When the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very desolate. The task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the return to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this was so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed without anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she thought, would not dare to propose it. On each of these days,--three or four times daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed till he had received some particular letter, and would not even listen to the suggestion of a day. "I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday," Georgiana said on the Friday evening. "I don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind," the father replied. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion. On the Sunday morning before they went to church there was a great discussion up-stairs. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. They were in their mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of their church-going toilet. It was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had certainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so Sophia asserted,--more disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen especially in reference to their bonnets. "You might as well wear them," said Lady Pomona, "for I am sure you will not be in London again this year."
"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.
"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into his pocket. I know what his face means so well."
"It is not possible," said Sophia. "He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised."
"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose we must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he meant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could."
"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on the part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own camp!
"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.
"Do!" Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. "Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do something, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be who it may."
"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."
"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us,--not the least,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here." The younger Miss Longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before her.
"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that," pleaded her sister.
"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable."
"I haven't got George Whitstable."
"Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are."
"You are very unjust," said Lady Pomona, wailing, "and you say horrid things."
"I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the same as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his word."
Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall. "Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?" Of course they were all going to church. They always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and would more especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of the bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, Lady Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During the service Mr. Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated the responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he had been an example to the parish all his life. The three ladies knelt on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. They did not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. It was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not a meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop preached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would not have complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept at Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach for ever! After the service they came back to lunch, and that meal also was eaten in silence. When it was over the head of the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently meaning to be left alone there. In that case he would have meditated upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoon with comfort. But this was denied to him. The two daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed; and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out" with her father, and Sophia had of course remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. When the last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began. "Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know about engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago."
"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your engagement."
"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning."
"You can't do anything of the kind."
"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady Pomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time, as a compromise.
"Then you can't have a day fixed," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?" said Sophia, in a low constrained voice.
"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live."
"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by in silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time.
"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr. Longestaffe, turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands.
"Do you mean that that is settled?" said Lady Pomona.
"I mean to say that that is settled," said Mr. Longestaffe.
Was there ever treachery like this! The indignation in Georgiana's mind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now she was told that the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get back to London,--even to the house of the hated Primeros,--without absolutely running away from her father's residence! "Then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us."
"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"
"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress,--by law."
"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house."
"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and entertain these people?"
"I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you." Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her father's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting with anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils.
[Illustration: She marched majestically out of the room.]
"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said.
"What can we do, my dear?"
"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them." This was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some little trouble of that kind. "I have never got myself talked about with any body. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have written his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you were ill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two at the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?"
"I understood so, my dear."
"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the blame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way."
"You do that for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.
"It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake," said Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair,--to an ancient flirtation, in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortune was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness.
"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia. "It's easy enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and nobody cares for a person."
"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.
"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana. "Does he expect me to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all."
"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a chuck of her head.
"Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come to that quite yet."
"You were talking of running away with somebody."
"I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that. I'll tell you what I shall do,--I will write papa a letter. I suppose he'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the Melmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but to have them here was terrible!"
During that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passed between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities of life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almost reconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable at a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which was always an excuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr. Longestaffe went to sleep. Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the next morning the head of the family found the following letter on his dressing-table;--
MY DEAR PAPA,--
I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.
You certainly did say that if we would come down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.
This was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to that threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with somebody.
I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and I should not in the least object to reminding her, only it should be done at once. Their house in Queen's Gate is very large, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa.
Your affectionate daughter,
GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.
Mr. Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. He, though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to some extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his authority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. If not, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not read much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating and drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. To stand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which he belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family. He would be contented to drag through long listless days at Caversham, and endeavour to nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it. By assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving, the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son from his wife's mother,--some 2,000 or 3,000 a year, magnified by the world into double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the Sussex property in order that the Suffolk property might be relieved. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the most careless of men, was always on his guard in any dealings with his father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. The father could not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. Melmotte had done something for him,--but in doing this Melmotte was very hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, when at Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that with such an establishment in the country he was not entitled to keep a house in town. Mr. Longestaffe had then said something about his daughters,--something especially about Georgiana,--and Mr. Melmotte had made a suggestion.
