Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the performance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say, disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all its circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening, and Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now knew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were to become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for the City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery, everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had pretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet he had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord "his dear boy" before the whole House.
And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If he had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the girl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had quarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite of a little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes generally? He was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his hands. Though at this moment he hated the father most bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had been pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly feeling for the girl. Of course he could not marry her now. That was manifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others, had known that she was to be married for her money, and now that bubble had been burst. But he felt that he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personal explanation with herself. He arranged in his own mind the sort of speech that he would make to her. "Of course you know it can't be. It was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and now it turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. It's out of the question. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well together." That was the kind of speech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find for himself the opportunity of making it. He thought that he must put it all into a letter. But then that would be tantamount to a written confession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared that Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great man himself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of such an admission.
Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he saw Dolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte, the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody. Dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a sense of his own importance. "I wonder whether it's true," he was saying to Lord Grasslough. "He has an appointment to meet me and my governor at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep his appointment, you know, if he's in prison."
"You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that," said Grasslough.
"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. He had no more right than you have to give up the property. Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to speak to him since he cut up so rough the other night."
In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grasslough asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte, the latter answered out loud, "Yes;--I left him in the House half an hour ago."
"People are saying that he has been arrested."
"I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when I left the House." Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. "I suppose you were about right the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understand what it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us."
"Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "I think you're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel. Suppose we have a rubber of whist."
Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had tried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, and that he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall. "By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.
"I am very glad I was not there," said Nidderdale. It was three o'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.
On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square. From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a few hundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with his father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that something might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage. The Marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in which he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. He could be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the ladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the most part, found it impossible to live with him. But his eldest son had endured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own extreme good humour. What did a few hard words matter? If his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all that meant. As long as his father would make fair allowance for his own peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father's roughness. All this was based on his grand theory of live and let live. He expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it.
He was a little late himself, and he found his father already buttering his toast. "I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it."
"You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't earn the money." Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.
"I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord.
"Not particular." The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth at him. "The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that."
"I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne. Well;--what have you got to say about all this?"
"What have you got to say?"
"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."
"I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own that. I suppose the whole thing is over?"
"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House on the preceding evening. "What the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man himself."
"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now."
"And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"
"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else." The Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery."
"I can't see what that has to do with you."
"I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."
"Then you may just go to the devil," said the old Marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. "They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."
"A Jewess," suggested Nidderdale.
"What difference does that make?"
[Illustration: "What difference does that make?"]
"Oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. Have you heard any sum named, sir?" The old man only grunted. "There are two sisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each."
"They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year."
"It's only for her life, sir."
"She could insure her life. D----me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?"
"I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it." The old man growled again. "You see, sir, I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It 'd save a deal of trouble."
"If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away," said the old Marquis.
At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man was. "I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said the footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances of Lord Nidderdale's engagement. The son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. "You'd better go and see," said the Marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as to what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. "Go and see Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid over."
"He knows that already," said Nidderdale as he left the room.
In the hall he found a man whom he recognised as Melmotte's butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But the lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had some story to tell. "Is there anything the matter?"
"Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship."
"They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. "What is it then? He can't be dead." Then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. "Mr. Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him myself. How did he die?" But the fat, ponderous man was so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note was as follows:--
DEAR LORD NIDDERDALE,
The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?
MARIE.
He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as to the manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. "Mr. Melmotte is--dead," said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall. "This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he--died?"
"It was--poison," said the butler solemnly. "There has been a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there he was,--poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us."
Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which Marie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are."
But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. "I couldn't refuse her," he said over and over again. "I couldn't bring myself to do it. Oh, no;--I shall certainly go."
"You'll get into a mess if you do."
"Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at once. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would be abominable." Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the butler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half an hour.
"Don't you go and make a fool of yourself," his father said to him when he was alone. "This is just one of those times when a man may ruin himself by being soft-hearted." Nidderdale simply shook his head as he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.

Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own position when he left the House of Commons. Melmotte had behaved with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now knew that the man had committed forgery upon forgery, and that he was ruined; and yet he had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called him "his dear boy" before the whole House.
And Nidderdale had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. He had quarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had told his friends that in spite of a little vulgarity, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes? He was engaged to marry the girl, and could accuse her of nothing. He had some kindly feeling for her. Of course he could not marry her now; but he felt that he owed it to her to explain.
He imagined what he would say. "Of course you know it can't be, now that it turns out that you haven't got any money. And I haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well together."
Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, where he saw Dolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte, believing that he was now in custody.
"I wonder whether it's true," Dolly was saying to Lord Grasslough. "He was to meet me and my governor tomorrow, and to pay us what he owes us."
"You won't see the money, Dolly," said Grasslough.
"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is."
When Lord Grasslough asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte, he answered out loud.
"Yes; I left him in the House half an hour ago."
"People are saying that he has been arrested."
"He had not been arrested when I left the House." Then he put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe's shoulder. "You were right the other night and I was wrong; but I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us."
"Yes, it's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "You're well out of it. Suppose we have a rubber of whist."
Later that night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had tried to make a speech in the House, very drunk, and had tumbled over.
"By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.
"I am glad I was not there," said Nidderdale.
It was three o'clock before they left the card table; and Melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.
