When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for hers,--especially as the reception of Mr. Brehgert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the elopement. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I. O. U. of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. But at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.
I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made no calculation. "Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.
[Illustration: "Have you heard what's up, Ju?"]
"What is up?"
"Haven't you been out?"
"I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that girl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can."
"Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are."
"Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?"
"They say Melmotte's been found out."
"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. "What do you mean by found out?"
"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought of old Longestaffe."
"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them."
"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."
"Then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them."
"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?"
"Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe," said Lady Monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.
"They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before long."
"Not to-night, Damask!"
"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."
"Is Mr. Lupton going?"
"He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do."
"A Cabinet Council!"
"Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."
Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she did say was repeated down-stairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. "Damask," she said, when he reappeared, "one thing is certain;--we can't go."
"After you've made such a fuss about it!"
"It is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. You know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?"
"I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."
"He's a Jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly."
"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?"
But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. She had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to become known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched people,--and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been there,--that the world, in short, had ignored Melmotte's villainy,--then would her grief be still greater. She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she had transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two. And a horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind. What should she do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up? Of course, Madame Melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to gaol. "I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.
"Of course we shall,--in about an hour," said Lady Monogram as she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence.
"Because, you know--" and then he called her back. "If you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."
"How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night."
"All right;--only it's a bore being here alone."
Then Miss Longestaffe asked what "was up." "Is there any doubt about our going to-night?"
"I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."
"Impossible!"
"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband, whom she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. "Damask," she said, "you must find out."
"Find out what?"
"Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."
"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.
"He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were you." Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he did not like the job. "What can be the objection?" asked his wife.
"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come before you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju."
"Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if it were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will." Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing! He "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. But at last he submitted, and allowed his wife to leave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for and announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his big cigar.
It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far as Sir Damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. But again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before he could reach home. "It's all right," said he to his wife. "They're there, safe enough."
"You are sure that the Emperor is there."
"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."
Miss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. "I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"
"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the door. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming down-stairs. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there,--but had taken their departure.
Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club.

When that little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. High prices were being paid. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte.
But gradually the prices fell; and by eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had spread through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had heard it, and ladies' maids and footmen and grooms. It had got into the air.
I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife, if he had calculated what the result might be. But he made no calculation.
"Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said when he came home, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.
"What is up?"
"They say Melmotte's been found out."
"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought off old Longestaffe."
"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them."
"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against them except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."
"Then he's ruined - and there's an end of them."
"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, or maybe a letter, or maybe a whole set of title-deeds. They say Dolly Longstaffe has found it all out. There was always more about Dolly than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be arrested before long."
"Not tonight, Damask!"
"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."
"Is Mr. Lupton going?"
"He hadn't made up his mind when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called. It's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who may be arrested before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."
Lady Monogram waved her maid away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she said was repeated downstairs. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband finished dressing for dinner.
"Damask," she said, "we can't go."
"After you've made such a fuss about it!"
"It is a pity, having that girl here in the house. You know she's going to marry one of these people?"
"But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."
"He's a Jew, and he's seventy."
"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?"
But Lady Monogram had by no means decided. She had paid her price, and she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy: she had taken it for granted since she had first heard of him, and had only a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. It would grieve her greatly to become known as one who had driven to the door, and had not, after all, met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses, and the world generally, had all been there when she had not - then her grief would be still greater.
She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she was visiting the Monograms for a day or two.
"I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.
"Of course we shall - in about an hour," said Lady Monogram, looking at him in rebuke him for his imprudence.
"Because if you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."
Then Miss Longestaffe asked, "Is there any doubt about our going tonight?"
"There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."
"Impossible!"
"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps - something has turned up. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband. "Damask," she said, "you must find out whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."
"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.
"If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Take a cab."
Sir Damask did not like the job. "Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come! I just don't see it, Ju."
"If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will."
Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go, though it was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and princes. But at last he submitted, and the cab was sent for.
It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. When he got to the door, he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. But it was nearly eleven before he could reach home.
"It's all right," said he to his wife. "They're there, safe enough."
"You are sure that the Emperor is there?"
"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."
Miss Longestaffe was present, and resented the slur cast upon her friends.
"I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"
"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start. When they reached the house, there was a great crush in the hall. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there - and had departed.
Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club.

