The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was quite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died leaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge of Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. When therefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with herself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs. Pipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided. "That's as it may be, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told all the story of John Crumb:--how she hated John Crumb; how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. She gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as a decent house over her head,--and victuals. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?" Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off it. Mrs. Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover she must. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs. Pipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs. Pipkin knew, but probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs. Pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. Sir Felix's name had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr. Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord. The Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet,--and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, "the fat would be in the fire."
"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, "incognito," with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby. He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world? But yet as she sat sipping her lover's brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?"
Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him to New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. "Who was it, Ruby?"
"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in Bungay and Beccles."
"Paul Montague!"
"Do you know him, Felix?"
"Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly in the city--and I know him at home."
"Is he nice?"
"Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow."
"He's got a lady friend where I live."
"The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?"
"Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money."
"Is Montague going to marry her?"
"Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?"
"Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?"
"Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?"
"Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you."
"No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind about their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?"
"Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?"
"I didn't know. I must say something."
"Tell him you're nothing to him."
"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know she will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that."
"Your aunt does not know?"
"No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you know,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?"
"It's very jolly, I think."
"It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it."
"What is the worst of it?"
"I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst out into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night that--"
"Bother what she says!" Felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.
"She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't such a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."
Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making any direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. She was an "awfully jolly girl," and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give himself any "d----d trouble." The idea of John Crumb coming up to London in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably have hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he was doing now. "Let's go in and have a dance," he said.
Ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything in the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that night.
"And now I must go," she said at last. "You'll see me as far as the Angel, won't you?" Of course he was ready to see her as far as the Angel. "What am I to say to the Squire?"
"Say nothing."
"And what am I to say to aunt?"
"Say to her? Just say what you have said all along."
"I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?"
He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know."
"Cut it!"
"Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?"
"Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?"
"I'll find a place for you."
"You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or--"
"Go back to John Crumb."
"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy."
"I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix.
"Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?"
"So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is."
"No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!"
As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation "confounded impudence" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. "Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I know a trick worth two of that."
She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to go after any young woman? "And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said.
"Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother."
"Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?"
"Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?"
"Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls to keep him company."
"That's more than you know, Ruby."
"If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman. That's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure," and Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't. You go your way, and I'll go mine." In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of her.
On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs. Pipkin to attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs. Pipkin had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cure her misery.
Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was comfortably settled with her aunt. "We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going."
"Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."
"He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours."
"To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did, then;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't have treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed."
The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard a few words from Mrs. Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also was quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and "see the matter out," as he would say himself, if she did not go back. "As you found yourself obliged to run away," said Roger, "I'm glad that you should be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?"
"I don't know," said Ruby.
"You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid."
"Oh dear, no."
"It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb."
"Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like Mr. Crumb, and I never will like him."
"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless you please."
"Nobody can't, of course, sir."
"But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you."
"Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "A girl has to look to herself, and I mean to look to myself."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost."
"I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.
"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none." Ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in one corner of the room. "That's what Sir Felix Carbury is," said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. "And if I understand it rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat."
"I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say, was it ever so."
[Illustration: "I don't care about any man's coat."]
"Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace." Ruby struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of speech at the moment. "He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any disgrace?"
"There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury."
"No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon."
"John Crumb's pardon! No!"
"Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little."
Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. But she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, and he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and also a dumb nobility.
"I'll tell you what will take place," continued Roger. "Mr. Crumb won't put up with this you know."
"He can't do nothing to me, sir."
"That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd injure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?"
"John's mortial strong, Mr. Carbury."
"If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a brave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?"
"He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everything again him."
"You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and beg his pardon."
"I never will;--never."
"I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard like that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But I'll let your grandfather know."
"Grandfather don't want me no more."
"And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you have it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix Carbury any more." Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been efficacious in lessening that which she had entertained for Sir Felix.

What Ruby had said about her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died, leaving a widow at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had resented this marriage, and had never spoken to his daughter-in-law.
When Ruby ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms with her. Ruby was to stay for a month, and to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally.
Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked about a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, should he not come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion, so that scandal might be avoided.
"Maybe, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told the story of John Crumb: how she hated John Crumb, and would not marry him. She gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and how her grandfather had treated her.
Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, and she gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But a young woman should look to a decent house over her head, and food. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?"
Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do very well for her. She knew what she was about. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days had more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was changing very fast. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre, probably in company with her lover, and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little.
Ruby had never told her lover's name to Mrs. Pipkin. She had been managing her own affairs; but now that Mr. Montague had found her, the Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet - and after that, as she said to herself, "the fat would be in the fire."