On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at breakfast with his father in Berkeley Square. The house which Melmotte had hired was only a few hundred yards distant.
Nidderdale was a little late to breakfast, and found his father already buttering his toast. He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea.
"I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord. "Well; what have you got to say about all this? You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."
"I've been guided by you in everything, sir. I suppose the whole thing is over?"
"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has her own money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House. "What the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man himself. If the money is hers, she can't lose it if he goes to prison. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"
"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else." The Marquis snorted. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put on trial for forgery."
"I can't see what that has to do with you."
"I couldn't do it, sir. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."
"Then you may go to the devil," said the old Marquis turning round, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity.
"They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."
"A Jewess," said Nidderdale.
"What difference does that make?"
"None in the least, if the money's really there. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each."
"D___ me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another, how do you mean to live?"
"I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about anyone else. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It'd save a deal of trouble."
"If you can't talk more seriously you'd better go away," said the old Marquis.
At that moment a footman came in and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall.
"I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said the footman.
"You'd better go and see," said the Marquis. "Go and tell Melmotte that you are ready to marry the girl, but that you won't stir a step till the money is actually paid over."
"He knows that already," said Nidderdale as he left the room.
In the hall he found Melmotte's butler, a ponderous man who held a letter. He could tell by the man's face that he had some story to tell.
"Is there anything the matter?"
"Yes, my lord. Oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who he seemed to take to so much as your lordship."
"They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. "What is it then? He can't be dead." Then the man nodded, and, putting his hand to his face, burst into tears. "Mr. Melmotte dead! But I saw him last night. How did he die?"
But the ponderous man was so affected that he could not speak. He simply handed over the note in his hand. It was from Marie:
Dear Lord Nidderdale,
The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?
Marie.
He read it standing up in the hall. The Marquis, hearing a word or two, hobbled out to him.
"Mr. Melmotte is dead," said his son. The old man dropped his stick. "This is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How did he die?"
"Poison," said the butler solemnly. "A doctor has been, and there is no doubt. He came home last night and had brandy and soda and cigars; and sat down by himself. Then in the morning, there he was - poisoned! I smelt prussic acid and knew what he had been and done, just like the doctor said."
Then the Marquis thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid, till you know how things are."
But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to follow this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her misery had turned to him.
"I couldn't refuse her," he said. "I shall go. It would be abominable to refuse." And he took up his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.

Chapter 85: Breakfast in Berkeley Square


Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted. "I have spoken to her father," he said crossly.
"And what did Mr. Melmotte say?"
"Say;--what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all he's an old screw."
"Did he forbid you to come there any more?"
"Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let me alone I'll do the best I can."
"She has accepted you, herself?"
"Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury."
"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. You could do it now because I know you've got money. From all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you." The son sat silent, listening to these maternal councils. He did believe that Marie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. Her own father had almost alluded to such a proceeding,--had certainly hinted that it was feasible,--but at the same time had very clearly stated that in such case the ardent lover would have to content himself with the lady alone. In any such event as that there would be no fortune. But then, might not that only be a threat? Rich fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she would do in this instance, graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all this as he sat there silent. His mother read his thoughts as she continued. "Of course, Felix, there must be some risk."
"Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!" he exclaimed. "I couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her."
"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be some risk I mean that there would be very little. There would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world."
"I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it."
"You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of them as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once. They say she is of age."
"I shouldn't know where to take her," said Sir Felix, almost stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. "All that about Scotland is done with now."
"Of course you would marry her at once."
"I suppose so,--unless it were better to stay as we were, till the money was settled."
"Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come round, if--"
"The mother is nothing."
"He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would. Ten thousand a year is not to be had every year."
Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But the prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so circumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought to take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would then make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the man to tell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would be sure to tell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him. There would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate "a fellow,"--if "the fellow" paid him.
On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie,--but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of Auld Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair,--almost white. He was standing up supporting himself on two sticks when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hall one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then there had been for a moment a whispering behind a door,--in which he afterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a part;--and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the drawing-room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He had not had time to place himself, when the Marquis arranged things. "Suppose we go down-stairs," said the Marquis.
"Certainly, my lord," said Melmotte. "I'll show your lordship the way." The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his stick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated Nidderdale followed the financier, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.
Madame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. "You should not have been made to come up at all," she said. "Il faut que vous vous retirez."
"I am very sorry," said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast.
"I think that I had at any rate better retire," said Miss Longestaffe, raising herself to her full height and stalking out of the room.
"Qu'elle est mchante," said Madame Melmotte. "Oh, she is so bad. Sir Felix, you had better go too. Yes,--indeed."
"No," said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. "Why should he go? I want papa to know."
"Il vous tuera," said Madame Melmotte. "My God, yes."
"Then he shall," said Marie, clinging to her lover. "I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do it. Felix, you love me;--do you not?"
"Certainly," said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.
"Mamma," said Marie, "I will never have any other man but him;--never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me."
"You know that, don't you, ma'am?" Sir Felix was a little troubled in his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.
"Oh, love! It is a beastliness," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?"
"Don't go," said Marie. "No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to be afraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come?"
Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavy sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the invitation. "I don't think I have a right to do that," he said, "because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house."