Chapter 61: Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party


All this time Mr. Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London while the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at Caversham. He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as a thing utterly out of the question. Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.
"What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear them."
"You can do nothing for me."
"Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you choose to read them? What do you expect?"
"You know, papa, that's nonsense."
"How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?"
"Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what's to be the end of it? Sophia, I suppose, is going to be married."
"I am happy to say she is,--to a most respectable young man and a thorough gentleman."
"And Dolly has his own way of going on."
"You have nothing to do with Adolphus."
"Nor will he have anything to do with me. If I don't marry what's to become of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should choose."
"Do not mention his name to me."
"But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I to see people? It was you sent me to Mr. Melmotte."
"I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte."
"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could only see the people he had there. I like nice people as well as anybody."
"There's no use talking any more about it."
"I don't see that. I must talk about it, and think about it too. If I can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should complain."
"A Jew!"
"People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in--"
Then Mr. Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped her for that time. "Look here," he said, "if you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. It is disgusting,--degrading,--disgraceful!" And then he left her.
On the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see Mr. Brehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had she the courage to ask him. The objectionable name was not mentioned again in her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between herself, Lady Pomona, and her sister. When Mr. Longestaffe and his younger daughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the hall to meet her child,--from whom she had that morning received the dreadful tidings about the Jew. As to these tidings she had as yet heard no direct condemnation from her husband. The effect upon Lady Pomona had been more grievous even than that made upon the father. Mr. Longestaffe had been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage was out of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed, and could take upon himself to see the Jew with the object of breaking off the engagement. But poor Lady Pomona was helpless in her sorrow. If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not help it. But such an occurrence in the family would, she felt, be to her as though the end of all things had come. She could never again hold up her head, never go into society, never take pleasure in her powdered footmen. When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look even her neighbours Mrs. Yeld and Mrs. Hepworth in the face. Georgiana found no one in the hall to meet her, and dreaded to go to her mother. She first went with her maid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. As she sat pretending to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regain her courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Why, at any rate, should she be afraid of other females? Had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister? "Oh, Georgey," said Sophia, "this is wonderful news!"
"I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be married except yourself."
"No;--but such a very odd match!"
"Look here, Sophia. If you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't like to come to us, you needn't. That's about all."
"George wouldn't let me go there at all," said Sophia.
"Then--George--had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma? I should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a word to me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like this."
"Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up and in her own room. You mustn't be surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up about this." Then Georgiana understood that she must be content to stand all alone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up Mr. Brehgert.
"So I've come back," said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing her mother.
"Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!" said Lady Pomona, slowly raising herself and covering her face with one of her hands. "This is dreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it from you."
"What is the good of all that, mamma?"
"It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worse than your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bible against it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going to do this."
"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,--and she goes everywhere."
"What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he's fixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think of that, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise."
"Mamma, that's nonsense."
"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they have been able to sit in Parliament."
"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew," said Georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case.
"Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but what they are. I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him."
Now, if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised from her youth upwards it was George Whitstable. He had been a laughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural dullness since he had become a man. He certainly was neither beautiful nor bright;--but he was a Conservative squire born of Tory parents. Nor was he rich,--having but a moderate income, sufficient to maintain a moderate country house and no more. When first there came indications that Sophia intended to put up with George Whitstable, the more ambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her scorn. And now she was told that George Whitstable would not speak to her future husband! She was not to marry Mr. Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, among others, upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured.
"Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not trouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the moon."
"He has always been in county society," said Sophia, "and was staying only the other day at Lord Cantab's."
"Then there were two fools together," said Georgiana, who at this moment was very unhappy.
"Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert,--I can't bear to have his name mentioned in my hearing."
"Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't be mentioned again by me." Having so spoken, Georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down into the drawing-room before dinner.