Mr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. But if there was one man he hated more than another, it was his neighbour Mr. Primero; and if one woman, it was Mrs. Primero. Primero, whom Mr. Longestaffe regarded as quite an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He paid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. He had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and borough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. He was a radical, of course, or, according to Mr. Longestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. And now there had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr. Primero was to have a peerage. To others the rumour was incredible, but Mr. Longestaffe believed it, and to Mr. Longestaffe that belief was an agony. A Baron Bundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron Bundlesham, would be more than Mr. Longestaffe could endure. It was quite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros.
But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been laid on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by letter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed her a note to read. "Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course you must judge for yourself." This was the note;--
MY DEAR MR. LONGESTAFFE,
As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.
Yours truly,
AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.
Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. It was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both her father and mother had heard her speak of these Melmottes, and knew what she thought of them. There was an insolence in the very suggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of that. "Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?" she asked.
"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially."
"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful."
"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana."
"It is that,--or staying here?"
"I think so, my dear."
"If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfully disagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!"
"She seemed to be very quiet."
"Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that if I'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did you not see it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful to look at as he is?"
"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona. "The Duchess of Stevenage has been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie. Everybody goes to their house."
"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma,--to have to sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that woman!"
"Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs."
"But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! Only think of it!"
"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear."
"Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, oh dear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure. If papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think of it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so much of being with the right set."
"Things are changed, Georgiana," said the anxious mother.
"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman compared with Mr. Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with Madame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such people it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine."
Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona informed Mr. Longestaffe that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be accepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, and Georgiana would go up on the Friday following. "I hope she'll like it," said Mr. Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. It was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor Lady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like to live in a house with Mr. and Madame Melmotte!
On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station, which was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head as usual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her even in the presence of her sister. "Sophy, I do so envy you staying here."
"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."
"Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not going to disgrace yourself."
"There's no disgrace in it, Georgey."
"Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and housemaids would be much better."
"Then don't go, Georgey."
"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain down here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow."
"Is he, now?"
"Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at home. But he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it has been papa's doing."
And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the Melmottes.

When the Melmottes left Caversham the house was very desolate. The Longestaffe ladies would have been comforted if the date of their return to London had been fixed. But days passed, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery was impossible. Their father would not dare to propose it.
Three or four times daily, hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to fix a day till he had received some particular letter. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less bold than Georgiana, and less anxious to go to London.
On the Sunday, before church, there was a great discussion in Lady Pomona's room. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. It was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had certainly received a message from his lawyer. He had been unusually silent at breakfast, and - so Sophia asserted - more disagreeable than ever.
The question had now arisen in reference to their bonnets. "You might as well wear them," said Lady Pomona, "for I am sure you will not be in London again this year."
"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.
"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers into his pocket. I know what his face means."
"It is not possible," said Sophia. "He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised."
"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back to London, we must take his word for it. I suppose that he would take us back if he could."
"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana, outraged by her treachery.
"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.
"Do! Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do something! If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man that will take me."
"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."
"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us - not the least; but he cares about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay here."
"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things," pleaded her sister.
"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are."
"You are very unjust," wailed Lady Pomona.
"I ain't unjust. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his word."
A loud voice called from the hall. "Are you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?"
Of course they were going to church, because of the bishop and the bonnets. They trooped downstairs, Georgiana stalking along. She passed her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home.
During the sermon the ladies sat without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. It was nothing to them what the bishop was speaking about. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a suitable husband. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But to be kept at Caversham all summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach for ever!
After the service they came back to lunch, which was eaten in silence. Then Mr. Longestaffe settled into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently intending to sleep in comfort. But this was denied to him. The two daughters remained; and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out" with her father. When the last tray had been taken out, she began.
"Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there."
"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't go."
"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning."
"You can't do anything of the kind."
"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady Pomona. There was a pause. Even Georgiana would have accepted some distant, undefined time, as a compromise.