"I wouldn't mind," said Marie. "I told papa to-day that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale."
"Was he angry with you?"
"He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you."
Madame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's waist, listening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to them,--when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. "C'est lui," screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips. "Now be brave," she said, escaping from his arm, "and I'll be brave." Mr. Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. "Where are the others?" he asked.
"Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma."
"Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale."
"Sir Felix, I am not engaged--to--marry Lord Nidderdale," said Marie. "It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't do it."
"She will marry Lord Nidderdale," continued Mr. Melmotte, addressing himself to Sir Felix. "As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognised;--or happy to see you in the city at any time."
"Papa, he is my lover," said Marie.
"Pooh!"
"It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life."
Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out in the square. "Jade!" said Melmotte, "get to your room."
[Illustration: "Get to your room."]
"Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa."
"I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me! Have you no idea of disgrace?"
"I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going." He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Melmotte," said Sir Felix, "to have had a hand in causing this disturbance."
"Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't both marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you,--if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city."
After this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the door opened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand,--which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which had just taken place. It ran as follows:--
I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything.
M.
Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name, if he could lay his hands on it. He did not know much of such transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure a portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. Whether having so settled it, he could again resume it without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might possibly derive from it. Her proposition, put into plain English, amounted to this: "Take me and marry me without my father's consent,--and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me." He had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character of her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had had a will of her own when the mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked.
It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great deal of experience, and that things which heretofore had been troublesome to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now coming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in which he had before indulged. He had been set to marry this heiress, having at first no great liking for the attempt, because of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which it offered him. The girl was already willing and anxious to jump into his arms. Then he had detected a man cheating at cards,--an extent of iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it,--and was already beginning to think that there was not very much in that. If there was not much in it, if such a man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, why should not he try it? It was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked his adversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he had observed that there was no honour at the bottom. No feeling of honesty had interfered with him. The little trick had hardly been premeditated, but when successful without detection had not troubled his conscience. Now it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection. But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet little lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl to him. She had been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of a very secluded life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty, those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great enterprises in the minds of men.
What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so easily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while of such a man as Mr. Melmotte to make a trifling provision of this nature. It could hardly be less than 50,000,--might probably be very much more. But this was certain to him,--that if he and Marie were to claim this money as man and wife, there could then be no hope of further liberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr. Melmotte would forgive even an only child such an offence as that. Even if it were obtained, 50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte might probably have means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deep waters.

Lady Carbury asked frequent questions about her son's suit for Marie's hand, until Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted.
"I have spoken to her father," he said crossly.
"And what did he say?"
"Say - what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. He's an old screw."
"She has accepted you?"
"Of course she has. I told you that."
"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. From all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you."
The son sat silent. He did believe that Marie would go off with him if he asked. Her own father had hinted that such a thing was feasible, but at the same time had very clearly stated that in such case the lady would have no money.
But then, might not that be only a threat? Rich fathers generally forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all this as he sat silent.
His mother read his thoughts. "Of course, Felix, there must be some risk."
"Imagine if I were to be thrown over at last!" he exclaimed. "I couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her."
"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say some risk, I mean very little. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world."
"I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it."
"You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. Once the money was settled you need see little of them. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once."
"I shouldn't know where to take her," said Sir Felix, almost stunned by the magnitude of the proposition. "Maybe better not to marry, till the money was settled."
"Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. The father will be sure to come round, if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix."
Sir Felix gave no assent. But the prospect was so grand that it excited even him. He had enough money to carry out the scheme, and if he delayed now, he might never have the chance again. He thought that he would ask somebody where he ought to take her. Miles Grendall would know, but he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would help him. Herr Vossner would help any fellow out of difficulty, for a payment.
On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie, but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdale was there also, with his father, the Marquis of Auld Reekie, a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair. There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. Felix shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale.
A moment later the old Marquis said, "Suppose we go downstairs."
"Certainly, my lord," said Melmotte. "I'll show your lordship the way." The Marquis poked at his son with his stick until Nidderdale followed Melmotte; and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.
Madame Melmotte was beside herself with anxiety. "You should not have been shown in," she said. "You have to go."
"I am very sorry," said Sir Felix, quite aghast.
"I think that I had better retire," said Miss Longestaffe, stalking out of the room.
"Oh, she is so bad," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go too."
"No," said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. "Why should he go? I want papa to know."
"He will kill you," said Madame Melmotte. "My God, yes."
"Then he shall," said Marie, clinging to her lover. "I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. Felix, you love me - do you not?"
"Certainly," said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.
"Mamma," said Marie, "I will never have any other man but him; never, never, never. Felix, tell her that you love me."
"You know that, don't you, ma'am?" Sir Felix was a little troubled as to what he should say or do.
"Oh, love! It is a beastliness," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go."
"Don't go," said Marie. "No, mamma. I will walk down into papa's room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come?"
Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and a sternness about Melmotte, which made him cautious. "I don't think I have a right to do that," he said, "because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house."
"I wouldn't mind," said Marie. "I told papa today that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale."
"Was he angry?"
"He laughed at me. He thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you."
Madame Melmotte had thrown herself into a chair, sighing. Sir Felix stood with his arm round Marie's waist, listening - when a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs.