Her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her feelings. She presumed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert, but did not in the least know what had passed between them. It might be that her father had been so decided in his objection as to induce Mr. Brehgert to abandon his intention,--and if this were so, there could be no reason why she should endure the misery of having the Jew thrown in her face. Among them all they had made her think that she would never become Mrs. Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almost sick of the thing herself. But she could not back out of it so as to obliterate all traces of the disgrace. Even if she should not ultimately marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been engaged to a Jew,--and then it would certainly be said afterwards that the Jew had jilted her. She was thus vacillating in her mind, not knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being "far from well." It was of course known to them all that Mr. Brehgert was her ailment. She was accompanied by her elder daughter, and Georgiana was left with her father. Not a word was spoken between them. He sat behind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servants treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice. It was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise her altogether. Of what service would it be to her that Lady Julia Goldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to be left without a single Christian friend? Would a life passed exclusively among the Jews content even her lessened ambition? At ten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. Her father grunted less audibly than usual under the operation. She had always given herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her courage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as these.
On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable wedding. Dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultations held,--from all which things Georgiana was kept quite apart. The accepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as though the Whitstables had always kept a town house. Sophy loomed so large in her triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. All Caversham treated her with a new respect. And yet if Toodlam was a couple of thousand a year, it was all it was;--and there were two unmarried sisters! Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive parent. Oh, heavens;--was Mr. Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her. Even Caversham, the Caversham of old days which she had hated, but in which she had made herself respected and partly feared by everybody about the place,--had charms for her which seemed to her delightful now that they were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to be the first personage in the house,--superior even to her father;--but now she was decidedly the last.
Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr. Longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room between the library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted only of Georgiana. In the course of the evening she went up-stairs and calling her sister out into the passage demanded to be told why she was thus deserted. "Poor mamma is very ill," said Sophy.
"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this," said Georgiana. "I'll go away somewhere."
"How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing. Of course you must have known that you were going to separate yourself from us."
On the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr. Longestaffe,--of what nature Georgey did not know as it was addressed to Lady Pomona. But one enclosure she was allowed to see. "Mamma," said Sophy, "thinks you ought to know how Dolly feels about it." And then a letter from Dolly to his father was put into Georgey's hands. The letter was as follows:--
MY DEAR FATHER,--
Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up.
Yours affectionately,
A. LONGESTAFFE.
Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice or instruction, such as should come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. This letter had not been received with a welcome. Nevertheless the head of the family had thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it to Caversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter.
And so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! She'd like to see somebody do it! As soon as she had read her brother's epistle she tore it into fragments and threw it away in her sister's presence. "How can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what Dolly says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought it worth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after that I must say that I don't much care what papa does."
"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else," said Sophy.
"As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are about the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world."
"Of course we all know, Georgiana," rejoined the elder sister, "that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercial classes, and especially among a certain sort."
"I've done with you all," said Georgey rushing out of the room. "I'll have nothing more to do with any one of you."
But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her family! A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or come and claim his property after twenty years. A young man may demand an allowance, and has almost a right to live alone. The young male bird is supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. But the daughter of a house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a husband. The only way in which Georgey could "have done" with them all at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr. Brehgert, and at the present moment she did not know whether Mr. Brehgert did or did not consider himself as engaged to her.
That day also passed away with ineffable tedium. At one time she was so beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to her sister in reference to the wedding garments. In spite of the very bitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would have done so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. In her younger days she had had her bad things, and now,--with George Whitstable by her side,--she meant to have good things, the goodness of which was infinitely enhanced by the badness of her sister's things. She had been so greatly despised that the charm of despising again was irresistible. And she was able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by telling herself that duty required her to show implacable resistance to such a marriage as this which her sister contemplated. Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day, not in the least knowing what was to be her fate.

Mr. Longestaffe had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as utterly out of the question.
Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.
"I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear them."
"You can do nothing for me."
"Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in? What do you expect?"
"You know, papa, that's nonsense. If I don't marry what's to become of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should choose."
"Do not mention his name to me."
"But what am I to do? It was you that sent me to Mr. Melmotte."
"I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte."
"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could only see the people he had there."
"There's no use talking any more about it."
"I must talk about it, and think about it too. If I can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should complain."
"A Jew!"
"People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in-"
Then Mr. Longestaffe became furious and loud. "If you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. It is disgusting - degrading - disgraceful!" And then he left her.
On the next morning before he started for Caversham he saw Mr. Brehgert; but he did not tell Georgiana what was said, and she did not have the courage to ask him.
Then there was a sad scene with her mother, Lady Pomona. When they arrived, the poor mother did not go into the hall to meet her child, from whom she had that morning received the dreadful tidings about the Jew. She was helpless in her sorrow. If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman she could not stop it; but she felt as though the end of all things had come. She could never again hold up her head, never go into society. When her daughter should have married a Jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look her neighbours in the face.
