitstable was considered good enough. Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of the offers which she had rejected. She held her head up, and had not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables.


For a few minutes Sir Felix sat on a garden chair making conversation to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. "Beautiful garden," he said; "for myself I don't much care for gardens; but if one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one would like."


"Delicious," said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing her shawl higher round her throat. It was the end of May, and the weather was very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart of hearts, Madame Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden.

"Delicious," said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing her shawl round her throat. It was the end of May, and very warm; but she did not like sitting out in the garden.


"It isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we make the best of it," said Lady Pomona.


"Plenty of glass, I see," said Sir Felix. "If one is to live in the country, I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place."

"Plenty of glass, I see," said Sir Felix. "I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place."


There was offence in this;--as though the Carbury property and the Carbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and the Longestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, the Longestaffes were great people. "For a small place," said Lady Pomona, "I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it is not extensive."

This was offensive - as though the Carbury property could be compared to the Longestaffe mansion.
"For a small place," said Lady Pomona, "I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it is not extensive."


"No, by Jove," said Sir Felix, "you may say that, Lady Pomona. It's like a prison to me with that moat round it." Then he jumped up and joined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be released for a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before she left them together. She had understood that the two horses now in the running were Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would not probably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to destroy Lord Nidderdale.

"No, by Jove," said Sir Felix. "It's like a prison with that moat round it." Then he jumped up and joined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be released from her duty, soon left them together.


Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,--as far as such willingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and induced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard to feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. He was by no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone,--and she was much alone,--she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.

Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it. The prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had induced him to travel across dirty roads in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He regarded her simply as the means by which Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses.
Miss Melmotte was not his idea of a beauty. Such prettiness as she had came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest, shy demeanour joined to a hope for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was arising within her bosom an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving to abandon her shyness, and thought a perfectly open confidence should exist between two lovers. When alone - and she was much alone - she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hardly talked to anyone. Sir Felix Carbury had made her an offer; and she loved him. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.


"You know why I have come down here?" he said.


[Illustration: "You know why I have come down here?"]


"No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief."

"No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a cross old bachelor."


"Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?"

"Yes; I didn't come to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?"


"I don't know," said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude.

"I don't know," said Marie, who could not immediately find those brilliant words which her imagination supplied in solitude.


"Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?"


"Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular."


"Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me." He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. "I thought you told me that you would love me."

"Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me." He paused. "I thought you told me that you would love me."


"I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it."


"By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellow more in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it again."


"I don't know whether you love me well enough." She longed to be told by him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr. Melmotte which he almost feared. "Do you really love me well enough?" she whispered.

"I don't know whether you love me well enough." She longed to be told that he loved her. He had no objection to telling her so, but felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He wanted her to accept him; and he wished that she could have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr. Melmotte which he almost feared.
"Do you really love me well enough?" she whispered.


"Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know I love you."


"By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. I did indeed."


It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. "Then I will love you," she said. "I will with all my heart."

It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. "Then I will love you," she said, "with all my heart."


"Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix now;--mayn't I?"


"Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You know a great many men have asked me to love them."

"Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. You know a great many men have asked me to love them."


"But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least;--not in the least."

"But I have never cared for any of them in the least."


"Oh yes." She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the moment that she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only he would have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe. There was indeed a certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. "Oh, Felix," she said, giving her face up to him; "no one ever did it before." He did not in the least believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him. "Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to you."

"Oh yes." She looked up into his beautiful face, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought that she was very common to look at. Even Sophia Longestaffe looked better. The brightness which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and tears was thrown away altogether upon him.
They were walking in some shrubbery apart from the house; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm around her waist and kissed her.
"Oh, Felix," she said, giving her face up to him; "no one ever did it before." He did not believe her, nor did it matter to him. "Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to you."


"Men are not always good to their wives. Papa is often very cross to mamma."


"Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this."

"Yes, he can. I don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this."


"But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?"


"He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again now. He hasn't said so, but mamma tells me. But I never will;--never!"

"He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again. But I never will!"


"You needn't be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to kill me. I hate him,--and I do so love you." Then she leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. "You will speak to papa; won't you?"

"I would not do it if they were to kill me. I hate him - and I do so love you." Then she leaned upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. "You will speak to papa; won't you?"