"C'est lui," screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips.
"Now be brave," she said, escaping from his arm, "and I'll be brave."
Mr. Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. "Where are the others?" he asked.
"They have gone away."
"Sir Felix, I must tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale."
"Sir Felix, I am not engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale," said Marie. "It's no good, papa. I won't do it, if you chop me to pieces."
"She will marry Lord Nidderdale," continued Mr. Melmotte, addressing Sir Felix. "As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to see you in the city at any time."
"Papa, he is my lover," said Marie.
"Pooh!"
"It is not pooh. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life."
Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung closer to her lover's arm. Sir Felix wished himself out in the square.
"Jade!" said Melmotte, "go to your room."
"Of course, if you tell me, papa."
"I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that disgraceful way!"
"It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going." He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Melmotte," said Sir Felix, "to have had a hand in causing this disturbance."
"Go away, and don't come back any more; that's all. Just understand this. I won't give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By God, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you - if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city."
Sir Felix went downstairs and was ushered out into the square. But as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand.
It was dated that morning, and ran as follows:
There is something you ought to know. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done, and it can't be undone without my leave. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away.
M.
Sir Felix felt that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. She braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name.
He could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure some of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. Whether having so settled it, he could take it back without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie had no doubt been regarded as a passive instrument when the thing was done, but she was now aware of the benefit which she might derive from it. Her proposition amounted to this: "Marry me without my father's consent, and together we can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me."
He had looked upon her as a poor weak thing; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had a will of her own. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt she would run away if she were asked.
It seemed to him that things which had been troublesome or difficult were now coming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards. He had been set to marry this heiress, and the girl was willing and anxious to jump into his arms. If such a man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection.
But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet little lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl to him. She had been able to throw off altogether those scruples of honesty which are apt to prevent great enterprises.
What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote was probably large. It would not have been worth her father's while to make a provision of less than 50,000 - probably very much more. But this was certain: if he and Marie were to marry, there could then be no hope of more money beyond that. In that case, 50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte would probably have means of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he was uneasy.


Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was greatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. Since Roger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad to worse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment. If her daughter could but be settled in the world, Lady Carbury said to herself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her son. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she did know that she had paid so much money for him, and would have so much more extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that she would be unable to keep a home for her daughter. In all these troubles she constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice,--which, however, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her house in town, to find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also for Felix if he would consent to follow her. Should he not so consent, then let the young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings. Doubtless, when he could no longer get bread in London he would find her out. Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet,--or seemed to Lady Carbury to be severe.
But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might follow it. She had plans in her head with which she knew that Roger would not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a great heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was proud of him in that anticipation. When he succeeded in obtaining from her money, as in the case of that 20,--when, with brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning, when with impudent drollery he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping. But could he marry Miss Melmotte, and thus conquer all his troubles by means of his own personal beauty,--then she would be proud of all that had passed. With such a condition of mind Roger Carbury could have no sympathy. To him it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed money to a tradesman which he could not pay. And Lady Carbury's heart was high with other hopes,--in spite of her hysterics and her fears. The "Criminal Queens" might be a great literary success. She almost thought that it would be a success. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, the publishers, were civil to her. Mr. Broune had promised. Mr. Booker had said that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from Mr. Alf's caustic and cautious words that the book would be noticed in the "Evening Pulpit." No;--she would not take dear Roger's advice as to leaving London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice. Men like to have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would arrange the marriage. What country retirement could be so suitable for a Lady Carbury when she wished to retire for awhile,--as Carbury Manor, the seat of her own daughter? And then her mind would fly away into regions of bliss. If only by the end of this season Henrietta could be engaged to her cousin, Felix be the husband of the richest bride in Europe, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest book of the year, what a Paradise of triumph might still be open to her after all her troubles! Then the sanguine nature of the woman would bear her up almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be happy, in spite of everything.
A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was up in town, and was closeted with her in her back drawing-room. The declared cause of his coming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and the indispensable necessity,--so Roger thought,--of taking some steps by which at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought to an end. It was horrible to him that a man who had not a shilling in the world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing and never thought of earning anything, should have hunters! He was very much in earnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his mind to the young man himself,--if he could get hold of him. "Where is he now, Lady Carbury;--at this moment?"
"I think he's out with the Baron." Being "out with the Baron" meant that the young man was hunting with the stag hounds some forty miles away from London.
"How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for them?"
"Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do to prevent it?"
"I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he continues in such courses."
"My own son!"
"Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed to ruin you, and Hetta? It can't go on long."
"You wouldn't have me throw him over."
"I think he is throwing you over. And then it is so thoroughly dishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on from day to day. I suppose you don't supply him with ready money."
"He has had a little."
Roger frowned angrily. "I can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money." This was very plain speaking, and Lady Carbury winced under it. "The kind of life that he is leading requires a large income of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with all I have in the world I could not do it myself."
"You are so different."
"I am older of course,--very much older. But he is not so young that he should not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you give him?"
Then Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun to entertain during the last day or two. "I think he has been playing."
"That is the way to lose money,--not to get it," said Roger.
"I suppose somebody wins,--sometimes."
"They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would sooner that he were a fool than a knave."
