Sir Felix, when he promised to meet Ruby at the Music Hall on the Tuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte for New York on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool on the Wednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy himself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor little Ruby. The details of his journey were settled between him and Marie, with no inconsiderable assistance from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor Square, on the previous Sunday,--where the lovers had again met during the hours of morning service. Sir Felix had been astonished at the completion of the preparations which had been made. "Mind you go by the 5 P.M. train," Marie said. "That will take you into Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station. Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to have one cabin between us. You must get yours to-morrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room."
"I'll be all right."
"Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure to suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We leave at 7 A.M. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. Robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?"
"Clothes," suggested Felix.
"Yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. Think of that! What a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and Madame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but I shall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all my jewels. I'm not going to leave them behind. They'll go off in our cab. We can get the things out behind the house into the mews. Then Didon and I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near nine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted."
"If the servants were to hear."
"I don't think they'd tell. But if I was to be brought back again, I should only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent me marrying."
"Won't your mother find out?"
"She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if she knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be like that."--And she looked up into his face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be.
"I'm all right," said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the time. This great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been a pleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the great heiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed,--and executed after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wished that he had not undertaken it. It must have been much nicer when men ran away with their heiresses only as far as Gretna Green. And even Goldsheiner with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison with this which he was expected to perform. And then if they should be wrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented. He did repent, but he had not the courage to recede. "How about money though?" he said hoarsely.
"You have got some?"
"I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and not a shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not let me have it back."
"Look here," said Marie, and she put her hand into her pocket. "I told you I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets."
"And whose is this?" said Felix, taking the bit of paper with much trepidation.
"It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the house and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't." Felix looked at the cheque and saw that it was payable to House or Bearer, and that it was signed by Augustus Melmotte. "If you take it to the bank you'll get the money," said Marie. "Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on board the ship?"
Felix thought over the matter very anxiously. If he did go on the journey he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. He liked the feeling of having money in his pocket. Perhaps if Didon were entrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. But then might it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself he might be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money? "I think Didon had better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me to-morrow, at four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club." If the money did not come he would not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the expense of his ticket for New York. "You see," he said, "I'm so much in the City that they might know me at the bank." To this arrangement Marie assented and took back the cheque. "And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning," he said, "without looking for you."
"Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till we are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you think? Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman on board. I wonder whether he'd marry us."
"Of course he will."
"Won't that be jolly? I wish it was all done. Then, directly it's done, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? Of course he'll make the best of it."
"But he's so savage; isn't he?"
"When there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. But I don't think he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything;--misfortunes and all. Things go wrong so often that if he was to go on thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. It'll be all right in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see him. He never can say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged, but it was he broke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!" Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so. As to what the other man had done, he cared nothing at all.
Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each other again till they met on board the boat. All arrangements were made. But Felix was determined that he would not stir in the matter unless Didon brought him the full sum of 250; and he almost thought, and indeed hoped, that she would not. Either she would be suspected at the bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the money on her own account when she got it;--or the cheque would have been missed and the payment stopped. Some accident would occur, and then he would be able to recede from his undertaking. He would do nothing till after Monday afternoon.
Should he tell his mother that he was going? His mother had clearly recommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approve of the measure. His mother would understand how great would be the expense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stock of money. He determined that he would tell his mother;--that is, if Didon should bring him full change for the cheque.
He walked into the Beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the Monday, and there he found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank within him as he saw her. Now must he certainly go to New York. She made him a little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft and fat with rich enclosures. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a little waiting-room counted the notes. The money was all there;--the full sum of 250. He must certainly go to New York. "C'est tout en rgle?" said Didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. Sir Felix nodded his head, and Didon took her departure.
Yes; he must go now. He had Melmotte's money in his pocket, and was therefore bound to run away with Melmotte's daughter. It was a great trouble to him as he reflected that Melmotte had more of his money than he had of Melmotte's. And now how should he dispose of his time before he went? Gambling was too dangerous. Even he felt that. Where would he be were he to lose his ready money? He would dine that night at the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. On the Tuesday he would take his place for New York in the City, and would spend the evening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start for Liverpool,--according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that he had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well nobody would know that. All the fellows would give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America.
At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck Street--"What; Felix?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.