"I don't know whether Madame Melmotte ought not--"


"Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him than anybody;--more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always did that."

"Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always did it."


"Of course I'll do it," said Sir Felix. "I'm not afraid of him. Why should I? He and I are very good friends, you know."

"Of course I'll do it," said Sir Felix. "I'm not afraid of him. He and I are very good friends.


"He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day."

He made me a Director of one of his companies."


"Did he? Perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law."


"I hope he will. I shall like you for papa's son-in-law. I hope it isn't wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me." Then she put her face up towards his again.


"Of course I love you," he said, not thinking it worth his while to kiss her. "It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better go and see him in the city."


"He is in a good humour now," said Marie.


"But I couldn't get him alone. It wouldn't be the thing to do down here."


"Not in the country,--in another person's house. Shall you tell Madame Melmotte?"

in another person's house. Will you tell Madame Melmotte?"


"Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma does not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time. Of course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you." Then he left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. Mr. Melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house, and Lord Alfred was still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felix passed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in London. Mr. Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour. Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. Yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister on the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not coming. He believed that his cousin Roger never did go any where like any one else. No; he had not seen Mr. Longestaffe. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to-morrow. Then he escaped, and got on his horse, and rode away.

"Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma does not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time. I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you."
Then he left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. Mr. Melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house with Lord Alfred. As Sir Felix passed the great man he told himself that it was much better to postpone the interview till they were in London. Mr. Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour.
Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. Yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them on the following day. His cousin was not coming. He believed that his cousin Roger never did go anywhere. Then he got on his horse, and rode away.


"That's going to be the lucky man," said Georgiana to her mother, that evening.


"He is going to get the heiress and all the money. What a fool Dolly has been!"


"I don't think it would have suited Dolly," said Lady Pomona. "After all, why should not Dolly marry a lady?"


Very early the next morning, very early that is for London life, Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wanted to see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether he wanted to see Croll. "Is it anything special?" he asked. The man thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared his purpose of waiting when told that Mr. Melmotte was not as yet dressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte longed to know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to ask a question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious. "Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study." But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment.

Very early the next morning, Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wanted to see him. He was not sure whether he wanted to see Croll. He longed to know the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner, but he did not dare ask.
"See if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study," he said. But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment.


Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would meet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well that he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding him wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he could not fly. And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he would do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Croll as well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an end to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be shown up into his room.

Melmotte could not make up his mind whether to meet his clerk. It might be well that he should first go into the City, telling Croll to wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but he knew that he could not fly. And if he stood his ground, he must not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts he may. Of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt - and why not Croll as well as another?
He stood in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an end to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be shown up into his room.


The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was still upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to support himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly. Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been forged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll should be ignorant of what had been done. "Well, Croll," he said with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" He was pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself from trembling.

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed very long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was still upon his face. But he could not conquer his anxiety, though he was fighting it at every turn.
When the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to support himself. Hoarsely he told the man to come in, and Croll opened the door very gently and slowly. Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw that Croll had the bag in his hand. He could see also by the shape of the bag that it contained the papers to which Croll's name had been forged. There was no longer a hope that Croll was ignorant of what had been done.
"Well, Croll," he said with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" He was pale as death, and could not stop himself from trembling.


"Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night," said Croll.


"And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all." Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.

"He thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all." Croll spoke in a very low voice, but with no threat in his manner.


[Illustration: "He thought I had better bring these back to you."]


"Eh!" repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not assume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

It all flashed upon Melmotte in a moment. Brehgert had seen Croll, had discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents. He had known Brehgert to be the most good-natured of men, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.


"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signature was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'd bring them to you in the morning."

"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signature was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home, and said I'd bring them to you in the morning."


They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll; but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends had resolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were! Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him in forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to such an occasion. "It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll. Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. "I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr. Melmotte."

They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll; but had resolved together that they would not expose him. Melmotte had wished to get the documents back, and here they were. He found that he could not speak.
"It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll. Melmotte tried to smile. "I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr. Melmotte."


"I tink not;--no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it. Adieu." And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that Herr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by his patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was a "strong order."

"I tink not. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it. Adieu." And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after twenty years.


Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but here the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again he had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his own carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool might do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and wide awake at every turn!

