When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune some years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeed a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to his statements. That he should have intended to produce a false impression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he should have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no one would believe. He was going to Germany, and he was going in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain there for the next twelve months. A representation had lately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter. A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the income suggested was very small. The Protestant English population of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. It had come to pass that the "Morning Breakfast Table" had interested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those concerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "Morning Breakfast Table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had been induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a consideration. Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blake all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wish that Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy return to England of the young gentleman himself.
Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure the idea of driving him into exile. But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart. "What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in anger. For in those days the great editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into her eyes. His manner with her had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person. She hardly dared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she really felt and thought. "Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?"
"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid things."
"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself compelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can he do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?"
"If he could only be married!"
"Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?"
"He is so handsome."
"What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He has agreed to go;--let him go."
She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented, it was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr. Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. "Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make you go to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so."
"I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune."
"No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so. You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take her advice 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in England not a shilling further will be paid." He had no money. His last sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would give him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken away from him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for the better. He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his departure.
Mr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass to grow under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother. "It will be just enough to bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate. "It will be gone," she said, "long before they reach their destination."
"Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr. Broune.
Mr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket. Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do. "I wouldn't write another novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as the writing of novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic had declared it to be very good in glowing language. The "Evening Pulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the "Evening Pulpit" to abuse. So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come from malice. After that article in the "Breakfast Table," it did seem hard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels. She looked up at him piteously but said nothing. "I don't think you'd find it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great many others. But then that is saying so little!"
"I thought I could make some money."
"I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I don't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else."
"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."
To this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for a while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means permitted it. What should she do with herself? Whither should she take herself? Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels. After all, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other women around her! That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the "Breakfast Table." Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. He would not thus have crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her now,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occur to her to rebel against him. After what he had said, of course there would be no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"--and, equally of course, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more she thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve months ago.
On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her broken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first chapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should even look at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent. It was all "leather or prunello," as she said to herself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real enjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr. Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more novels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!
The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very wretched. "I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now."
"I don't see why you should say that."
"What does it matter?"
"You wouldn't think of going out of London."
"Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."
"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you," said Mr. Broune plaintively.
"So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."
"I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.
"Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"
"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours."
This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at first brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her countenance. "Well," he said; "what do you think of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son."
"That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.
"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will accept me."
The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding to a firm bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted kiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly had not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature. Nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. As he remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. "You can hardly have thought of it enough," she said.
"I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for six months at least."
"There is so much against me."
"What is there against you?"
"They say bad things of me in India."
"I know all about that," replied Mr. Broune.
"And Felix!"
"I think I may say that I know all about that also."
"And then I have become so poor!"
"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily for me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I should do so."
"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to give to me."
"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. And there he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without looking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. They would certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that any one could have seen them. But how many absurdities of the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that Age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the display of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, and which Age regrets.
On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He had certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he went down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.
She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a thorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfect blank to her. There was no single object of interest before her. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful. Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?
Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell; but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady Carbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her own resolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.

When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that he intended to travel abroad with a clergyman, he was, for once, not lying. He was indeed going to Germany for the next twelve months. The Bishop of London had recently decided that a small commercial town in north-eastern Prussia was in need of a minister. The income suggested was very small; but the Morning Breakfast Table interested itself in the matter, and appealed for subscriptions so successfully that it at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman.
And so the Rev. Septimus Blake, who took the post, was also induced to undertake the charge of Sir Felix Carbury for a further payment. Mr. Broune gave Mr. Blake much counsel about the management of the baronet, who should see as much as possible of German life at modest expense; and Mr. Broune emphasised that the clergyman should on no account give Sir Felix the means of returning home early.
Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. She could not endure the idea of driving her son into exile. But Mr. Broune was very obstinate, and, she thought, hard-hearted.
"What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in anger. For in those days Mr. Broune no longer squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. His manner had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person. "Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling?"
"Oh, my friend, do not say such horrid things."
"I have to. What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can he do better?"
"If he could only be married!"
"Married! Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him? Lady Carbury, if you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. Let him go."
She was forced to yield. And Mr. Broune was equally firm in persuading Sir Felix to start upon his travels.
"Your mother," said Mr. Broune, "will not beggar herself to indulge you. She cannot make you go to Germany, of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so. If you go, 175 a year will be paid for your maintenance; but if you remain in England you will not get a shilling."