"You're surprised; are you not?" Then he threw himself into a chair. "Mother," he said, "would you mind coming into the other room?" Lady Carbury of course went with him. "I've got something to tell you," he said.
"Good news?" she asked, clasping her hands together. From his manner she thought that it was good news. Money had in some way come into his hands,--or at any rate a prospect of money.
"That's as may be," he said, and then he paused.
"Don't keep me in suspense, Felix."
"The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie off."
"Oh, Felix."
"You said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore I'm going to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing."
"But when?"
"Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. I've had it in my mind for the last fortnight."
"And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed."
"It was your own idea, you know. We're going to;--where do you think?"
"How can I think?--Boulogne."
"You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn't have done at all for us. We're going to--New York."
"To New York! But when will you be married?"
"There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't go without telling you."
"Oh; I wish you hadn't told me."
"Come now;--that's kind. You don't mean to say it wasn't you that put me up to it. I've got to get my things ready."
"Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?"
"Wednesday afternoon."
"For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?" He attempted to laugh. "When I spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling."
"They always say that."
"You are going to risk it?"
"I am going to take your advice." This was dreadful to the poor mother. "There is money settled on her."
"Settled on whom?"
"On Marie;--money which he can't get back again."
"How much?"
"She doesn't know;--but a great deal; enough for them all to live upon if things went amiss with them."
"But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to give to her husband."
"Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the pull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for me about money, mother?"
"I have none, Felix."
"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it."
"That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't 20 at the bank altogether."
"They would let you overdraw for 50 or 60."
"I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but I have not money to give you."
"That's a blue look out," said he, turning himself in his chair,--"just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."
"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have some money?"
"Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me." Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque for 30, although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker's.
After this he went back to his club, although he himself understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. "Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."
"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix. "I hate three-handed loo."
"Dummy," suggested Dolly.
"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together." Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. "By-the-bye, Grendall,--look here." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a petition that some of the I. O. U.'s might be converted into cash.
"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.
"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and standing with his back to the fire-place. There were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a glass of brandy on re-entering the club.
"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."
"Of course," said Miles. "I won't say a word about the matter down here. It isn't the proper thing."
"Come up into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix, getting up from his chair. "It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say." But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had anything to say, he could say it.
"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly. "One has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club."
"He likes a row,--Carbury does," said Miles.
"I should like my money, if I could get it," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.
On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. This was done after a little hesitation. The money was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. "Dear, dear;" said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York. Of course he would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his last night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her she could not blame him.
Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his club. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but the payments punctual. The I. O. U.'s had been nearly all converted into money,--with the assistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those of Miles Grendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him the determination of the committee. "Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this." Miles had declared that he would "stump up." But on this occasion Miles was absent.
At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.
But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New York without delay.

Sir Felix was to start with Marie Melmotte for New York on the Thursday, and to go down to Liverpool on the Wednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy himself to the last by seeing Ruby. The details of his journey had been settled between him and Marie, with help from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor Square. Sir Felix had been astonished at the completeness of the preparations.
"Mind you go by the 5 p.m. train," Marie said. "That will take you into Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station. Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to share a cabin. You must get yours tomorrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room."
"I'll be all right."
"Pray don't miss that train. We leave at 7 a.m. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. Robert will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?"
"Clothes," suggested Felix.
"My wedding dresses. Think of that! What a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and the shop in Mount Street! And I shall have all my jewels. They'll go in our cab, then Didon and I follow in another cab. Nobody is ever up before nine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted."
"Won't your mother find out?"
"I don't think she'd tell if she knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix, I hope you won't be like that." She looked into his face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be.
"I'm all right," said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable. This great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been a pleasurable excitement in talking about running away with the heiress, but now that the deed had to be done, he almost wished that he had not undertaken it. And then if they should be wrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented, but he had not the courage to withdraw.
"How about money though?" he said hoarsely. "I have only the two hundred pounds which your father paid me. I don't see why he should keep my money."
"Look here," said Marie. "There is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets."
"Whose is this?" said Felix, taking it.
"It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to pay for things, but she gets so muddled that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't." Felix saw that the cheque was payable to House or Bearer, and was signed by Augustus Melmotte. "If you take it to the bank you'll get the money," said Marie. "Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on board the ship?"