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined all the documents. It had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It had of course been necessary that each name should be witnessed; but here the forger had left one signature undone! He had aided his own ruin by his carelessness.


Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and now he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew the crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep the secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.

Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll would probably enter some rival service, and there could be no reason why he should keep the secret. Of course Croll would tell it.


But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was his own daughter! The money had been his own money! There had been no fraud; no robbery. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done. But the evidence must be suppressed, so he took the bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his breakfast - and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.


When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

When this was done he hesitated as to how to pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the gentlemen on the next day the fact that he must leave the matter in their hands. For he had resolved not to evade the meeting. He would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe.
But he could do no good now by going into the City. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and he would dine there, and stand about in the smoking-room, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators - and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was about to have a crushing fall - but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.


About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who had ever received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her. Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by her obstinacy had driven him to acts of forgery. He had cause to be angry with Marie. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings.


"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday."

"Papa," she said, "I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday."


"Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now."

"Of course you were wrong; but it doesn't matter now."


"If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether he does or not."

"If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more.


"I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there. I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more."


"O dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how. I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?"


"Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?"


"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him."


"Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?"


"Then what makes you think he would marry you?"


"He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in Germany."


"We could do that just as well without your marrying."


"But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else."

"I like him, Papa, and I don't like anybody else."


"He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you."


"He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand. He's as good as anybody else."


"There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him? And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage."

It is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage."


"No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter."

"No. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter."


"I won't,--if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."

"I won't - if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."


Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. "I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you."

Then the father became angry. "I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away if we have to leave suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. Maybe none of them are very good, but he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you."


That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. "I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," Marie said. "I am Marie Melmotte."

That afternoon the servant in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir Felix. At this time Sir Felix still had plasters on his face, and was much subdued.
Lady Carbury asked about the lady, suspecting that it was Ruby Ruggles. The servant could say only that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady Carbury directed that she be shown up - and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room.
"I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," she said.


At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so before she replied. "Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you."


"Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street."

"How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street."


"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better." Now Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that "it was all over" with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting. "Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a week is over." That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better." Now Lady Carbury had heard from Mr. Broune that "it was all over" with Melmotte. Broune believed that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, and was a ruined man.


"I want to see him," said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while. "I suppose he told you everything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and telling you."

"I want to see him," said Marie. Lady Carbury was silent for a while. "I suppose he told you everything. You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of telling you."


"I thought it was all off," said Lady Carbury.


"I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true."

"I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong."


Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. "I am afraid," she said, "that it would not be suitable."

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her that this young lady, knowing that her father was ruined, was boldly looking for another home. She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly.
"I am afraid," she said, "that it would not be suitable."


"Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable."

"Why not? They can't take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us; but it is mine. It is a great deal - thousands a year. We should be rich enough. I ain't ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable."


It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it was true? "I understand that your papa is opposed to it," she said.


"Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare to do it, why can't he?"

"Yes, he is; but papa can't prevent me, and he can't make me give up the money."


Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she should see Mr. Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand a year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. "My son is up-stairs," she said. "I will go up and speak to him."

Lady Carbury was beside herself with doubt. She needed to see Mr. Broune. What to do with her son was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him with thousands a year. If the thousands were there - or even a single thousand a year - what a blessing would such a marriage be!
"My son is upstairs," she said. "I will go up and speak to him."


"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him."

"Tell him I am here and that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him."


"I couldn't go down to her," said Sir Felix, "with my face all in this way."


"I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to Liverpool."


"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you."

"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out about her fortune. She is very fond of you."


"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?" He would not go down to see the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

"What's the use of that, if her father is ruined?" He would not go down to see the girl - because he could not bear to expose his face, and was ashamed of his wounds. As regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But getting the money would be a lot of trouble. And how could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?


"What shall I say to her?" asked his mother.


"She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again."

"She oughtn't to have come. Tell her just that."


But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make. "Miss Melmotte," she said, "my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."

Lady Carbury went very slowly back down to the drawing-room. "Miss Melmotte," she said, "my son feels that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."


"That is his message;--is it?" Lady Carbury remained silent. "Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury."

"That is his message, is it? Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him. I am not ashamed of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him. But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury.


"Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me."


"No;--no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him."


Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way. What should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she endeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She had really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street. What should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she prepare for? The life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship of her early days had been more endurable. In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation. She had really loved; but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay. She had declared that bad as the clay was she would still love it; but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!


She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city,--probably in some very distant part. But go where she might, she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father. Catastrophes had happened before. But this blow would be a very heavy blow. They would need to pack up and move to some other, distant city. But go where she might, she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she formed before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.


When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune some years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeed a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to his statements. That he should have intended to produce a false impression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he should have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no one would believe. He was going to Germany, and he was going in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain there for the next twelve months. A representation had lately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter. A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the income suggested was very small. The Protestant English population of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. It had come to pass that the "Morning Breakfast Table" had interested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those concerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "Morning Breakfast Table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had been induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a consideration. Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blake all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wish that Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy return to England of the young gentleman himself.

When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to travel abroad with a clergyman, he was, for once, not lying. He was indeed going to Germany for the next twelve months. The Bishop of London had recently decided that a small commercial town in north-eastern Prussia was in need of a minister. The income suggested was very small; but the Morning Breakfast Table interested itself in the matter, and appealed for subscriptions so successfully that it at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman.
And so the Rev. Septimus Blake, who took the post, was also induced to undertake the charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a further payment. Mr. Broune gave Mr. Blake much counsel about the management of the baronet, who should see as much as possible of German life at modest expense; and Mr. Broune emphasised that the clergyman should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home early.


Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure the idea of driving him into exile. But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart. "What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in anger. For in those days the great editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into her eyes. His manner with her had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person. She hardly dared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she really felt and thought. "Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?"

Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. She could not endure the idea of driving her son into exile. But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, and, she thought, hard-hearted.
"What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in anger. For in those days Mr. Broune no longer squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. His manner had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person. "Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling?"


"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid things."

"Oh, my friend, do not say such horrid things."


"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself compelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can he do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?"

"I have to. What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can he do better?"


"Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?"

"Married! Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?


"What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He has agreed to go;--let him go."

Lady Carbury, if you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. Let him go."


She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented, it was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr. Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. "Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make you go to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so."

She was forced to yield. And Mr. Broune was equally firm in persuading Sir Felix to start upon his travels.
"Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "will not beggar herself to indulge you. She cannot make you go to Germany, of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so.


"I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune."


"No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so. You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take her advice 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in England not a shilling further will be paid." He had no money. His last sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would give him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken away from him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for the better. He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his departure.

If you go, 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance; but if you remain in England you will not get a shilling."
Felix had no money. No tradesman would give him credit, and his clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement during the coming months; and he thought that any change must be for the better.
He assented, therefore, and was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake.


Mr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass to grow under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother. "It will be just enough to bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate. "It will be gone," she said, "long before they reach their destination."

Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg - having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother.
"It will be just enough to bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury assured him that Felix would have spent the sum long before they reached their destination.


"Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr. Broune.


Mr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket. Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do. "I wouldn't write another novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as the writing of novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic had declared it to be very good in glowing language. The "Evening Pulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the "Evening Pulpit" to abuse. So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come from malice. After that article in the "Breakfast Table," it did seem hard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels. She looked up at him piteously but said nothing. "I don't think you'd find it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great many others. But then that is saying so little!"

said Mr. Broune, whose anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.
Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury; and he came three or four evenings a week, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do.
"I wouldn't write another novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic had reviewed it in glowing language, although the Evening Pulpit had of course abused it. She looked up at him piteously but said nothing.
"I don't think you'd find it would answer," said Mr. Broune.


"I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I don't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else."

"I think I would turn to something else."


"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."


To this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for a while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means permitted it. What should she do with herself? Whither should she take herself? Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels. After all, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other women around her! That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the "Breakfast Table." Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. He would not thus have crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her now,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occur to her to rebel against him. After what he had said, of course there would be no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"--and, equally of course, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more she thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve months ago.

To this Mr. Broune made no reply; but, after sitting for a while in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself. What should she do? That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing her hopes on the review in the Breakfast Table. Now she was equally despondent. After what he had said, there would be no more praise in the Breakfast Table, - and no novel of hers could succeed without that.


On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her broken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first chapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should even look at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent. It was all "leather or prunello," as she said to herself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real enjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr. Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more novels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!