"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall. Sir Felix was dressed, as he called it, "incognito," with a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. He had an idea that if his West End friends saw him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, shared by Ruby. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed, half-frightened, and yet felt that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to walk about with their young men. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world?
Yet as she sat sipping brandy and water at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see, and she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful - oh, so beautiful! - was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make. Her mind was set upon marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin. She was glad therefore to tell her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?"
Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte; perhaps Didon had been there. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was lacking for the New York journey but the money. Didon had urged him to recover his funds from Melmotte. Therefore his mind was in Grosvenor Square.
"Who was it, Ruby?"
"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague."
"Paul Montague!"
"Do you know him, Felix?"
"Rather. He's a member of our club. He's a prig of a fellow."
"He's got a lady friend where I live."
"The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course knew of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and her supposed preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?"
"She's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money."
"Is Montague going to marry her?"
"Oh yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her; not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?"
"Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?"
"Bother John Crumb! Oh, he'd been regular as clockwork if I let him - only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has told the Squire as he saw me, and the Squire's coming. What am I to tell him, Felix?"
"Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you."
"No; I ain't done nothing wrong. But he can talk, and I ain't one of those as don't mind about their characters. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?"
"Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?"
"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights. He'll be asking who I'm with."
"Your aunt does not know?"
"No; I've told nobody. But it won't do to go on like that always, will it?"
"It's very jolly, I think."
"It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. But I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt said last night that-"
"Bother what she says!"
"She knows there's somebody. She ain't a fool. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."
Sir Felix took a long drink of brandy and water. Then he called the waiter for another, intending to avoid making any reply to Ruby. He was going to New York very shortly, and he had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would tell her that he was going. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. He liked the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he told himself that he wasn't going to give himself any trouble; and the idea of John Crumb coming to London in his wrath had never occurred to him.
"Let's go and have a dance," he said.
Ruby was very fond of dancing. It was delightful to be spinning round the room with her lover's arm tight round her waist. She loved the music, and the motion. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel that the world could hold nothing better. So she went and danced, resolving to have some answer to her question before she left her lover that night.
"Now I must go," she said at last. "What am I to say to the Squire?"
"Say nothing."
"And what am I to say to aunt?"
"Just say what you have said all along."
"I've said nothing all along. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?"
He was silent for about a minute. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know."
"Cut it!"
"Yes. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?"
"Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?"
"I'll find a place for you."
"You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or-"
"Go back to John Crumb."
"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife tomorrow, and be only too happy."
"I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix.
"Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches; didn't you? And you told me you loved me; didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me; didn't you?"
"So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is."
"No it isn't. I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!"
An additional lie would have been nothing to Felix. He was going to New York, out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never mattered. Young women didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. He felt it was "confounded impudence" by Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife.
"Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out."
She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. What business had such a man to go after any young woman?
"And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said.
"Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother."
"Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry! Never?"
"Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?"
"Of course I does. There's the Squire. If he came asking a girl to keep him company, he'd marry her - because he's a gentleman." Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again - never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, that I ever heard tell of. You go your way, and I'll go mine."
In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind an anger against him, which she did not herself understand, that he would take no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise to make the evening pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep.
On the next day Roger called. Ruby had begged Mrs. Pipkin to tell any gentleman callers that she was out; but Mrs. Pipkin, having heard something of Roger Carbury, decided that the Squire should see the young lady.
When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss Felix, now she almost regretted it. Could it be that she would never see him again - that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? Maybe she had pressed him too hard. A baronet would not like to be brought to book. But to have said that he would never marry! She was very unhappy.
Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and telling her how glad he was to find her comfortably settled with her aunt.
"We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going."
"Grandfather'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."
"He wanted you to keep your word."
"To pull me about by my hair wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word; was it, Mr. Carbury? I've been good to grandfather, and he shouldn't have treated me like that."
The Squire had no answer to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin did not surprise him. And the girl had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard from Mrs. Pipkin about Ruby's late hours, and a lover, and knew who that lover was. He also knew that John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might forgive everything if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after his slow fashion, and "see the matter out" if she did not go back.
"I'm glad that you should be here," said Roger; "but you don't mean to stay here always?"
"I don't know," said Ruby.
"You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid."
"Oh dear, no."
"It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb."
"Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like him and I never will like him."
"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb. But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you."
"Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "I mean to look to myself."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost."
"I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.
"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that bad young man. He has no idea of marrying you, and if he did, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. Though he is my cousin, I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you away without a pang of remorse. He has no heart." Ruby was sobbing with her apron to her eyes. "And it is for that vile man that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat."
"I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say."