Felix thought this over very anxiously. He would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. But if he presented the cheque himself, might he be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money?
"I think Didon had better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me tomorrow afternoon, to the club." If the money did not come he would not go down to Liverpool. "You see," he said, "I'm so much in the City that they might know me at the bank. And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning without looking for you."
"Oh dear, yes. And don't know us till we are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we are walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix; Didon has found that there is to be an American clergyman on board. I wonder whether he'd marry us. Won't that be jolly? Then, when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and be penitent and good. Of course he'll make the best of it."
"But he's so savage."
"Just for the moment. But I don't think he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything. Things go wrong so often that he can't go on thinking of them for ever. It'll be all right in a month. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged, he never once kissed me!" Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so.
Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each other again till they met on the boat. But Felix was determined that he would not stir unless Didon brought him the 250; and he almost hoped that she would not. Either she would be stopped at the bank, or she would run off with the money. Then he would be able to withdraw. He would do nothing till after Monday afternoon.
Should he tell his mother that he was going? She had recommended him to run away with the girl, and must approve. She would understand the great expense of such a trip, and might perhaps give him some money. He determined that he would tell his mother, if Didon brought him the full amount for the cheque.
He walked into the Beargarden at four o'clock on the Monday, and found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank. She made him a little curtsey, and handed him a fat envelope. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a side room counted the notes. The money was all there. Now he must certainly go to New York.
"It is all in order?" whispered Didon when he returned. Sir Felix nodded, and she departed.
Yes; he must go. How should he dispose of his time before he went? Gambling was too dangerous: even he felt that. He would dine that night at the club, and in the evening go to his mother. On the Tuesday he would book his place for New York, and would spend the evening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start for Liverpool, according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that he had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well, all the fellows would give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America.
At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck Street.
"What; Felix?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.
"Mother," he said, "would you mind coming into the other room?" Lady Carbury followed him. "I've got something to tell you," he said.
"Good news?" she asked, clasping her hands together.
"That's as may be. I'm going to take Marie off."
"Oh, Felix!"
"You said it was the right thing to do - so I'm going to do it. But one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing."
"When?"
"Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. We're going to New York."
"To New York! But when will you be married?"
"There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't go without telling you."
"I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?"
"Wednesday afternoon."
"For New York! Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her? You are going to risk it?"
"I am going to take your advice." This was dreadful to the poor mother. "There is money settled on Marie; money which he can't get back again."
"How much?"
"She doesn't know; but a great deal."
"But the money can't be her own, Felix."
"Melmotte will find that it is. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than anyone would think. What can you do for me about money, mother?"
"I have none, Felix."
"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it."
"That's not true, Felix. Oh, I am so sorry I ever said that! I have no money in the bank."
"They would let you overdraw 50 or 60."
"I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some clothes for you, and pay for them if you cannot - but I have no money to give you."
"That's a blue look out," said he, "just when 60 or 70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune."
"I will do no such thing, Felix. 50 or 60 would make very little difference in such a trip as this. You have some money?"
"Some; yes. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me."
Before the evening was over she gave him a cheque for 30. Then he went back to his club, even though he understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. He was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together.
"Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."
"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix. "I don't think I'll play tonight, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together."
Miles sat silently smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike of playing with him.
"By-the-bye, Grendall." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a request that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into cash.
"I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.
"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and speaking so that everyone in the room should hear. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the scraps of paper. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had just taken a glass of brandy.
"Don't let's have that kind of thing down here," said Dolly. "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."
"Come into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix. "Come up, now; and Dolly shall come and hear what you say."
But Miles objected. He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play.
"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly.
"Carbury likes a row," said Miles.
"I should like my money," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.
On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. A gentleman behind the desk begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account.
"Dear, dear," said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes. "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he decided that since she had broken her appointment everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her, she could not blame him.
He went back to his club very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he had an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the usual men - except Miles. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. Ready money was on the table; indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of I.O.U.'s, and they had been nearly all converted into money, excepting those of Miles Grendall. The committee had decided to take no more I.O.U.s.
At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.
But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had left the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and had gone on to New York without delay.