On the next day he did not come, and she sat idle and wretched. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of a second novel. It was impossible now to even look at what she had written. She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.
It was all vanity! What real enjoyment had she found in anything? She had taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like; but she had never yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation, but now even her anticipations were at an end.


The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very wretched. "I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now."

The next day Mr. Broune came, and found her still very wretched.
"I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford to keep it. I don't know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now."


"You wouldn't think of going out of London."


"Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."

"Why not? I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."


"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you," said Mr. Broune plaintively.


"So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."

"So shall I - very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you tell me I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."


"I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.


"Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"

"Ah - that is so kind of you. You say you want me, because I have so sadly needed you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"


"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours."

"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, I understood, because of your son's position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have convinced myself - not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have convinced myself that such a marriage will make me happy, and I think, dearest, you too."


This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at first brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her countenance. "Well," he said; "what do you think of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son."

This was said so quietly and placidly that the words hardly at first brought themselves home to her. She could not feel his offer was in earnest. It was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and pretences, that she could not understand that he should in truth want to make her his wife.
At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face.
"Well," he said; "what do you think?"


"That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.


"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will accept me."


The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding to a firm bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted kiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly had not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature. Nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. As he remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. "You can hardly have thought of it enough," she said.

The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only for money, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned; the calumny which had made her miserable; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career - there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach?
Then she remembered that first attempted kiss, when she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She could not quite understand whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and even nature had since changed - or whether he had really loved her from first to last.


"I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for six months at least."


"There is so much against me," she said.


"I know all about that," replied Mr. Broune.


"I think I may say that I know all about that also."


"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily for me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I should do so."

"I am not proposing to marry you for your money. Luckily it is not necessary that I should do so."


"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to give to me."

"And then I seem to have fallen through in everything. I don't know what I've got to give in return for all that you offer me."


"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. And there he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without looking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. They would certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that any one could have seen them. But how many absurdities of the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that Age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the display of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, and which Age regrets.

"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. She found herself compelled to put her own, very slowly, into it. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. But Age is not ashamed of feeling passion - it is only the public display of it which Age regrets.


On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He had certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he went down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.

Little more was said between them. As he went down to his office he told himself that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.


She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a thorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfect blank to her. There was no single object of interest before her. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful. Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

She, as she sat alone late into the night, underwent a reversal of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfect blank to her. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man, who had given her such proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world. Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, and to shine with his reflected glory?


Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell; but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady Carbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her own resolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.

Whether her hopes were realised, these pages cannot tell; but before winter was over, Lady Carbury became Mrs. Broune. The house in Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.


Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very little avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had been made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no Prince! "They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats." That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.

Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after the Emperor's dinner, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask put her and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing.
"They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats," he thought, as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies.


"What a horrid affair!" said Lady Monogram. "Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?" This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it.


"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.


"Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early."

"Late! Why, it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square."


"You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault."

"You knew they did not mean to stay long. I really think it was your own fault."


"My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."

"My own fault. Yes; it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."


"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"


"You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?" She could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.

"You know very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us tomorrow night?"


"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so."


"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix things." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.

"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.


Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first London circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. "I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."

Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex! She was almost in tears, and yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests.
"I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."


"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother.

"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out - unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram marched into the house, and went direct to her room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, prepared to write to her mother.


The letter to her mother must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr. Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the present moment. Of course it was proper that Mr. Brehgert should see her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts. Those few words about "various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. Mr. Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of what she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.

The letter must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice suggested that he should, in the usual way, go to see Mr. Longestaffe, who was at present in London. But she had asked him to postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts.
Mr. Brehgert was rich, certainly. But she already repented of accepting him. If it were really necessary to go down into another, much lower world, a world composed of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? Caversham had been dull; but it was a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set - miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes. She would write one letter tonight; but she did not know whether to write to her mother telling her the horrid truth - or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.
She might have decided on the latter had so many people not already heard of the match. The Monograms had talked of it far and wide. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham.


And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and Mr. Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr. Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr. Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

And there were other troubles. She had spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, for ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!


If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how should she face her family after such a declaration? She had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for the following morning:--

If the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat - and how should she face her family?
She wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother as follows:


I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.


(This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.)