Felix had no money. No tradesman would give him credit, and his clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement during the coming months; and he thought that any change must be for the better.
He assented, therefore, and was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg - having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother.
"It will be just enough to bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury assured him that Felix would have spent the sum long before they reached their destination.
"Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr. Broune, whose anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.
Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury; and he came three or four evenings a week, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do.
"I wouldn't write another novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic had reviewed it in glowing language, although the Evening Pulpit had of course abused it. She looked up at him piteously but said nothing.
"I don't think you'd find it would answer," said Mr. Broune. "I think I would turn to something else."
"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."
To this Mr. Broune made no reply; but, after sitting for a while in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself. What should she do? That very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing her hopes on the review in the Breakfast Table. Now she was equally despondent. After what he had said, there would be no more praise in the Breakfast Table, - and no novel of hers could succeed without that.
On the next day he did not come, and she sat idle and wretched. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming marriage. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of a second novel. It was impossible now to even look at what she had written. She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.
It was all vanity! What real enjoyment had she found in anything? She had taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like; but she had never yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation, but now even her anticipations were at an end.
The next day Mr. Broune came, and found her still very wretched.
"I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford to keep it. I don't know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now."
"You wouldn't go out of London."
"Why not? I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."
"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you," said Mr. Broune plaintively.
"So shall I - very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you tell me I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."
"I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.
"Ah - that is so kind of you. You say you want me, because I have so sadly needed you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"
"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, I understood, because of your son's position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have convinced myself - not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have convinced myself that such a marriage will make me happy, and I think, dearest, you too."
This was said so quietly and placidly that the words hardly at first brought themselves home to her. She could not feel his offer was in earnest. It was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and pretences, that she could not understand that he should in truth want to make her his wife.
At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face.
"Well," he said; "what do you think?"
The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only for money, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned; the calumny which had made her miserable; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career - there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach?
Then she remembered that first attempted kiss, when she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She could not quite understand whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and even nature had since changed - or whether he had really loved her from first to last.
"There is so much against me," she said. "And I have become so poor!"
"I am not proposing to marry you for your money. Luckily it is not necessary that I should do so."
"And then I seem to have fallen through in everything. I don't know what I've got to give in return for all that you offer me."
"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. She found herself compelled to put her own, very slowly, into it. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. But Age is not ashamed of feeling passion - it is only the public display of it which Age regrets.
Little more was said between them. As he went down to his office he told himself that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.
She, as she sat alone late into the night, underwent a reversal of spirit. That morning the world had been a perfect blank to her. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man, who had given her such proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world. Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, and to shine with his reflected glory?
Whether her hopes were realised, these pages cannot tell; but before winter was over, Lady Carbury became Mrs. Broune. The house in Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.


Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very little avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had been made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no Prince! "They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats." That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.
"What a horrid affair!" said Lady Monogram. "Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?" This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it.
"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.
"Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early."
"You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault."
"My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."
"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"
"You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?" She could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.
"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so."
"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix things." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.
Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first London circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. "I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."
"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother.
The letter to her mother must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr. Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the present moment. Of course it was proper that Mr. Brehgert should see her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts. Those few words about "various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. Mr. Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of what she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.
And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and Mr. Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr. Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr. Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!
If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how should she face her family after such a declaration? She had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for the following morning:--
Hill Street, 9th July, 187--.
MY DEAR MAMMA,
I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.
This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.
He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are among the most leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like,--and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.
I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr. Melmotte is. It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.
I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party here to-night, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.
Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.
Your affectionate daughter,
G.
When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer be in her way.
About one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted up-stairs, and had only just met in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day. "I am sick of the Melmottes," she said.
"And so am I," said Mr. Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.
"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming." Georgiana, who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a thing. "We have a few friends coming to-night, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana." Mr. Longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner. "Mr. Brehgert will be here," continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile.
"Mr. who?" The name was not at first familiar to Mr. Longestaffe.
"Mr. Brehgert." Lady Monogram looked at her friend. "I hope I'm not revealing any secret."
"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?" He had understood very much. He had been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face, that Mr. Brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to Sir Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr. Longestaffe's knowledge.
"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all about it."
"I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing. Who is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?"
"Mr. Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of him. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father." And Lady Monogram left the room.
Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forced to speak,--though she could not speak as boldly as she had written. "Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow."
"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"
"Yes, papa."
"What Mr. Brehgert is he?"
"He is a merchant."