"Words! What do words matter? He loves you. He wants to make you happy and respectable, not to disgrace you. He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would anyone then pull you by the hair? Would there be any disgrace?"
"There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury."
"No disgrace in going about at midnight with Felix Carbury? You know that it is disgraceful. If you are fit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon."
"John Crumb's pardon! No!"
"Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect him, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind."
Her mind was being changed. His words had their effect, though the poor girl struggled against it. She had never expected to hear anyone call John Crumb noble. She respected no one more highly than Squire Carbury. Amidst all her misery she still told herself that it was but a dusty, dumb nobility.
"Mr. Crumb won't put up with this, you know," continued Roger.
"He can't do nothing to me, sir."
"That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd injure you? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two met?"
"John's mortal strong."
"One is a brave man, and the other a coward. You know it as well as I do; and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing over the man who loves you - for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and beg his pardon."
"I never will; never."
"I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such late hours any longer. I'm going now. But I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you have it. Take my advice: do not see Sir Felix Carbury any more."
Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly succeeded in lessening her admiration for Sir Felix.


Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie Melmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's house on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that promise had been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not seen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His father's property was not very large. His father and his grandfather had both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been an understood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry an heiress. In such families as his, when such results have been achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things. Rank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding its splendour. The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any undowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to "have his fling" before he devoted himself to the redintegration of the family property. His father had felt that it would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough," declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on him. This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result.
But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance which might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous for its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly two difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence.
The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so much money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already settled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie had been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. And the Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had determined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details.
But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. "She'll be sick of him by this time, I should say," his father said to him. "What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that he would try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it.
On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time. Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover and has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale.
Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's visit.
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see to that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred?" Alfred shook his head. "There's a Dean, I know, for I called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil to him."
"Mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said Lord Alfred.
"You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as a play to you."
"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."
"D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We must go back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." The ladies went up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe soon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. As regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her present duty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how to get out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole evening. She liked Nidderdale better than any one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the door. "Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. "I must see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it. "That's a shame," said Marie.
"Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said his lordship. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"
Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should be considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning.
But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On the Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any rate that she would speak up. "I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale."
"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"
"Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better."
"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."
"Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate."
"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."
"That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know."
"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."
"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again."
"Why did not Sir Felix go?"
"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours."
"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say,--out at once."
"You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference."
"You knew me before you knew him, you know."
"What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many people before I knew you."
"And you were engaged to me."
"You broke it off."
"Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us."
"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away."
"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."
"It's all true, my lord. Every word of it."
"I wish you wouldn't call me my lord."
"I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I had consented."
"There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."
"Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good."
"I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool with you."
"You don't know why he didn't go."
"Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that."
"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face. "If you really know, you might as well tell me."
"No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?"
"I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him;--I do indeed. I know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true. I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true."
"Say good-bye to me, Marie."
"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more."
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit. "She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."
Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord Nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when he said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a common-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him.

Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie Melmotte, and had agreed to call at Melmotte's house on Sunday. However, he did not go to Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought.
His father's property was not large. His father and his grandfather had both been extravagant, and he had added to their debts. In such families as his, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by marrying an heiress. Rank squanders money; trade makes it; and then trade purchases rank. The arrangement is well understood, and was so approved of by the old marquis that he had felt himself justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course.
Nidderdale himself had never dissented; but had claimed his right to "have his fling" before he married. His indulgent father had felt that it would be foolish to oppose so natural a desire; but there arose some difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last informed his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it would mean war between himself and his heir.
Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were good, assured his father that he did not want that, and was ready for the heiress as soon as she should be put in his way. The alliance with Marie Melmotte had been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result.
But difficulties had arisen: the young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only about the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence.
The Marquis, however, hated to be beaten. As far as he could learn, the money would be there. A considerable sum had in truth been already settled on Marie. Her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income, but had signed over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents he might retire to obscure comfort. Marie had been quite correct in her story to Felix Carbury. And the Marquis's lawyer had found that if Marie married before she had restored this money to her father, her husband would have this amount as a certainty, with the immense remainder in prospect.
Therefore the Marquis was determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding was fixed.
But Nidderdale too had his doubts. That absurd elopement was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix had not gone with her; but one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with anyone but oneself.
"She'll be sick of him by this time," his father said. "What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged that he had been remiss. She had more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had resolved to try again. Previously, he had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it.
On the Monday he went to Bruton Street at lunch time. Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in Grosvenor Square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe. After they had sat down, Marie came in.
Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her, as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face upon it, with a struggle succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was uncomfortable. When a girl has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch sitting next to Lord Nidderdale.
Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's visit.
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"I don't know. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster."
"Mad as a hatter, nothing else," said Lord Alfred.
"You should have seen him, Nidderdale."
"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."
"D___ the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We must go back, Alfred. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter to eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room."
The ladies went upstairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe departed to her dear friend Lady Monogram. There fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together; but she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. The troubles of these times were almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur, and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. She liked Nidderdale, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix; so at last she plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made for the door.
"Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she had a toothache.
"I must see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it.
"Your mother has gone on purpose so that I may speak to you," he said. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"
Marie returned to her chair. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not tried to see her since her return? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? She had waited in the square, and left the gates open, but he had not come. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool - that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage about the money. But even if Felix had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault - could have forgiven even the gambling and drunkenness which had caused the failure, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was indifference - or cowardice.
She had more than once almost doubted his love. Now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing was over between them. No doubt she could write to him; but if he really loved her he would come to her. She would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing, beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning.
But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; yet here he was now, standing with his back to the door, and cutting off her retreat.
"I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale."
"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"
"Because - oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often that I liked somebody else better."
"Perhaps I don't believe you."
"Well; that is impudent! I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate."
"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."
"That's all you know, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know."
"I don't want to make any allusion to anything unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."
"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and papa had me brought back again."
"Why did not Sir Felix go?"
"I don't think, my lord, that that is any business of yours."
"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say."
"It can't make any difference."
"You were engaged to me before you knew him, you know."
"You broke it off," said Marie.
"I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us."
"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. And now you've come again; because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away."
"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."
"It's all true, my lord."
"It isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."
"Then you needn't," she said, "for it isn't any good."
"I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool."
"You don't know why he didn't go."
"Perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that."
"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone. "If you really know, you might as well tell me."
"No, Marie; that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really believe that he means to come back to you?"
"I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him; I do indeed. I would be cut in pieces for him. I know that you are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did, not a bit. No; go away. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. I don't want you to come. No; I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better - than any person - in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true."
"Say good-bye to me, Marie."
"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more."
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he left, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties in carrying on his suit.
"She's quite a different sort of girl from what I thought," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."
Marie, after this interview, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her that Sir Felix Carbury was not as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but she could have trust in no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a commonplace, rough face, with a turned-up nose, high cheek bones, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes - not at all an Adonis. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have allowed herself to be cut in pieces for him.

Chapter 57: Lord Nidderdale Tries his Hand Again


"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he thus spoke to Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There was an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she understood. "The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable." It was thus that she spoke to herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she did not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the "old goose" would declare itself. "Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be."
"No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately."
This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of life at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as a fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothing but sound health could produce. Mr. Broune, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love. "I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely.
"Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you."
"I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a foolish truism."
"I did not think so," said Lady Carbury smiling.
"Or would have been, only that I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to--love."
Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve to explain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it be stated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" intended to make her an offer of marriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. The falseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did not shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to be in love with some lady in the next street, she would have been quite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that she might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr. Broune. For herself such make-belief of an improper passion would be inconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed as Mr. Broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a large income, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted, fted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire to share her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. There was a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to be capable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paid to herself. She thought so badly of men and women generally, and of Mr. Broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."
"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. After much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily."
The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. She felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the cards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone. This man was a friend to be used,--to be used because he knew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew as little of the world as any other man. Mr. Broune of the "Daily Breakfast Table" asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other feelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That a man,--such a man,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon her half his blessings! What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!
It was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was only natural that she should at first think what answer would best assist her own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table!" And then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was paid 3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. After that the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopes never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had been always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minute was over and she was bound to speak. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind."
And now Mr. Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. "Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying, and I have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the same way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me till I fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others would think me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much before I resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another person. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping." Poor Mr. Broune! Though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.
"You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment," ejaculated Lady Carbury.
"Well?"
"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon your position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved."
"That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share with you."
"You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness."
"Has it made you happy?"
"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."
"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career."
"Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I am now so agitated that you had better leave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock."
"When may I hope for an answer?"
"You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none ready." He took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her without another word.
As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key from the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from his club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into Mr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. "Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition, passed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out to him. "Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?"
"Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.
Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those pangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that which for days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leave undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse can be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? The evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to be borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted to the cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How would this new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; must live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked her beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been long enough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along the streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every now and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, though it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet.
Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing was done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. All his experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns which consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always solve their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept him;--and of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his work he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his prospects.
Lady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through the greater part of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in the midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition. Although in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments were many,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe which might come. He would go utterly to the dogs and would take her with him. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with him. Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight the world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man?