Georgiana, finding no one in the hall, went with her maid to her own room, and waited there till Sophia came to her. She strove to regain her courage. Why need she be afraid of anybody? Had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister?
"Oh, Georgey," said Sophia, "this is wonderful news! Such a very odd match!"
"Look here, Sophia, if you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't like to come to us, you needn't. That's all."
"George wouldn't let me go there," said Sophia.
"Then he had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma?"
"Mamma isn't at all well; she's in her own room. She is very much cut up about this."
As she sought her mother, Georgiana understood that she must stand alone in the world, unless she gave up Mr. Brehgert.
"I've come back," she said, stooping and kissing her mother.
"Oh, Georgiana!" Lady Pomona slowly raised herself, covering her face with her hand. "This is dreadful. It will kill me."
"What is the good of all that, mamma?"
"It can't be possible. It's unnatural. I'm sure there's something in the Bible against it."
"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing - and she goes everywhere."
"What does your papa say? I'm sure he won't allow it. If he's fixed about anything, it's Jews. An accursed race - expelled from Paradise."
"Mamma, that's nonsense."
"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is."
"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew," said Georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case.
"I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him."
Now, if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised from her youth it was George Whitstable. He had been regarded as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural dullness. He certainly was neither beautiful nor bright; he was a Conservative squire, able to maintain a moderate country house and no more. And now she was told she was not to marry Mr. Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace upon George Whitstable! This was not to be endured.
"Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not trouble his head about us. I'm sure I shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the moon."
"Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert - I can't bear to hear his name mentioned."
"Then it shan't be mentioned again by me." Georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down before dinner.
Her position was very trying. She presumed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert, but did not know what had passed between them. It might be that her father had induced Mr. Brehgert to abandon his intention. They had all made her think that she would never become Mrs. Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She was almost sick of the thing herself. But even if she were to back out, it would be known that she had been engaged to a Jew - and then it would be said that the Jew had jilted her.
She was thus vacillating, not knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That evening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being "far from well," and Sophia went with her. Georgiana was left with her father. Not a word was spoken. He sat behind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the servants treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her notice. It seemed the family intended to ostracise her altogether. What would it be like to be left without a single Christian friend?
At ten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. Her father grunted less audibly than usual, and she began to fear that her courage would not carry her through sufferings such as these.
On the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable wedding, from which Georgiana was kept apart. George Whitstable came over to lunch, and was made much of. Sophy's triumph was not to be borne. All Caversham treated her with a new respect. And yet Toodlam was barely a couple of thousand a year - and there were two unmarried sisters!
Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her younger daughter. Was Mr. Brehgert with his two houses worth all this? A feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her. Even Caversham, which in old days she had hated, had charms for her now that they were lost for ever. Then she had always considered herself to be the first personage in the house; but now she was decidedly the last.
Her second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr. Longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room next to the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted only of Georgiana. She went upstairs, and calling her sister, demanded to be told why she was thus deserted.
"Poor mamma is very ill," said Sophy.
"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this," said Georgiana. "I'll go away somewhere."
"How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing."
On the next morning there came a letter from Mr. Longestaffe, addressed to Lady Pomona. It contained an enclosure she was allowed to see. It was a letter from Dolly, as follows:
My dear Father,-
Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up.
Yours affectionately,
A. Longestaffe.
Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice such as should come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. Nevertheless the head of the family had thought it worth his while to send it to Caversham to be shown to his rebellious daughter.
So Dolly said that she ought to be locked up! As soon as she had read her brother's letter she tore it into fragments and threw it away.
"How can mamma pretend to care what Dolly says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot?"
"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else," said Sophy.
"As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are about the same. I've done with you all. I'll have nothing more to do with any of you."
But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her family! A young man may go anywhere; but the daughter of a house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a husband. The only way in which Georgey could "have done" with them all at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr. Brehgert, and she did not know whether Mr. Brehgert still considered himself as engaged to her.
That day was so tedious she almost offered to help her sister with the wedding garments. She would have done so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But Sophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. She had been so greatly despised that the charm of despising in her turn was irresistible.
Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day, not knowing what was to be her fate.