"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte;--a man old enough to be your father!" The poor girl's condition now was certainly lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with her father. But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to be bold. She only looked at him as though imploring him to spare her. "Is the man a Jew?" demanded Mr. Longestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice.
"Yes, papa," she said.
"He is that fat man?"
"Yes, papa."
"And nearly as old as I am?"
"No, papa,--not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty."
"And a Jew?" He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further reply. "If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."
"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."
"That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?"
"I have."
"It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home to-morrow?"
"I wrote to say so."
"And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--a Jew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way?" The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that morning. "You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Oh, papa, I can't do that."
"Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A Jew! An old fat Jew!" Mr. Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair.
She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. "Tell him that I was called away suddenly."
"I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it." The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert on the morning of that day;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.
That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, Mr. Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile. "Miss Longestaffe," she said, "has left me and gone to her father."
"Oh, indeed."
"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak another word to Mr. Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probably change her acquaintance.

Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after the Emperor's dinner, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask put her and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing.
"They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats," he thought, as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies.
"What a horrid affair!" said Lady Monogram. "Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?"
"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.
"Late! Why, it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square."
"You knew they did not mean to stay long. I really think it was your own fault."
"My own fault. Yes; it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it."
"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"
"You know very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us tomorrow night?"
"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so."
"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are." Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.
Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex! She was almost in tears, and yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests.
"I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "You didn't use to be like that."
"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram. "Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out - unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." Then Lady Monogram marched into the house, and went direct to her room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, prepared to write to her mother.
The letter must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice suggested that he should, in the usual way, go to see Mr. Longestaffe, who was at present in London. But she had asked him to postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts.
Mr. Brehgert was rich, certainly. But she already repented of accepting him. If it were really necessary to go down into another, much lower world, a world composed of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? Caversham had been dull; but it was a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set - miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes. She would write one letter tonight; but she did not know whether to write to her mother telling her the horrid truth - or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.
She might have decided on the latter had so many people not already heard of the match. The Monograms had talked of it far and wide. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham.
And there were other troubles. She had spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, for ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!
If the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat - and how should she face her family?
She wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother as follows:
My Dear Mamma,
I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.
(This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.)
He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and finance. I understand they are among the leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like, and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have both. No man can be more generous. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.
I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.
I hope you won't mind having me back on Wednesday. There is a party here tonight, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.
Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London - and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics. Of course it isn't all nice, but things will never be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.
Your affectionate daughter,
G.
When the morning came she asked the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that she could not be tempted to stop it.
About one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had heard nothing of Mr. Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day.
"I am sick of the Melmottes," she said.
"And so am I," said Mr. Longestaffe.
"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have only one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming. We have a few friends coming tonight, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come and see Georgiana. Mr. Brehgert will be here," she continued with a peculiar smile.
"Mr. who?"
"Mr. Brehgert." Lady Monogram looked at her friend. "I hope I'm not revealing any secret."
"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?" He was certain from Lady Monogram's manner that Mr. Brehgert was an accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant him to understand.
"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all about it."
"I know nothing. Who is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?"
"Mr. Brehgert is a - very wealthy gentleman. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father." And Lady Monogram left the room.
Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forced to speak.
"Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you tomorrow."
"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"
"Yes, papa."
"Who is he?"
"He is a merchant."
"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte; a man old enough to be your father!"
The poor girl thought that she would try to brazen it out. But she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin.
"Is the man a Jew?" demanded Mr. Longestaffe.
"Yes, papa," she said.
"He is that fat old man?"
"Not as old as you are, papa. He is fifty."
"And a Jew? If you marry him, I will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."
"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."
"That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! You - my daughter - that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?"
"I have."
"It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home tomorrow?"
"I wrote to say so."
"There you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth; a Jew! My daughter! I will take you home myself tomorrow. You had better leave this house today, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Oh, papa, I can't do that."
"Why not? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. An old fat Jew!" Mr. Longestaffe walked about the room in despair.
She knew that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. So she had her things packed up, and allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went.
"Tell him that I was called away suddenly."
"I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it."
The poor girl had not enough spirit to upbraid her friend. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert that morning; but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him.
That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, Brehgert, elegantly dressed, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile.
"Miss Longestaffe has left me and gone to her father."
"Oh, indeed."
"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head. She did not say another word to Mr. Brehgert. He stood for about ten minutes in the drawing-room, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different; or else she would probably change her acquaintance.