"O Roger, you are so severe!"
"You say he plays. How would he pay, were he to lose?"
"I know nothing about it. I don't even know that he does play; but I have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at his command. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of hours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and did not wake him. There were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever so much."
"Why did you not take them?"
"What; rob my own boy?"
"When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay your own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?"
"Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were papers there;--I. O. U.'s, signed by other men."
"You looked at them."
"I saw as much as that. It is not that I am curious, but one does feel about one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A groom came here and said something about it to the servants."
"Oh dear;--oh dear!"
"If you could only induce him to stop the gambling! Of course it is very bad whether he wins or loses,--though I am sure that Felix would do nothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for, to tell the truth, I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can say that I spend it on myself."
Then Roger again repeated his advice. There could be no use in attempting to keep up the present kind of life in Welbeck Street. Welbeck Street might be very well without a penniless spendthrift such as Sir Felix, but must be ruinous under the present conditions. If Lady Carbury felt, as no doubt she did feel, bound to afford a home to her ruined son in spite of all his wickedness and folly, that home should be found far away from London. If he chose to remain in London, let him do so on his own resources. The young man should make up his mind to do something for himself. A career might possibly be opened for him in India. "If he be a man he would sooner break stones than live on you," said Roger. Yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow and speak to him;--that is if he could possibly find him. "Young men who gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily found." But he would come at twelve as Felix generally breakfasted at that hour. Then he gave an assurance to Lady Carbury which to her was not the least comfortable part of the interview. In the event of her son not giving her the money which she at once required he, Roger, would lend her a hundred pounds till her half year's income should be due. After that his voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on another subject, "Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?"
"Certainly;--why not? She is at home now, I think."
"I will wait till to-morrow,--when I call to see Felix. I should like her to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. He was here, I suppose?"
"Yes;--he called."
"Was that all you saw of him?"
"He was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him;--and we were there. Has he gone down to Carbury?"
"No;--not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners at Liverpool. There is another case of a young man without anything to do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix." This he was induced to say by the spirit of honesty which was always strong within him.
"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix," said Lady Carbury. Roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard upon Sir Felix Carbury.
The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger was coming to lecture him. "What the Devil's the use of it?" said Felix from beneath the bedclothes.
"If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room."
"But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he has got to say just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons to good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain't good."
"Why shouldn't you be good?"
"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. I can play my hand better than he can play it for me. If you'll go now I'll get up." She had intended to ask him for some of the money which she believed he still possessed, but her courage failed her. If she asked for his money, and took it, she would in some fashion recognise and tacitly approve his gambling. It was not yet eleven, and it was early for him to leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get out of the house before that horrible bore should be upon him with his sermon. To do this he must be energetic. He was actually eating his breakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in his mind how he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into the street,--towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would certainly not come. He left the house at ten minutes before twelve, cunningly turned away, dodging round by the first corner,--and just as he had turned it encountered his cousin. Roger, anxious in regard to his errand, with time at his command, had come before the hour appointed and had strolled about, thinking not of Felix but of Felix's sister. The baronet felt that he had been caught,--caught unfairly, but by no means abandoned all hope of escape. "I was going to your mother's house on purpose to see you," said Roger.
"Were you indeed? I am so sorry. I have an engagement out here with a fellow which I must keep. I could meet you at any other time, you know."
"You can come back for ten minutes," said Roger, taking him by the arm.
"Well;--not conveniently at this moment."
"You must manage it. I am here at your mother's request, and can't afford to remain in town day after day looking for you. I go down to Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along." His firmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake his cousin off violently, and to go his way. But as he returned he fortified himself with the remembrance of all the money in his pocket,--for he still had his winnings,--remembered too certain sweet words which had passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he would not be "sat upon" by Roger Carbury. The time was coming,--he might almost say that the time had come,--in which he might defy Roger Carbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the words which were now to be spoken to him with a craven fear.
"Your mother tells me," said Roger, "that you still keep hunters."
"I don't know what she calls hunters. I have one that I didn't part with when the others went."
"You have only one horse?"
"Well;--if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the horse I ride."
"And another up here in town?"
"Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying at some stables which has been sent for me to look at."
"Who pays for all these horses?"
"At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them."
"No;--you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in asking your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to other friends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her."
"That isn't true. I have money of my own."
"Where did you get it?"
"This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can pay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, and you needn't frighten yourself."
"Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when you have money not pay it back to her?"
"She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that."
"I mean that, and a good deal more than that. I suppose you have been gambling."
"I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I won't do it. If you have nothing else to say, I'll go about my own business."
"I have something else to say, and I mean to say it." Felix had walked towards the door, but Roger was before him, and now leaned his back against it.
"I am not going to be kept here against my will," said Felix.
"You have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still. Do you wish to be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?"
"Oh,--go on."
"That is what it will be. You have spent every shilling of your own,--and because your mother is affectionate and weak, you are now spending all that she has, and are bringing her and your sister to beggary."
"I don't ask them to pay anything for me."
"Not when you borrow her money?"
"There is the 20. Take it and give it her," said Felix, counting the notes out of the pocket-book. "When I asked her for it, I did not think she would make such a row about such a trifle." Roger took up the notes and thrust them into his pocket. "Now, have you done?" said Felix.