"You can't have a day fixed," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"How long shall we be kept here?" said Sophia, in a low constrained voice.
"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home."
"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia. Georgiana waited in silence, biding her time.
"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr. Longestaffe, turning abruptly to his newspaper. "That is settled."
Was there ever treachery like this! Georgiana's indignation approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but for that promise. And now the promise was to be absolutely broken!
"Then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and premeditatedly broken your word to us."
"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"
"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress, by law."
"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room."
"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come here and entertain these people?"
"I will not argue with an insolent child. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you."
Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into another room, and stood panting with anger.
"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said when Lady Pomona followed.
"What can we do, my dear?"
"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them." This was a cut at her elder sister. "I have never got myself talked about. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have written his letters for him till I have been sick. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?"
"I understood so, my dear."
"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the blame. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way."
"You keep straight for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.
"It is more than you've been able to do," said Georgiana, alluding to an ancient flirtation, when Sophia had made a foolish and futile attempt to run away with an impoverished officer of dragoons. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never mentioned except in moments of great bitterness.
"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia. "It's easy enough when nobody cares for a person."
"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.
"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana. "Does he expect me to find anybody here? Poor George Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all."
"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a toss of her head.
"Thank you, but I haven't come to that quite yet. I shall write papa a letter. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry is that we condescended to be civil to the Melmottes. To have them here was terrible!"
During that afternoon nothing more was said. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was almost reconciled to staying in the country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable only ten miles away did of course make a difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, and Mr. Longestaffe went to sleep. The next morning he found the following letter on his dressing-table:
My dear Papa,
I don't think you ought to be surprised that our going up to town is so important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. It does not signify for Sophia, but it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and there would be no expense for horses, and we could dress very cheap. I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham must be to me, without anyone worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.
You certainly did say that if we came down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.
I suppose that it is useless for me to ask you to take us back this summer - though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them earlier on, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and Julia's groom would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa.
Your affectionate daughter,
Georgiana Longestaffe.
Mr. Longestaffe read this. Though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter severely, he was somewhat afraid of her; and he dreaded the weariness of continued domestic strife. He thought that his daughter liked a row. He himself hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. To stand about the public rooms of his clubs, and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family
By living with a certain useless pomp, by powdering his footmen's heads and bewigging his coachmen, by aping the ways of grander men, he had run into debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son Adolphus from his wife's mother - some 2,000 or 3,000 a year - and the knowledge of this had reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would consent to sell the Sussex property to pay the debts. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and though careless in most respects he was always on his guard in dealings with his father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless he got half the proceeds. The father found his troubles very hard upon him.
Melmotte had done something for him - but he had been hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, while at Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that he was not entitled to keep a house in town. Mr. Longestaffe had said something about his daughters - especially about Georgiana - and Mr. Melmotte had made a suggestion.
Mr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. But he regarded the Primeros as upstarts. Mr. Primero was not a gentleman. He owed no man anything. He paid his tradesmen punctually. He had spent many thousands in county elections, and was now a Member of Parliament - a radical, according to Mr. Longestaffe's views. And now there was a rumour that Mr. Primero was to have a peerage. That would be more than Mr. Longstaffe could endure. It was quite impossible that his daughter should stay in London with the Primeros.
But another suggestion had been made. On the morning after Georgiana's letter, Lady Pomona handed her a note, saying,
"Your papa has given it me. Of course you must judge for yourself."
The note read:
My dear Mr. Longestaffe,
As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.
Yours truly,
Augustus Melmotte.
Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced over this paper, looked in vain for the date. It had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both her father and mother knew what she thought of the Melmottes. There was an insolence in the very suggestion.
"Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?" she asked.
"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them."
"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes."
"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana."
"It is that - or staying here?"
"I think so, my dear."
"It will be awfully disagreeable,- absolutely disgusting!"
"She seemed to be very quiet."
"Pooh, mamma! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She'll be frightfully vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself. They make me shudder."
"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona. "The Duchess of Stevenage has been there over and over again."
"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma!"
"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear."