It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great thing both in the House and out of the House to "catch" Roman Catholic votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or that individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people of the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation is coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same conviction has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant,--that is the peculiarly Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends. It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large. During all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the "Evening Pulpit," with a special question asked at the head of it, "For Priest or Parson?" In this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man, who did that business, declared that it was really important that the nation at large and especially the electors of Westminster should know what was the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The "Evening Pulpit" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to the approaching election. Far be it from the "Evening Pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity. But still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.
This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any way. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St. Fabricius with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must leave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of Mr. Alf's newspaper.
It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society did have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion and torpid as to politics. But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome. These manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good. On the second afternoon after the question had been asked in the "Evening Pulpit," an answer to it appeared, "For Priest and not for Parson." Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together, so as to show that Mr. Melmotte really had at last made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew now, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic,--the Great Financier was the name which Mr. Alf had specially invented for Mr. Melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced. The world of Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Now nothing was clearer than this,--that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned. This last article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to send a letter to the "Breakfast Table" asserting that he adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong. "Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk. "If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people. Don't go writing letters."
But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent Romanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready to believe. And they have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his health, his money when he had any, and his life. Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. Roger Carbury was hard of heart. He could see that. But the dropping of water might hollow the stone. If the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault. He at any rate would do his duty. In that fixed resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as to the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in all quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by "The Surplice," that the man was at heart a Catholic. That a man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing. Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration. By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius. And so, just at this season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made a journey to London.
He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr. Melmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or two as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country. On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services of the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of Mr. Melmotte. Having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and on the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in Bruton Street. There he was told that the great man might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barham was at last successful. Mr. Melmotte was there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.
The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in great confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.
Mr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial One himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. "It's that fellow from 'The Herald' office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "I don't know how people ought to sit. But that's the reason."
"I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall. "Who the d---- are you?" he asked, when the priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.
Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise,--was the rule of his life. "I am the Rev. Mr. Barham," said the visitor. "I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."
[Illustration: Father Barham.]
"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"
"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself.
"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.
"Certainly it is business," said Father Barham with a smile.
"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the City," said his lordship.
"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."
"Some lunatic," said Melmotte. "See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred."
"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others."
"Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go away."
"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the priest. "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--"
"Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not go away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows him."
"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."
"Carbury! D---- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?"
"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred. "Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow;--but just go."
"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing wrathful. "I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?"
"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.
"It's a piece of gross impertinence," said Melmotte. "Go away."
"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?"
"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.
"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.
"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed Melmotte;--whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.
"That's a remarkable thing," said Melmotte,--"very remarkable." Even this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. "I suppose he was in earnest."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant. I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again;--"just that and no more."
"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. The truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend that they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em understands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know. I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?"
"What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about."
"I'll have this bar down, at any rate." And he did succeed in having removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house. "I look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times," he went on to say. "They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes made, and who measures me for my boots!" Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that he came almost to believe in himself.
Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether disheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman Catholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed and cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to this priest, who had been born an English gentleman, as being no gentleman. But, not the less might he be a good Catholic,--or good enough at any rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes Melmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man than Roger Carbury. "He insulted me," said Father Barham to a brother religionist that evening within the cloisters of St. Fabricius.
"Did he intend to insult you?"
"Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was intent upon that."
"He entertains the Emperor of China this very day," said the brother priest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what was being done.
"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?"
"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them."
"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father Barham.
"Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the world."
"He looked like it,--and spoke like it," said Father Barham. "Think what such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the world! And if he had been against us would he not have said so? Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him." Father Barham, with a simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte was certainly a Roman Catholic.

It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster. To catch the Protestant and the Roman Catholic vote at the same time is difficult; but it was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his friends.
It was perhaps thought that the Protestants would not notice the 100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but Mr. Alf took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious opinions should be reported. No article at that time created so much interest as that which appeared in the Evening Pulpit, under the heading "For Priest or Parson?"
In this delightfully pungent article, Mr. Alf's writer declared that it was really important that the nation should know the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a highly religious man was most certain, from his two recent donations - doubtless part of a regular flow of Christian benevolence. The Evening Pulpit did not imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte looked for any return in this world from his generosity. But still, as Protestants naturally wish to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member, and Roman Catholics by a Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.
This was biting; but Mr. Melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to influence them. If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him.