[Illustration: "There's the 20."]
"Not quite. Do you purpose that your mother should keep you and clothe you for the rest of your life?"
"I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much better than it has ever been done before. The truth is, Roger, you know nothing about it. If you'll leave me to myself, you'll find that I shall do very well."
"I don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less moral conception of what is right and wrong."
"Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't all think alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go."
Roger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he hardly knew how to get it said. And of what use could it be to talk to a young man who was altogether callous and without feeling? The remedy for the evil ought to be found in the mother's conduct rather than the son's. She, were she not foolishly weak, would make up her mind to divide herself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and to leave him to suffer utter penury. That would bring him round. And then when the agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread and meat from her hand and would be humble. At present he had money in his pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free from inconvenience for the moment. While this prosperity remained it would be impossible to touch him. "You will ruin your sister, and break your mother's heart," said Roger, firing a last harmless shot after the young reprobate.
When Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the front door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a great success had been achieved because the 20 had been recovered. "I knew he would give it me back, if he had it," she said.
"Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?"
"I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he got it by--playing?"
"No,--he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. You may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling. How else should he have it? And you may take it for granted also that he will lose all that he has got. He talked in the wildest way,--saying that he would soon have a home for you and Hetta."
"Did he;--dear boy!"
"Had he any meaning?"
"Oh; yes. And it is quite on the cards that it should be so. You have heard of Miss Melmotte."
"I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here, and who is buying his way into society."
"Everybody visits them now, Roger."
"More shame for everybody. Who knows anything about him,--except that he left Paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue? But what of him?"
"Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is handsome; isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? They say she'll have half a million of money."
"That's his game;--is it?"
"Don't you think he is right?"
"No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree with each other about that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?"

Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was greatly increased by her anxiety about her son. If her daughter could only be settled in the world, Lady Carbury thought, she could devote herself to her son's interests. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she knew that she had paid so much money for him, and would have to pay so much more, that she might be unable to keep a home for her daughter.
In these troubles she constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice - which, however, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her house in town, and find a home for her daughter and Felix elsewhere. If Felix would not follow her, then let him bear the brunt of his own misdoings. When he had no more money he would seek her out. Lady Carbury thought Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet.
But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might follow it. She had plans with which she knew that Roger would not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a great heiress. When he got money from her - when, with brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning - when he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping.
But if he could marry Miss Melmotte, then she would be proud of him. With such a view Roger Carbury could have no sympathy. He thought that a gentleman was disgraced by owing money to a tradesman. And Lady Carbury's heart was high with other hopes: the "Criminal Queens" might be a great literary success. Mr. Broune had promised. Mr. Booker had said that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from Mr. Alf's cautious words that the book would be reviewed in the Evening Pulpit.
No; she would not leave London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice. Men like to have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would arrange the marriage. Her mind would fly away into regions of bliss. If only Henrietta could be engaged to her cousin, Felix marry the richest bride in Europe, and she be the author of the cleverest book of the year, what a Paradise of triumph might be open to her after all her troubles! Thinking this, for an hour she would be happy, in spite of everything.
A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was in town, and was with her in the back drawing-room. He had come because of the condition of the baronet's affairs and the necessity - so Roger thought - of taking steps to curtail the young man's expenses. It was horrible to him that a penniless man should have horses to hunt with! He was quite prepared to speak his mind to Felix himself, if he could get hold of him.
"Where is he now, Lady Carbury?"
"I think he's out with the Baron." This meant that he was hunting some forty miles from London.
"How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for them?"
"Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do?"
"I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he continues in such courses. Is he to be allowed to ruin you and Hetta? It can't go on."
"You wouldn't have me throw him over."
"I think he is throwing you over. And it is so thoroughly dishonest - so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on. I suppose you don't supply him with money."
"He has had a little."
Roger frowned. "I can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money." Lady Carbury winced. "His kind of life needs a large income. I could not afford it myself."
"You are so different," she said.
"I am older, of course. But he is old enough to understand it. Has he any money beyond what you give him?"
Then Lady Carbury revealed her suspicions. "I think he has been playing."
"That is the way to lose money, not to get it," said Roger.
"I suppose somebody wins, sometimes."
"They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would rather he were a fool than a knave."
"O Roger, you are so severe!"
"How would he pay, if he were to lose?"
"I don't even know that he does play; but I think that during the last week he has had money. He comes home at all hours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room and there were notes and gold lying on his table - ever so much."
"Why did you not take them?"
"What; rob my own boy?"
"When you tell me that you need money to pay your bills, and that he has taken yours! Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?"
"Ah, indeed, he ought to. And there were papers there; I.O.U.s, signed by other men. And I think he has bought another horse."
"Oh dear!"
"If you could only induce him to stop gambling! If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it - for, to tell the truth, I hardly know where to turn."
Then Roger repeated his advice. If Lady Carbury felt bound to offer a home to her ruined son in spite of all his folly, that home should be far away from London. If he chose to remain in London, let him do so on his own resources.
"If he is a man he would sooner break stones than live on you," said Roger. He would see his cousin tomorrow and speak to him. He would come at twelve, when Felix generally breakfasted. Then he assured Lady Carbury that if her son did not give her the money she needed, he, Roger, would lend her a hundred pounds.