And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together,--and Mr. Broune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to the dogs, then would Mr. Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr. Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter.
She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would only condescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions.
But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still vacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps about to be her husband. "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"
"Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is."
"He always seems to me to like to have his own way."
"Why shouldn't he like it?"
"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness."
"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people? Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, had you not asked me."

"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he spoke stood up, then sat down again, with a perturbed air.
"The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and disagreeable," she thought.
"Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be."
"No, indeed; and that is why we can afford the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately."
This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he had reached a time of life at which love would be absurd. And yet he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young for his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, and work through four or five hours of the night with the easy steadiness of sound health. Mr. Broune could see no reason why he should not be in love.
"I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely.
"Oh, yes; that is why I have come to you for advice."
"When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered a stupid platitude."
"I did not think so," said Lady Carbury, smiling.
"I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to - love."
Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was more troublesome even than the kiss. Lady Carbury even now had no inkling that the editor of the Breakfast Table intended to make her an offer of marriage. That Mr. Broune, blessed with power, a large income, and influence - that he should desire to share her fortunes and misfortunes, her struggles and her poverty, was not within the scope of her imagination. She thought so badly of men and women generally, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice.
"Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."
"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be - annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma easily."
The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. Had it been on the cards for her to love any man, it would have been some handsome spendthrift. This man was a friend, to be used because he knew the world. And now he showed that he knew as little of the world as any other man.
But mixed with these feelings was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That such a man should offer to take half her burdens! What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon him as all intellect, and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!
It was necessary that she should answer him. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have such a father for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table! Would not the world come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune?
It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself. But other feelings were present also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once, she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure that followed. Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her.
After that the freedom had come; accompanied by many hopes still unfulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows; but the memory of the tyranny was very clear. The minute was over, and she must speak.
"Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind."
"Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And my mind has been so fully employed that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. Then I met you. As I said, perhaps with little gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty and energy of your youth, and the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. But if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to entrust mine to your keeping."
Poor Mr. Broune! Though a gifted editor, he showed little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, in convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.
"You do me infinite honour."
"Well?"
"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. It has come upon me like a dream; I can hardly yet believe it. How am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been hurt in every nerve - tortured till I could hardly endure it. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness."
"Has it made you happy?"
"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."
"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which your son may face."
"Mr. Broune, I shall always love him better than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that if he were successful, time might change her feelings. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you had better leave me. It is very late."
"When may I hope for an answer?"
"I will write to you - tomorrow; say the day after tomorrow." He kissed her hand and left without another word.
As he was about to let himself out, the front door was opened from the other side, and Sir Felix entered. The young man looked at Mr. Broune with impudence and surprise.
"Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping up late, haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune passed him without a word.
Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the proposal and wondering what she should do, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs.
"Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?"
"Noish! I'm not making any noish. Your people's only just gone. I shaw that editor fellow at the door. He'sh great assh, that fellow. All right, mother." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.
Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced many pangs of doubt. Would it have been better if he had not spoken? That last apparition at his lady love's door certainly did not reassure him. What curse can be greater than that inflicted by a drunken son? Why should a man unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune?
Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. He must have a new house, and new ways; must fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and, he thought, a clever woman. Because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been around long enough to know better - and he almost felt that he ought to have known better. He warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but he was repressed by the memory of that drunken young baronet.
Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. Of course she would accept him; and of course he would stick to his guns. He tried to feel complacent; but underneath there was a substratum of melancholy.
Lady Carbury went to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through most of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be good for this man that he should marry her. Although in the moments of her triumph she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become wealthy and brilliant, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril of catastrophe. He might go utterly to the dogs and take her with him - married or single. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and pretend, and overcome her feelings, telling herself that passions were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her - and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man?
And then her liberty! A repetition of marriage vows did not recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, and liking his caresses, she imagined no romance of that kind. If Felix should go to the dogs, then Mr. Broune would not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, then he - and she - would not need Mr. Broune.
She thought very little of her daughter in all this. There was a comfortable home for Hetta, if Hetta would only condescend to marry her cousin Roger. Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in this great matter by her wishes. But she must tell Hetta if she decided to marry the man, and the sooner the better.
On that night she did not make up her mind. Even as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable home, and the power of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table brought doubts to her mind. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked, "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"
"Yes; pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is."
"I think he has that air of selfishness which is so common with people in London - as though what he said were out of surface politeness."
"Why should not London people be as kind as other people, Hetta? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as anyone I know. But the only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it, and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, unless you had asked me."

Chapter 31: Mr. Broune has made up his Mind