It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society had much effect. It may perhaps have induced a few religiously-minded men to go to the poll. But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results. It was made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome.
These manuvres require delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good. On the second day after the question had been asked in the Evening Pulpit, an answer to it appeared: "For Priest and not for Parson." Therein, various assertions made by Roman Catholic journals were brought together, to show that Mr. Melmotte really had made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic, he had doubted whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and a golden certainty had been produced. Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic.
Now it was clear that no real Roman Catholic could hope to be elected. This article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends that they send a letter to the Breakfast Table asserting that he kept to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected by many that Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong.
"Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk. "If anyone asks you, say you are a Protestant. But don't go writing letters."
Unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that priests around the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything in the good cause of returning the country to the Catholic faith - his time, his health, and his money when he had any.
In his resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments and facts he would use. With mingled ignorance and faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the man's enormous wealth and power, and believed that he was at heart a Catholic. That he should profess the Protestant religion was not to Father Barham either improbable or distressing.
He had for some time been preparing for a trip to London in order to spend a week in retreat at the cells of St. Fabricius. And so he now travelled there. He had conceived the great idea of having a word with Mr. Melmotte himself; he wished to meet a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country.
On Saturday night - that night on which Mr. Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India Office - Father Barham took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius; he spent the Sunday at various church services; and on the Monday morning he sought Mr. Melmotte.
He went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was not expected in the City, and the priest was told that he might be in Grosvenor Square. There he found Mr. Melmotte superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the Emperor.
The house was in great confusion. Wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being hung up, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pillars, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs moved. The hall was in chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word about the Emperor, was at a loss to conceive why these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and found himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.
Mr. Melmotte was with Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand, when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite his guest - which he thought meant immediately in front of the Emperor of Emperors. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In front of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty could look down the hall; and the same for the royal princesses and princes who sat by him. In this way Mr. Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure.
Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. "It's that fellow from The Herald office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "I don't know how people ought to sit."
"I'm d___ if I'm going to be treated this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked towards him, Mr. Melmotte was trying, in vain, to move his own seat nearer to the Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up that kept him from the centre of his own hall.
"Who the d___ are you?" he demanded of the priest, who was clothed in his usual very rusty brown black. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.
Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. Outward humility - at any rate at the start of an enterprise - was the rule of his life.
"I am the Reverend Mr. Barham," he said, "the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."
"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? Who let him in, Alfred? Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"
"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission.
"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.
"Certainly," said Father Barham with a smile.
"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane," said his lordship.
"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."
"Some lunatic," said Melmotte. "See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred."
"Not mad, sir, only enthusiastic for the souls of others."
"Just get a policeman, Alfred."
"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the priest. "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes-"
"Certainly not. I am very busy. I wonder whether anybody knows him."
"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."
"Carbury! D__ the Carburys! Did they send you here? A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?"
"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred. "Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow; just go."
"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, growing angry. "I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?"
"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.
"It's gross impertinence," said Melmotte. "Go away."
"Will you not tell me whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps are in the right path; or as one still in error and darkness?"
"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.
"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.
"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed Melmotte - whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.
"Remarkable," said Melmotte.
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"But why did he come to me in his madness? I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as I am. I wonder whether the Morning Pulpit people sent him here to find out my real religion."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again; "just that and no more."
"My dear fellow, the truth is they don't know what to make of me; and I don't intend that they shall. Now, can we have this bar down?"
And he succeeded in removing the bar which had been put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house.
"That fellow's coming here is a sign of the times," he went on. "Before long they'll want to know where I have my clothes and boots made!" Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in Melmotte's remarkable career was the fact that he almost came to believe in himself.
Father Barham went away disgusted; and yet not disheartened. The man had blasphemed and cursed, and had been outrageously uncivil to a minister of God. He was no gentleman. But, none the less, he might be a good Catholic - or good enough at any rate to be influential. To his eyes Melmotte was a much more hopeful prospect than Roger Carbury.
"He insulted me," said Father Barham to a brother priest that evening at St. Fabricius. "But it is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival, and was intent on that."
"He entertains the Emperor of China today," said the brother priest.
"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, though he gave me little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?"
"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them."
"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father Barham.
"Some people doubt; but others say he is the richest man in the world."
"He looked like it - and spoke like it," said Father Barham. "Think what such a man might do! Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him." Father Barham, with singular simplicity, made himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte was certainly a Roman Catholic.