"Of course I am. What other chance have I? And I am so tired of it! Papa does not have to work half as hard as I do. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me ill. Horrid, horrid people! And papa has always been so proud of being with the right set."
"Things are changed, Georgiana."
"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. But I'll go. I don't believe that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa has altered his ideas; and so I had better alter mine."
Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona informed him that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be accepted. Georgiana would go to London on the Friday following.
On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure. She had tried to hold up her head, but had failed. She was cowed even in front of her sister.
"Sophy, I do so envy you staying here."
"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."
"Yes; I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous."
"Then don't go, Georgey."
"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. Whitstable has no debt, and he isn't a bad sort of fellow. He hasn't much to say for himself, but he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"As for me, I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it has been papa's doing."
And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the Melmottes.


How eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form to Marie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood. "My dear Felix," she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon, "pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip."
"It's everything to get him in a good humour," pleaded Sir Felix.
"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used."
"There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him about money? That's the question."
"I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix."
"Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down; or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with."
"You wouldn't mind having it settled?"
"No;--I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me,--say 7,000 or 8,000 a year. I wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while."
"But you have nothing left of your own."
"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out," said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains.
"Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way."
"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money."
"You want to marry her yourself."
"I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one means to take,--and whether one is sure to get it."
"I don't think there can be any doubt."
"If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know."
"Of course he'd pay the money first."
"It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. You can't carry 10,000 a year about in your pocket, you know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up."
Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix in the future. All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now;--position, a title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something! Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than the baronet's present condition. And then, though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter's position? She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. "I think you should be content to run a little risk," she said.
Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in a humour to resent interference. "I wish you'd leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business."
"Is it not my business too?"
"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to meddle with me."
"You ungrateful boy!"
"I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't do everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set me against it all."
"How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness."
"That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort."
"He is the best friend I have." What would Roger have thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?
"He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't very pleasant. Of course it's your house; but if you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to myself." It was impossible for Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her blood,--some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all as long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the mother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. She almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love,--but she acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. All that she had done, and all that she had borne,--all that she was doing and bearing,--was it not for his sake?
Sir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square since his return from Carbury, and had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but he had seen them together, and not a word had been said about the engagement. He could not make much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual with her; but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that Miss Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the young lady was "fatigante." Upon this Marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much. "Pooh!" said Madame Melmotte. "You never like no person at all." At this Marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. "Ah, yes; that is all very well,--while it lasts; but you care for no friend." From which Felix had judged that Madame Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his club from Marie. "Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after lunch." This was in his possession when his mother visited him in his bedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest. But he would not tell her of his intention, because he had drunk too much wine, and was sulky.
At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Square and asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking,--even after he had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the door,--he intended to ask for Mr. Melmotte; but at the last his courage failed him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. There he found Madame Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and--Lord Nidderdale. Marie looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been with her father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, and endeavoured to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale continued his flirtation with Miss Longestaffe,--a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of the house. "We know what brings you here," she said.
"I came on purpose to see you."
"I'm sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here."
"Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose. It's a great institution; isn't it?"
"It's an institution you mean to belong to,--permanently."
"No, indeed. I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they talk of going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn't pass. That fellow there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because you're here. I don't think you'll like it a bit, you know."
"I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale."
After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one of the windows for a few seconds. "Papa is down-stairs in the book-room," she said. "Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was out." It was evident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for him. "You go down," she continued, "and ask the man to show you into the book-room."
"Shall I come up again?"
"No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon." Now Sir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that Madame Didon was Madame Melmotte's own woman, commonly called Didon by the ladies of the family. "Or send it by post,--under cover to her. That will be better. Go at once, now." It certainly did seem to Sir Felix that the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, just shaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.
In a few moments he found himself with Mr. Melmotte in the chamber which had been dignified with the name of the book-room. The great financier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here, generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall. It may be supposed that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices of money and funds for the New York, Paris, and London Exchanges. But on this occasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. "How do you do, Sir Felix?" he said. "I suppose you want the ladies."