After that his voice changed, as he asked, "Can I see Henrietta tomorrow?"
"Certainly; why not?"
"I should like her to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. He was here, I suppose?"
"Yes; he called. And he was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him. Has he gone down to Carbury?"
"No, not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners at Liverpool. He is another young man without anything to do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix."
"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix," said Lady Carbury. Roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard upon Sir Felix.
The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger was coming to lecture him.
"What the Devil's the use of it?" said Felix from beneath the bedclothes.
"If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room."
"But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he's going to say. Nothing was ever got by preaching to people who ain't good."
"Why shouldn't you be good?"
"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. If you'll go now I'll get up." She had intended to ask him for some money, but her courage failed her. To ask for his money would be to recognise and even approve his gambling.
It was not yet eleven; but Felix resolved to get out of the house before that horrible bore should come with his sermon. He ate his breakfast at half-past eleven, planning how he would go out towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would not come. He left the house at ten to twelve, cunningly dodging round the first corner - and as he turned it, met his cousin. Roger had come early and strolled about, thinking of Henrietta. Felix felt that he had been caught unfairly.
"I was going to your mother's house to see you," said Roger.
"Were you? I am so sorry. I have an engagement with a fellow."
"You can come back for ten minutes," said Roger, taking him by the arm. "I go down to Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along."
His firmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake his cousin off. But he fortified himself with the remembrance of the money in his pocket. He remembered too certain sweet words which had passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he would not be "sat upon" by Roger Carbury. The time was coming when he might defy Roger Carbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the coming words.
"Your mother tells me," said Roger, "that you still keep hunters."
"I have one that I kept when the others went."
"Only one horse?"
"Well - to be exact, I have a hack as well."
"And another up here in town?"
"No; I've just been looking at one."
"Who pays for all these horses?"
"I shall not ask you to pay for them."
"No, you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in asking your mother. You have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her."
"That isn't true. I have my own money."
"Where did you get it?"
"This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can pay for it. Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right."
"Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and not pay it back to her?"
"She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that."
"I mean that, and a good deal more. I suppose you have been gambling."
"I won't answer your questions. If you have nothing else to say, I'll go."
"I have something else to say, and I mean to say it." Felix had walked towards the door, but Roger was before him, and leaned his back against it.
"I am not going to be kept here against my will," said Felix.
"Listen to me. Do you wish to be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world? That is what it will be. You have spent every shilling of your own - and because your mother is affectionate and weak, you are now bringing her and your sister to beggary."
"There is the 20. Give it her," said Felix, counting the notes out. "When I asked for it, I did not think she would make such a row about such a trifle. Now, have you done?"
"Not quite. Do you intend that your mother should keep you for the rest of your life?"
"I hope to be able to keep her before long. The truth is, Roger, you know nothing about it. If you'll leave me to myself, I shall do very well."
"I don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less idea of what is right and wrong."
"Very well. I differ from you. People can't all think alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go."
Roger felt that he hadn't said half of what he had to say. But of what use could it be to talk to a young man who was altogether callous? If his mother were not foolishly weak, she would divide herself from her son for a while, and leave him to suffer penury. That would tame him and make him humble. While he had money in his pocket it would be impossible to touch him.
"You will ruin your sister, and break your mother's heart," said Roger, firing a last harmless shot.
When Lady Carbury came into the room after her son had left, she seemed to think that a great success had been achieved because the 20 had been recovered.
"I knew he would give it back," she said.
"Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?"
"I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he got it by - playing?"
"No; but you may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling - and also that he will lose all he has got. He talked in the wildest way, saying that he would soon have a home for you."
"Dear boy! It is quite possible. You have heard of Miss Melmotte."
"I have heard of the great French swindler who is buying his way into society."
"Everybody visits them now, Roger."
"More shame for everybody. But what of him?"
"Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is handsome, isn't he? They say she'll have half a million."
"That's his game, is it?"
"Don't you think he is right?"
"No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree about that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?"


Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received from Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of French eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house if either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie told her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. "Well, perhaps not Madame," said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to be dismissed; "but Monsieur!" Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsieur know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew how he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of course his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her without money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew himself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl, and then bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him. His daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he himself might be made a baronet. "But if they should say that I'm not an Englishman?" suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in England, or even that he should have an English name. No questions would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend a little money on the proper side,--by which Lord Alfred meant the Conservative side,--and be munificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmotte would speak of his money and power of making money as though they were unlimited,--and Lord Alfred believed him.
Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her father as "cutting up very rough." To her who had known her father all her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it was now when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she, child though she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship. But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood, and not of wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know Didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and having no such fear, she could write warmly.
--, Grosvenor Square. Early Monday Morning.
DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,
I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and honour I will never marry any one except you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it,--for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I know.
You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never,--never give you up. I suppose you can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were here. I never see him before he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham?
Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,
And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,
MARIE.
Sir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of the Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure. "What an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he crumpled the letter up.
Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her own room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to the companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very much apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often. Madame Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.