Chapter 49: Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready


Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any rate with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation turned naturally to Mr. Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes almost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two propositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her residence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir Felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should take possession of Carbury manor for six months. "And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.
"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to." Mr. Broune shook his head. Mr. Broune did not think that an offer so quixotically generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies. "That he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the mean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. He had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet the world. "As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."
"And the girl?"
"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but it was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still means to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth about it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something." The "we" of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the "Morning Breakfast Table."
But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to "ask himself;" and she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written account of Mrs. Hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:--
Welbeck Street, 16th July, 18--.
MY DEAR PAUL.
She found that after that which had passed between them she could not call him "My dear Sir," or "My dear Mr. Montague," and that it must either be "Sir" or "My dear Paul." He was dear to her,--very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul,"--but she made her choice, and so commenced.
MY DEAR PAUL,
A strange report has come round to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But I fear,--I fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell me. He said,--"Ask himself." And so I ask you. Of course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about this. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.
Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration which must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribed herself,
Your affectionate friend,
HENRIETTA CARBURY.
"Most affectionately your own Hetta" would have been the form in which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written to him.
Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a second or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong against such written communications. A man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs. Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--"Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to you." And then he and his beloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying up to London.
He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then, up-stairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it with her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would not again accept her lover till this story of Mrs. Hurtle had been sifted to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room and suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather see Mr. Montague herself. Felix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.
When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his arms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she had prepared herself for it. "Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this--first." She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found himself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her.
"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
"Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."
"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think your brother is as well informed."
"Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?"
"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."
"I will believe anything that you will tell me."
"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."
"Is she a widow?"--He did not answer this at once. "I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."
"Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced."
"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?"
"Yes."
"And you loved her?"
Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."
"Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.
"Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. Hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. "Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta,--"because I believe they get themselves divorced just when they like." Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I could only know what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. "Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern severity. No,--not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his second return to England,--and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington. "I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you." He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern.
"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day."
Montague had intended to tell all,--almost all. There was a something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. "It was on account of her health."
"Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"
"I did."
"Was that for her--health?"
"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"
"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago."
"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.
"Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."
"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."
"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."
"She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."
"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."
[Illustration: "You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle."]
"She knows now that it is all over."
"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.
"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"
"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs. Hurtle."
"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."
"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me."
"What does it matter?"
"Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."
"Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?"
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."
"Hetta!"
"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.
Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she could only really know it all, there could be no such result. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, never swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved some woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London,--which he would have given half his possessions to have prevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.
He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually free from Mrs. Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content to abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possible preserve an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been cruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he thought, very little heart. "I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her? Surely she might have left Mrs. Hurtle to fight her own battles. But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And here there was really so very little to forgive! Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" in close intercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even heard the name. But then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide difference between young men and young women!
Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to her own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. "Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears,--or very nigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost successfully. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."
"Enough of it was true," said Hetta, who, angry as she was with her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for disturbing her bliss.
"What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me openly?"
"I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else."
"Roger Carbury is very different."
"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to me that you do not understand in the least."
"I say he is not like that."
"Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like that."
"I say that he can be trusted."
"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"
"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."
"Mamma," said Hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh, mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me to be more to Roger Carbury than I am now."
"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"
"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."
"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague."
"I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of."
"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--"
"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.
"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"
"He understood that."
"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."
"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly." Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.

Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable about her son that she was unable to be as active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter. Roger had returned to Suffolk; so in need of assistance and consolation she turned naturally to Mr. Broune. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's life to see Lady Carbury every day. She told him of Roger's proposals: first, that she should take Sir Felix abroad to live in some second-rate French or German town, and, secondly, that she should live at Carbury manor for six months.
"And where would Mr. Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.
"There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to."
Mr. Broune shook his head. He did not think that an offer so quixotically generous should be accepted. As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether it was worth the sacrifice. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies.
"So that he might drink himself to death," said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune.
Sir Felix was still in the doctor's hands upstairs. There was not in truth much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. At present, however, he preferred to be an invalid rather than to meet the world.
"As to Melmotte," said Mr. Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him."
"And the girl?"
"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor today on some charge of fraud; but it was postponed. And I was told Nidderdale still means to marry the girl."
In all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition. She received two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had not met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving her convinced that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction.
Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment - with not a word that suggested the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; but now she did not know how to answer it. Roger had told her to "ask Paul himself." So she wrote to Paul, as follows:
My dear Paul,
(Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul.")
My dear Paul,
A strange report has come to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid. But I fear there is something true that will be very sad for me to hear. I first heard it from my brother, and I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all, but he will not tell me. And so I ask you. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.
Your affectionate friend,
Henrietta Carbury.
Paul received this letter at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that he needed to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back - almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. When he was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But a man hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And a writer cannot show tenderness by tone of voice. I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying to London.
He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. He would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury.
Upstairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, with her mother's consent. But she must herself hear what her lover had to say. Felix, who was there, suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his sister's behalf; but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather go herself. Felix did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.
When she entered the parlour Paul stepped forward to take her in his arms. She had prepared herself for this.
"Paul," she said, "let me hear about all this first." She sat down at some distance from him.
"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
"Yes. Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."
"Oh yes; Roger knows the whole history. I don't think your brother is as well informed."
"Perhaps not. But - isn't it a story that - concerns me?"
"Certainly you ought to know it, Hetta. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you."
"I will believe anything that you will tell me."
"Well, then, I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."
"Is she a widow? I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."
"Yes; she is a widow. She was divorced."
"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?"
"Yes."
"And you loved her?"
Montague did not wish to be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end."
"Oh, certainly. But if you meant to marry her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.
"Yes; I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story. Hetta listened, not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, her words were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean crossing when Paul had promised to make this woman his wife.
"Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta.
Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I only knew what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger.
"Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern severity. No, not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and - he was forced to acknowledge that the engagement had not been broken off. He had written to her on his second return to England, and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington.
"I can hardly tell you how terrible that was," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you."
It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern. "Felix says you took her to Lowestoft - quite the other day."
Montague had intended to tell almost all. There was something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand. "It was on account of her health."
"Oh; on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"
"I did."
"Was that for her health?"
"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"
"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft, for her health. That was only a week ago."
"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.
"Oh; nearly three weeks! You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."
"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."
"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."
"She wanted then to force me to - to - Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure you understand. You cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."
"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."
"She knows now that it is all over."
"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider. To have come all the way here from San Francisco after you, she must be very much attached to you. She is a very old friend, and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with little chokes in her throat, but without a tear or any sign of tenderness.
"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"
"I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married - Mrs. Hurtle."
"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."
"I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. It seemed to be impossible that you should have come to me not much more than a week after that trip to Lowestoft."
"What does it matter?"
"Oh, nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."
"Do you mean to say that you are going to - throw me over?"
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."
"Hetta!"
"No; do not lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.
Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her. Even if he had loved some woman before, that would not affect her. Her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London. Yet when she had come, could he have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be so cold and cruel? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle; but he had overcome that trouble. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.
He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake - so he told himself - he had stayed involved with that odious railway company, in order that he might have an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part, because he had not been cruelly indifferent to Mrs. Hurtle. There was no logic in it, and, as he thought, very little heart.
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her? But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix. She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And there was so very little to forgive!
Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" with another lover of whom he had never even heard. But then, there is a wide difference between young men and young women!
Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed him, went up at once to her own room. She was followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door.
"Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was struggling to repress her tears. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."
"Enough of it was true," said Hetta. "He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so, and to begin with somebody else."
"Roger Carbury is very different."
"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. You do not understand in the least."
"I say he is not like that. He can be trusted."
"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"
"If you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."
"Mamma," said Hetta, jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Nothing on earth will ever induce me to marry Roger."
"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"
"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."
"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to expect a reply. We have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you, with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger-"
"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.
"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"
"He understood that."
"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."
"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly."
Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.


"It's weary work," said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with his mother and sister.
"What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?" said his mother.
"It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I go home." So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the driver.
"It is two o'clock, Felix," said his mother.
"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps; I had none."
"Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?"
"I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night." Then he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed his play on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe owed him now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also in his debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not keep himself from the card-table.
Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had got up-stairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart at the moment. "Do you think he gambles?"
"He has got no money, mamma."
"I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles everything is lost."
"I suppose they all do play,--more or less."
"I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey me. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."
"He has been so long his own master, mamma."
"Yes,--his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."