"I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on you as I came down." It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronet had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at once resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. He believed that he should thrive best by resenting any interference with him in his capacity as financier. He thought that he had risen high enough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him that men who were themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed by a savage assumption of superiority. And he, too, had generally the advantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was concerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it. He could thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his colleagues. When neither of these sufficed to give him undisputed mastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. He liked young associates because they were more timid and less greedy than their elders. Lord Nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest, and Mr. Melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir Felix. Lord Alfred he had been obliged to buy.
"I'm very glad to see you, and all that," said Melmotte, assuming a certain exaltation of the eyebrows, which they who had many dealings with him often found to be very disagreeable; "but this is hardly a day for business, Sir Felix, nor,--yet a place for business."
Sir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden. He certainly had come about business,--business of a particular sort; but Marie had told him that of all days Sunday would be the best, and had also told him that her father was more likely to be in a good humour on Sunday than on any other day. Sir Felix felt that he had not been received with good humour. "I didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Melmotte," he said.
"I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been going to speak about that railway."
"Oh dear no."
"Your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you attended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend to."
"My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it," said Sir Felix.
"Women never do. Well;--what can I do for you, now that you are here?"
"Mr. Melmotte, I'm come,--I'm come to;--in short, Mr. Melmotte, I want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand."
"The d---- you do!"
"Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent."
"She knows you're coming then?"
"Yes;--she knows."
"And my wife;--does she know?"
"I've never spoken to her about it. Perhaps Miss Melmotte has."
"And how long have you and she understood each other?"
"I've been attached to her ever since I saw her," said Sir Felix. "I have indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind of thing goes on."
"I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that when large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if he don't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given you a promise?"
"I don't know about a promise."
"Do you consider that she's engaged to you?"
"Not if she's disposed to get out of it," said Sir Felix, hoping that he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. "Of course, I should be awfully disappointed."
"She has consented to your coming to me?"
"Well, yes;--in a sort of a way. Of course she knows that it all depends on you."
"Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you, she can marry you. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet, I believe?"
"Oh, yes, I'm a baronet."
"And therefore you've come to your own property. You haven't to wait for your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent about money."
This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound to dispel, even at the risk of offending the father. "Not exactly that," he said. "I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course."
"Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If my daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. How much is neither here nor there. If she marries to please herself, without considering me, I shan't give her a farthing."
"I had hoped that you might consent, Mr. Melmotte."
"I've said nothing about that. It is possible. You're a man of fashion and have a title of your own,--and no doubt a property. If you'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it at any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?"
What could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six, matter to a man like Melmotte? It was thus that Sir Felix looked at it. When a man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questions about trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked, and the asking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of a proposed father-in-law. At any rate, it must be answered. For a moment it occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. It would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come after. Were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower and lower into the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end of all his hopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all his misery. But he lacked the necessary courage. "It isn't a large property, you know," he said.
"Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose," said the horrid, big, rich scoundrel.
"No;--not quite like that," said Sir Felix, with a sickly laugh.
"But you have got enough to support a baronet's title?"
"That depends on how you want to support it," said Sir Felix, putting off the evil day.
"Where's your family seat?"
"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old family place."
"That doesn't belong to you," said Melmotte, very sharply.
"No; not yet. But I'm the heir."
Perhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than another to be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the system under which titles and property descend together, or in various lines. The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is complex, and so is the business of Parliament. But the rules regulating them, though anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies of the peerage and primogeniture. They who are brought up among it, learn it as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study in advanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. It was everything to Melmotte that he should understand the ways of the country which he had adopted; and when he did not understand, he was clever at hiding his ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir Felix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury, and he judged by the name it must be an old family property. And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire. "Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family?"
"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course," said Sir Felix, lying directly. "But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all."
"He's a young man, isn't he?"
"No,--not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old."
"If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?"
Sir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth with discretion. "I don't quite know how it would be. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry."
"And in the meantime what is your own property?"
[Illustration: "In the meantime what is your own property?"]
"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then I am my mother's heir."
"You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my daughter."
"Certainly."
"Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married man? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on my part." The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly taking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth. It was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not a baronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of the world who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions such as these,--questions which it was quite impossible that a gentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? Would it not be an understood bargain that as he provided the rank and position, she would provide the money? And yet the vulgar wretch took advantage of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions! Sir Felix stood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing;--wishing that he was well out of the house, and at the Beargarden. "You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me."
"Perhaps that will be best," said the lover.
"Either that, or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will have money; but money expects money." At this moment Lord Alfred entered the room. "You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as you said you would?"
"I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out."
"I haven't been out of this room all day,--except to lunch. Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy." Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with his fellow Director, Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting Melmotte to shake hands with him before he went. "Do you know anything about that young fellow?" Melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed.
"He's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leave it," said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler.
"Without a shilling! I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in Suffolk;--eh?"
"Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr. Carbury has a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. I wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever."
"Hasn't he now?" Mr. Melmotte as he speculated upon it, almost admired the young man's impudence.

Lady Carbury was eager that her son should go at once to Marie's father. "My dear Felix," she said, standing over his bedside just before noon, "pray don't put it off."
"I need to get him in a good humour," pleaded Sir Felix.
"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used."
"There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him about money? That's the question. Nidderdale asked for a certain sum down, to be paid before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with."
"You wouldn't mind having it settled?"
"No; I'd consent to that if the money was paid down, and the income insured to me - say 7,000 or 8,000 a year. It wouldn't be worth while for less."
"But you have nothing left of your own."
"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out," said the son, using an argument which he thought might be effective with his mother; though no man lived less likely to cut his own throat.
"Oh, Felix! how brutal."
"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money."
"You want to marry her yourself."
"I want her money; and if I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be like cutting my throat. There'd be no going back."
"Of course he'd pay the money first."
"Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. If you'll go, mother, I might think of getting up."
Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the wealth and celebrity of the man, and weigh that against the absolute pennilessness of her son. Felix's condition was hopeless. Lord Nidderdale's embarrassments were only temporary. There were the family estates, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix. All he would ever have, he had now; position, a title, and a handsome face. Even the ruins of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than his present condition. And though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt about his riches now.
She visited her son again the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. "I think you should be content to run a little risk," she said.
Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and was sulky.
"I wish you'd leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business."
"Is it not my business too?"
"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do, and I don't want anybody to meddle."
"You ungrateful boy! Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? You have no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness."
"That's what Roger says, is it?"
"He is the best friend I have."
"He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, I think you might let me have my room to myself." It was impossible for Lady Carbury, in his present mood, to explain that it was the only way she could ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped in five minutes, and did not return till some ungodly hour in the morning.
Again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right about Felix. She almost hated herself for the weakness of her love - but she acknowledged it. If he should fall, she must fall with him. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. All that she had done and borne - was it not for his sake?
Sir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square, and had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but not a word had been said about the engagement. Madame Melmotte had told him that Miss Longestaffe was coming, which was a great bore. Upon this Marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much.
"Pooh!" said Madame Melmotte. "You never like no person at all." At this Marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. "Ah, yes; that is all very well, while it lasts; but you care for no friend." From which Felix had judged that Madame Melmotte knew of his offer, and did not absolutely disapprove.
On Saturday he had received a note at his club from Marie. "Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after lunch." But he did not tell his mother of his intention.
At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Square and asked for the ladies. He intended to ask for Mr. Melmotte; but his courage failed him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room, where he found Madame Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and Lord Nidderdale.
Marie looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been with her father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, and tried to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale continued his flirtation with Miss Longestaffe - a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess.
"We know what brings you here," said Georgiana.
"I came to see you."
"I'm sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here."
"Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose. That fellow there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because you're here. I don't think you'll like it here a bit, you know."
"I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale."
After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one of the windows. "Papa is downstairs in the book-room," she said. "Go down, and ask the man to show you into the book-room."
"Shall I come up again?"
"No; but leave a note for me under cover to Madame Didon." Sir Felix knew that Madame Didon was Madame Melmotte's maid. "Or post it under cover to her. Go at once, now."
It seemed to Sir Felix that the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, shaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.