But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, and whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms were people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! She would do anything rather than lose the Monograms. But it was of no use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note. "She never really cared for anybody but herself," Georgiana said in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found that Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed. She was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient accuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and Nidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She could see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park,--especially in the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All that was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet but a few days old she understood that others understood that she had degraded herself. "What's all this about?" Lord Grasslough had said to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face. "Impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.
A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such uncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him. "What's all this about?"
She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. "What brings you here, I wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment."
"My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much harm. Why are you staying with these people?"
"Ask papa."
"I don't suppose he sent you here?"
"That's just what he did do."
"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because they are none of them coming up?"
"Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for guessing!"
"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"
"No;--not a bit."
"Then I feel ashamed for you."
"Everybody comes here."
"No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself."
"I think as much of myself as ever I did," said Georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears.
"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me."
"What did he say, Dolly?"
"He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself is what I can't understand!"
"I don't like them,--I hate them."
"Then why do you come and live with them?"
"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?"
"I shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor."
"You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?"
"You mean about marrying?"
"I mean altogether," said the poor girl, unable to be quite as explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and mother, and sister. "Of course I have to think of myself."
"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better."
"Don't write to papa, Dolly!"
"Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. Good-bye."
As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open,--not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden hours,--and actually did write a letter to his father.
MY DEAR FATHER,
I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte's house. She ought not to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year.
Your affectionate son,
ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.
This letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have been instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed,--worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to town. This had come from his son, who had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties.

Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received from Didon on Monday morning. With French volubility, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house if Monsieur knew what she was doing. Marie retorted that Monsieur could not possibly know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole household was always making ambushes.
It is not a pleasant condition for a master of a house; but the master knew how he was placed, and never trusted anyone. Of course his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her without money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew his own strength. His daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl; but the higher he rose, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfred had suggested that by certain uses of his money, Melmotte might be made a baronet.
"But if they should say that I'm not an Englishman?" asked Melmotte. Lord Alfred had explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in England. No questions would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend a little money on the Conservative side, and entertain lavishly, and the baronetcy would follow.
Marie was dissatisfied with her letter, because there was no word of love in it. An impassioned correspondence would be delightful to her. She loved the young man, and was living in a new, marvellous world. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew. She became conscious of an identity of her own, partly because her increasing familiarity with grand people meant she was no longer in awe of them. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales. She was drifting away even from the sense of obligation to her father.
Had her mind been as independent when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved him; for, as a man, he was infinitely better than Sir Felix. But at that time she had been childish, and he, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she had resented it. But she was a child no longer. She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship.
But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood, not wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know Didon well, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to the maid's custody. She could write to him at his club.
Dearest, Dearest Felix,
I have just got your note - such a scrap! Of course papa would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were married. I have told mamma, but she is always afraid of everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes; more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I hardly see him. But I don't mean to be afraid, and I will tell him that on my word and honour I will never marry anyone except you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it, for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes.
You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if you would give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never, never give you up. I suppose you can come and call, unless papa tells the servants not to let you in. I'll find out from Didon. Now I am going downstairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham?
Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,
And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,
Marie.
Sir Felix when he read this turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if there were much more of that kind of thing, he could not go on with it, despite the money.
"What an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he crumpled the letter up.
Marie, having entrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed, having resolved to endure Madame Melmotte. She had to go out in the carriage with her every day, and could only go to parties if Madame Melmotte accompanied her. She met Mr. Melmotte only infrequently, at dinner.
But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, telling her she had been forced to consent to return to London as Madame Melmotte's guest. She hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms were in such an excellent set!
But it was of no use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note.
"She never really cared for anybody but herself," Georgiana said wretchedly.
Then, too, Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had changed. She was not a fool, and could read these signs. She could see it in the faces of people - especially the men - as they greeted her in the park. She already understood that others understood that she had degraded herself.
"What's all this about?" Lord Grasslough had said to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.
"Impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.
A day or two afterwards a memorable event occurred. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must have been much stirred to move him to such uncommon action. He came at a very early hour, not much after noon, and declared to the servant that he did not wish to see any of the family, only his sister. He was shown into a room where Georgiana joined him.
"What's all this about? Why are you staying with these people?"
"Ask papa."
"I don't suppose he sent you here?"
"That's just what he did do."
"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because they aren't coming up to London?"
"Exactly that, Dolly."
"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself? I feel ashamed for you."
"Everybody comes here."
"No; everybody does not stay here. I thought you used to think so much of yourself."
"I think as much of myself as ever I did," said Georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears.
"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me."
"What did he say, Dolly?"
"He didn't say much, but I could see what he thought. And of course everybody thinks the same. I don't understand how you can like these people!"
"I don't - I hate them."
"Then why do you stay here?"
"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please. And your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?"
"You mean about marrying?"
"I mean altogether," said the poor girl.
"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but I shall write to the governor, and tell him. He should have known better."
"Don't write to papa, Dolly!"
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye."
As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club, and actually did write to his father.
My Dear Father,
I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte's house. She ought not to be there. Everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her home again. I think Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year.
Your affectionate son,
Adolphus Longestaffe.
This letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a thunderbolt. It was extraordinary to him that his son should have written a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed for him to expend such energies. But he was angry at being told that he ought to have taken his family back to town. This came from his son, who had refused to help him in his difficulties!