"No, mamma;--that is unjust."
"He was always with you."
"I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice." Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head. "If you did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there."
"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London," she said, sobbing hysterically.
"Is it my fault, mamma?"
"You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself,--nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."
"I think of you, mamma."
"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man."
"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin very much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma." Lady Carbury just allowed herself to be kissed, and then was left alone.
At eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men who had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The Beargarden was so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to its being closed,--the only law being that it should not be opened before three in the afternoon. A sort of sanction had, however, been given to the servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in the morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be too heavy even for juvenile constitutions. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury, and the four had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had culminated during the last half-hour with blind hookey. But during the whole night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been an expressed opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would be both profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of the last two nights. The two men had played with the same object, and being young had shown their intention,--so that a certain feeling of hostility had been engendered. The reader is not to understand that either of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained any suspicion of foul play. But Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy and friendship. Dolly, however, was very tipsy.
At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, though no money then passed. The ready-money transactions had not lasted long through the night. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the figures and scraps of paper which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the fact bitterly, but contested it in vain. There were his own initials and his own figures, and even Miles Grendall, who was supposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce the amount. Then Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury,--an amount, indeed, that mattered little, as Miles could, at present, as easily have raised 40,000. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Grasslough, also, was impecunious; but he had a father,--also impecunious, indeed; but with them the matter would not be hopeless. Dolly Longestaffe was so tipsy that he could not even assist in making up his own account. That was to be left between him and Carbury for some future occasion.
"I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night," said Miles.
"Certainly,--only one thing," answered Felix.
"What one thing?"
"I think these things should be squared before we play any more!"
"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily. "Do you mean to hint anything?"
"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But I'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your revenge to-night."
"That's all right," said Miles.
"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night, Mr. Grendall."
"Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?"
"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again."
"A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to," said Grendall.
There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if he could realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again with horses, servants, and all luxuries as before. If all were paid, he would have over 3,000!

"It's weary work," said Sir Felix in the carriage with his mother and sister. "I think I'll run down to the club before I go home." He put his head out, and stopped the driver.
"It is two o'clock in the morning, Felix," said his mother.
"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. I had no supper. Good night."
He jumped out of the carriage, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He told himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had won again on the previous night. Dolly Longestaffe and Lord Grasslough owed him money, and he was determined that they should not think that he had been carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth he could not keep away from the card-table.
Neither mother nor daughter said a word till they reached home. Then the mother spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart.
"Do you think he gambles?"
"He has got no money, mamma."
"I fear that might not stop him. If he gambles everything is lost."
"I suppose they all play, more or less."
"I am wearied out of all heart by his lack of consideration to me. It is not that I expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."
"He has been so long his own master, mamma."
"His own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."
"No, mamma; that is unjust. I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice."
Her mother shook her head.
"If you did not want me to speak to Paul," said Hetta, "you should not have taken me there."
"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." As Henrietta kissed her good night, Lady Carbury began to sob. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London."
"Is it my fault, mamma?"
"You could save me from much if you wished. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling on myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."
"I think of you, mamma."
"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is because of that young man."
"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin Roger very much; - but that is all. Good night, mamma."
At eight o'clock the next morning four young men had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury; they had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had finished with blind hookey. But all night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and agreed with Lord Grasslough that it would be proper to relieve Sir Felix of his previous winnings. The two men had shown their intention, causing a certain hostility. Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy. Dolly, however, was very tipsy.
At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling-up, though no money passed hands. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the paper I.O.U.s which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the amount bitterly, but in vain. Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury, an amount that he could never hope to raise. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Dolly Longestaffe was too tipsy to make up his own account. That was to be left for some future occasion.
"I suppose you'll be here tomorrow, - that is, tonight," said Miles.
"Certainly," answered Felix. "Only I think these things should be squared before we play any more."
"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily. "Do you mean to hint anything?"
"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready money, that's all. But I'll give you your revenge tonight."
"All right," said Miles.
"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend. You have been rather rough tonight, Mr. Grendall."
"Rough - what the devil do you mean by that?"
"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again."
"I'm used to settling once a week," said Grendall.
There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he went home, calculated that if he were fully paid, he might begin the campaign again with all luxuries as before. He would have over 3,000!