Chapter 78: Miss Longstaffe Again at Caversham


Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.
The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at the club;--or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.
Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. As regarded her son himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. "Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all," Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. "Yes; he has come back," said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. "It was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to her.
"Felix," she said,--"speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake." He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself, further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock."
"All right," he said at last.
"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother."
"I am so sick, mother."
"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?"
"At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me." Sam was the page.
"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?"
"It hasn't come off."
"But how has it not come off?"
"I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?"
"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it."
"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather stay here."
"You must have something to eat, Felix."
"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then."
"Where is the money, Felix?"
"I paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to his head.
Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.
"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.
"Yes, my dear."
"Had you not better send for a doctor?"
"No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow."
"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything."
"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. "Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined."
"Has he done anything, mamma?"
"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much better it would be to be childless!"
"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."
"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless."
"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"
"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."
"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"
"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad."
"I have never said so."
"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."
Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did in truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew, all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.
[Illustration: "Can I marry the man I do not love?"]
"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been possible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. "It didn't come off," he said, "and of course that knocked me off my legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the 30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from Melmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.
That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Broune called in Welbeck Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. As for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than of kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed. And he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew his good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Of nothing was Mr. Broune more certain than that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. "The world of London generally knows what it is about," said Mr. Broune, "and the London world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it." Under such teaching as this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alf.
Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also Mr. Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there."
"He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all day. Did she go?"
"So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her."
"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?"
"What money?"
"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit." This Mr. Broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.
It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any money. What did Mr. Broune mean by a large sum? "That would be dreadful," she said.
"Had you not better ask him about it?"
Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to get a word of truth from her son. "What do you mean by a large sum?"
"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."
"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present moment.
"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury." Lady Carbury thought that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. "You must put a stop to this."
"But how?"
"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you." And so he hurried off.
Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put into Mr. Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr. Melmotte had owed him 600, and that he had received 250 out of this from Miss Melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly true; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.

Five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. When his mother crept up to his room, he feigned to be fast asleep. But he had only short snatches of uneasy slumber. He was sick and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie quiet, trying to soothe the agony of his head, and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all he could do. A servant brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had.
All was surely now over. He had allowed the heiress to run away without him. She would have started her long journey across the ocean before she could discover that he had failed to be there. He had lost all his money, and hers, and even his mother's. And he could vaguely remember starting some row at the club.
When would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? If ever a man ought to cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But he simply gathered the bedclothes around him and tried to sleep.
Between five and six his mother again came to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder, thinking. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey - having told some lie to her own daughter as to its cause.
When he came, drunk and degraded, back to the house, she had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt. She had found his ticket for the vessel and the little money he had left. She could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money.
What lie should she now tell her daughter? At breakfast she said, "Felix is back. Some plan about the Mexican railway has fallen through, I believe. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After that Hetta had said nothing all day.
And now, an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury stood by her son's bedside.
"Felix," she said, "speak to me. I know you are awake." He groaned, and turned away, burying himself further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock."
"All right."
"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. You had better trust your mother."
"I am so sick, mother."
"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? Where are your things?"
"At the club."
"Felix, you must tell me. What has been done?"
"It hasn't come off. I didn't get away."
"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it."
"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather stay here."
"You must have something to eat, Felix."
"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick that I can't talk. If he'll get me some soda water and brandy, I'll tell you all about it then."
"Where is the money, Felix?"
"I paid it for the ticket," said he.
Then his mother again left him. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did sleep for a while.
"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.
"Yes, my dear."
"Had you not better send for a doctor?"
"No, my dear. He will be better tomorrow."
"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you told me everything."
"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting into tears. "Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell - except that I am ruined. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God, how much better it would be to be childless!"
"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing to her mother's side. "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."
"It concerns you as well. I wish I were childless."
"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"
"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."
"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"
"Love! Have I been able to love? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good, sweet-natured man, who would try to make you happy. Ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain as Felix. It never occurs to you to sacrifice a fantasy for the advantage of others."
Hetta moved away, and when her mother went upstairs she turned it over in her mind. Could it be right to marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right to marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? She knew that Roger had a sweet nature, and also high honour and a noble courage. He was the very friend whose advice she could have asked - had he not wished to make her his wife.
Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.
"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte, or whether Marie had changed her mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth.
"It didn't come off," he said, "and of course I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow gets cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club - that the whole thing was off. I can't explain any more. I got the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the 30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. I haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had received from Melmotte. And as his mother knew nothing of these sums she could not contradict him; but she was sure there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.
That evening Mr. Broune called in Welbeck Street. He often called now, coming in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the newspaper office. Since Lady Carbury had refused his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly more real friendship between them than had ever existed earlier. He spoke to her more freely about his affairs, and she would speak to him with some attempt at honesty. There was no love-making between them. But he talked of the things that worried him, and also of his editorial triumphs; how he had saved the country millions by telling some grand truth!
Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by little confidences of her own. She had almost made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Mr. Broune thought that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself with the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte.
"London believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound," he said. "I don't pretend that he has never done anything that he ought not to. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it."
On this evening Lady Carbury at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. She told him everything.
He had already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there."
"Did she go, then?"
"So I am told; and was met at the station by a police officer, who brought her back to London. She probably still thinks her lover was on board the ship. I pity her."
"How much worse it would have been, had she gone on board," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; she would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?"
"What money?"
"They say the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that is so he certainly ought to lose no time in returning it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it. But to avoid unpleasantness, it should be sent back at once."
This was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she knew, had her son.
"What do you mean by a large sum?" she said, in tears.
"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."
"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came out - the whole story of her poverty, caused by her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from her husband's death up to the present.
"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury. You must put a stop to this."
"But how?"
"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. Then we will try to get him to go abroad. No; do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, but do as I bid you. Send me word of the sum down to the office. God bless you." And so he hurried off.
Early the following morning Mr. Broune received a letter from Lady Carbury, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr. Melmotte had owed him 600, and that he had received 250 out of this from Miss Melmotte. Lady Carbury added that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. Although this was true, she admitted that she could not safely believe anything told to her by her son.

Chapter 52: The Results of Love and Wine


"You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." So Mrs. Hurtle had said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come to England with the view of marrying. And then when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, she declined that. "Nay," she had said; "this parting will bear no farewell."
Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return home with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended to write to him,--that letter which she had shown him, owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed,--he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. He could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wild cat such as that. But at the last moment she had shown that she was no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. In her softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed her life for her,--or, at least, had created a miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. She had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him,--and he had believed her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had done her. But was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed,--as the day that is past?
But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings.
During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr. Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him,--a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days,--and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. "We think that Carbury has drowned himself," said Lord Grasslough, "and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it." Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club. "He's taken up the running with the girl," said Lord Grasslough. "What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass." Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days. "We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like," said Lord Grasslough; "and then Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine there every day." This was said during the election,--on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.
On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta alone. "Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "She is writing so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. "I suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in Parliament or not?" Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman of his. "Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes;--as far as it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did not like Mr. Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance. "Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is--?"
"Just a scoundrel;--that's all."
"You heard about Felix?"
"Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried to run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now."
"I think not, Mr. Montague."
"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it."
"Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me."
"You went to the party, then?"
"Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens."
But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention of discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the opportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other. "Hetta," he said, "I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix."
"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people," said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind to do.
"Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself, and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too."
"I do not know why you should do that."
"Hetta, you must know that I love you."
"Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thought that he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs that ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her heart! So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. She would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will hardly act mechanically.
"Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment so as to let me know." Her eyes had turned downwards after her work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."
"Roger is very dear to me."
"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"
She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "No," she said;--"not like that."
"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms as though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.
"If you want it."
Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. "Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."
She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not the same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said,--"ever so much better than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.
"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all his energy.
"I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."
"I do," said he.
"No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants."
"Where should I have been?"
"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him." Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing that he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,--at least so Hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be right that it should be told? "Do you know I almost feel that he is like a father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.
Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. "Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again."
"I cannot believe that."
"There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. How could I have known?"
"That would be unreasonable."
"He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--"
"Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this."
"But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful."
"If you think, Paul--"
"Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me." Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.
And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:--
MY DEAR ROGER,--
I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you.
This was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that it had been implied.
I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.
Your affectionate friend,
PAUL MONTAGUE.
Roger Carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answer the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with indignation.
There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.
You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.
ROGER CARBURY.
It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in those parts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.
Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return. "Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here."
"He always comes here when I am away," said Lady Carbury.
"That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's."
"I'm not so sure of that, Hetta."
"Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think you knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it matter? He has been here, and I have told him--"
"You have not accepted him?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Without even asking me?"
"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I not to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?"
"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all Melmotte's wickedness."
"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"
"But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation like that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! I feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think nothing of that."
"I think very much of my cousin Roger."
"And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been a home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been worse to me even than Felix." Then Lady Carbury, in her passion, burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.

"You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." So Mrs. Hurtle had said in perfect good faith to Paul Montague. And when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand for the last time, she declined it.
Paul returned home in low spirits. If she had insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip, he might at least have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he had behaved, her conduct had been worse. He could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that he was right to escape from the clutches of such a wild cat.
But at the last moment she had been no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly, and exquisitely beautiful; and he returned home sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed her life. She had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him. Was he to do nothing for her now?
Yet what could he do? He had made good his escape. He had resolved that he would not marry her, and he knew he had been right. Were he to return to her he would again be thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought of her left desolate and lonely in Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings.
During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in regard to the American railway. He again went to Liverpool, and at Mr. Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat. He also wrote a letter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, upon receiving the balance of money due to him.
When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. The old set there had broken up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days; and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey was told to him. Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club.
"He's taken up the running with the girl," said Lord Grasslough. "He was there at the party yesterday, talking to her all night - a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass." Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days.
On the next afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, Paul strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta alone.
"Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "Who has been elected, Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. He said that Melmotte was no longer his chairman.
"Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes; as far as it lay within his power, he was out of it. With considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with Melmotte, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance.
"Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is-?"
"A scoundrel; that's all."
"You heard about Felix?"
"I heard that he tried to run off with the girl. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now."
"I think not, Mr. Montague."
"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it."
"Do you know that she truly loves Felix? I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me. Poor girl; I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens."
But Paul Montague had not come to discuss Melmotte's affairs. He was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other.
"Hetta," he said, "I am thinking more of myself than of her."
"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people," said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what he intended.
"Yes; but I am thinking of myself and of you. Hetta, you must know that I love you."
"Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And she thought that he was equally sure of her love. Could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had interrupted them? He must have known that he had her heart! So at least she thought. She had been sewing some morsel of lace, as ladies do when they wish to be not quite doing nothing. Now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.
"Yes, I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment." Her eyes had turned downwards to her work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."
"Roger is very dear to me."
"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"
She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "No," she said; "not like that."
"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms. She raised her hand as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.
"If you want it."
Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy.
"Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."
She was very quiet, but full of joy. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him. As to Roger - dear Roger - no; it was not the same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said, "ever so much better than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.
"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague.
"I think he is; but that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."
"I do," said he.
"No, you don't. I won't be called good. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would accept him, out of sheer gratitude."
"Where should I have been?"
"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But, Paul, I think he will never love anyone else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not young, and yet I think that he never was in love before. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he could never be happy unless I would marry him. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly - but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him."
Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Even if Roger were an angel, he could have no claim upon her, since he had failed to win her heart.
But what was to be done about poor Roger? Whether for good or bad, Hetta had now given herself to Paul Montague. Should he not be told?
"Do you know, I almost feel that he is like a father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.
Paul thought it over, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. "Hetta, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again."
"I cannot believe that."
"There is a sternness about him. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. He will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful - and I must bear it, though it will be a great sorrow. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. You must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me."
Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.
And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:
My dear Roger,
I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred today. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to our friendship, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, even if I had never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you.
(This was hardly what had been said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that it had been implied.)
You once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would keep to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.
Your affectionate friend,
Paul Montague.
Roger Carbury did not take a single day, or a single hour to answer the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply, his face red with wrath, and his eyes glowing with indignation.
You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.
You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.
Roger Carbury.
Henrietta told her mother that morning. "Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here, and I have told him-"
"You have not accepted him?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Without even asking me?"
"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you."
"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? He is a ruined man, and for all I know he may be compromised in Melmotte's wickedness."
"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"
"But I do say it. I did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as he is! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! he has been so true to us! But you think nothing of that."
"I think very much of my cousin Roger."
"And how do you show it? Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been even worse to me than Felix." Then Lady Carbury burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.