In a few moments he found himself with Mr. Melmotte. The great financier was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his mouth.
"How do you do, Sir Felix?" he said. "I suppose you want the ladies."
"I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on you as I came down."
It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronet had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he resolved to be stern, and perhaps rude, in resenting any such interference. Experience had told him that young men might easily be cowed by a savage assumption of superiority. And he understood the game, which Sir Felix did not. He liked young associates because they were more timid and less greedy than their elders. Lord Nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest, and Mr. Melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir Felix. Lord Alfred he had been obliged to buy.
"I'm very glad to see you, and all that," said Melmotte, raising his eyebrows in a disagreeable way; "but this is hardly a day for business."
Sir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden. "I didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Melmotte," he said.
"I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been going to speak about that railway."
"Oh dear no."
"Your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you attended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend to."
"My mother doesn't understand anything about it," said Sir Felix.
"Women never do. Well; what can I do for you?"
"Mr. Melmotte, I'm come - I'm come to - in short, Mr. Melmotte, I want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand."
"The d____ you do!"
"Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent."
"She knows you're coming then?"
"Yes."
"And my wife - does she know?"
"I've never spoken to her about it. Perhaps Miss Melmotte has."
"And how long have you and she had an understanding?"
"I've been attached to her ever since I saw her," said Sir Felix. "I have indeed. You know how that kind of thing goes on."
"I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that the young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if he don't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given you a promise?"
"I don't know about a promise."
"Do you consider that she's engaged to you?"
"Not if she's disposed to get out of it," said Sir Felix, hoping that he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. "Of course, I should be awfully disappointed."
"She has consented to your coming to me?"
"Well, yes, sort of. Of course she knows that it all depends on you."
"Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you, she can marry you. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet, I believe?"
"Oh, yes, I'm a baronet."
"And therefore you haven't to wait for your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent about money."
This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound to dispel. "Not exactly," he said. "I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course."
"Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If my daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money. If she marries to please herself, without considering me, I shan't give her a farthing."
"I had hoped that you might consent, Mr. Melmotte."
"It is possible. You're a man of fashion and have a title - and no doubt a property. If you'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it at any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?"
Sit Felix thought that when a man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questions about trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked, and must be answered. For a moment it occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. It would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come after. He could not be dragged down lower into the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end of his hopes, but at the same time an end of his misery.
But he lacked the necessary courage. "It isn't a large property, you know," he said.
"Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose," said the horrid, big, rich scoundrel.
"No; not quite," said Sir Felix, with a sickly laugh.
"But you can support a baronet's title? Where's your family seat?"
"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes."
"That doesn't belong to you," said Melmotte sharply.
"No; not yet. But I'm the heir."
Now Melmotte was puzzled. He did not understand the complex English system under which titles and property descend. He wanted to comprehend the ways of the country which he had adopted; and was clever at hiding his ignorance. He knew that Sir Felix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury. And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire.
"Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family?"
"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course," said Sir Felix, lying. "But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all."
"He's a young man, isn't he? If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?"
"I don't quite know. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry."
"And in the meantime what is your own property?"
"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock - and then I am my mother's heir."
"You wish to marry my daughter. Would you inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support her?"
Sir Felix felt that the bloated swindler was taking a most ungenerous advantage of him. Was he not a baronet and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions which it was quite impossible for a gentleman to answer? Was it not plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so because he needed money in return for his rank? Sir Felix stood silent, wishing that he was well out of the house.
"You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me."
"Perhaps that will be best," said the lover.
"Either that, or give it up." At this moment Lord Alfred entered the room. "You're very late today, Alfred. Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy."
Sir Felix succeeded in getting Melmotte to shake hands with him before he went.
"Do you know anything about that young fellow?" Melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed.
"He's a baronet without a shilling; was in the army and had to leave it," said Lord Alfred.
"I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in Suffolk; eh?"
"No. It's the same name, and that's about all. That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever."
"Hasn't he now?" Mr. Melmotte, thinking it over, almost admired the young man's impudence.