Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property in Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in Suffolk a great many years,--certainly from the time of the War of the Roses,--and had always held up their heads. But they had never held them very high. It was not known that any had risen ever to the honour of knighthood before Sir Patrick, going higher than that, had been made a baronet. They had, however, been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the perils of civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Carbury of the day had always owned, and had always lived at, Carbury Hall. At the beginning of the present century the squire of Carbury had been a considerable man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. The income of the estate had sufficed to enable him to live plenteously and hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when she went avisiting. He had an old butler who had never lived anywhere else, and a boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the butler. There was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes, and a couple of young women;--while the house was kept by Mrs. Carbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own preserves, and looked to the curing of her own hams. In the year 1800 the Carbury property was sufficient for the Carbury house. Since that time the Carbury property has considerably increased in value, and the rents have been raised. Even the acreage has been extended by the enclosure of commons. But the income is no longer comfortably adequate to the wants of an English gentleman's household. If a moderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the question whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to him wherewith to keep up the estate. Land is a luxury, and of all luxuries is the most costly. Now the Carburys never had anything but land. Suffolk has not been made rich and great either by coal or iron. No great town had sprung up on the confines of the Carbury property. No eldest son had gone into trade or risen high in a profession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had been married. There had been no ruin,--no misfortune. But in the days of which we write the Squire of Carbury Hall had become a poor man simply through the wealth of others. His estate was supposed to bring him in 2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House, to live abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants, he would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously. But he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham,--of which family Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son and hope,--had the name of great wealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of London and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne. The Hepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had married into new money. The Primeros,--though the good nature of the country folk had accorded to the head of them the title of Squire Primero,--had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought the Bundlesham property from a great duke. The estates of those three gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their owners altogether to overshadow our squire. The superior wealth of a bishop was nothing to him. He desired that bishops should be rich, and was among those who thought that the country had been injured when the territorial possessions of our prelates had been converted into stipends by Act of Parliament. But the grandeur of the Longestaffes and the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though he was a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into the ear even of his dearest friend. It was his opinion,--which he did not care to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be his opinion by those with whom he lived intimately,--that a man's standing in the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. The Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasants annually at about 10_s_. a head. Hepworth of Eardly was a very good fellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties as a country gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with Carbury of Carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy 7,000 a year. The Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in the country, had powdered hair. They had a house in town,--a house of their own,--and lived altogether as magnates. The lady was Lady Pomona Longestaffe. The daughters, who certainly were handsome, had been destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had, a fortune of his own. They were an oppressive people in a country neighbourhood. And to make the matter worse, rich as they were, they never were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They continued to live with all the appurtenances of wealth. The girls always had horses to ride, both in town and country. The acquaintance of Dolly the reader has already made. Dolly, who certainly was a poor creature though good natured, had energy in one direction. He would quarrel perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest in the estate. The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven months, of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all the tradesmen in the little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and Harlestone, were aware that the Longestaffes were the great people of that country. Though occasionally much distressed for money, they would always execute the Longestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, because there was an idea that the Longestaffe property was sound at the bottom. And, then, the owner of a property so managed cannot scrutinise bills very closely.
Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay, or his father before him. His orders to the tradesmen at Beccles were not extensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied were neither overcharged nor unnecessary. The tradesmen, consequently, of Beccles did not care much for Carbury of Carbury;--though perhaps one or two of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence for the family. Roger Carbury, Esq., was Carbury of Carbury,--a distinction of itself, which, from its nature, could not belong to the Longestaffes and Primeros, which did not even belong to the Hepworths of Eardly. The very parish in which Carbury Hall stood,--or Carbury Manor House, as it was more properly called,--was Carbury parish. And there was Carbury Chase, partly in Carbury parish and partly in Bundlesham,--but belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety to the Bundlesham estate.
Roger Carbury himself was all alone in the world. His nearest relatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no more than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since been married and had gone away into the world with their husbands, one to India, and another to the far west of the United States. At present he was not much short of forty years of age, and was still unmarried. He was a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, with features finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and well-formed chin. His hair was red, curling round his head, which was now partly bald at the top. He wore no other beard than small, almost unnoticeable whiskers. His eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was good. He was about five feet nine in height, having the appearance of great strength and perfect health. A more manly man to the eye was never seen. And he was one with whom you would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good terms,--partly because in looking at him there would come on you an unconscious conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own against his opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong, that he would be very pleasant to his friends.
When Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger Carbury had hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him all kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to go down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care a straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin in almost those very words. There had not, therefore, been much friendship during Sir Patrick's life. But when the violent ill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and again offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,--and to the young baronet. The young baronet had just joined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to make them happy. The effort as regarded Henrietta had been altogether successful. As regarded the widow, it must be acknowledged that Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun to sigh for the glories of a literary career. A career of some kind,--sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of her early life,--she certainly desired. "Dear cousin Roger," as she called him, had not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her in these views. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms. She had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the bishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for her. The Primeros had been odious; the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes,--she had endeavoured to make up a little friendship with Lady Pomona,--insufferably supercilious. She had declared to Henrietta "that Carbury Hall was very dull."
But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her opinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor after a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool;--some might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making. Henrietta declared to her mother that she had not in the least expected it. But he was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady Carbury was eager on his side. Though the Carbury Manor House did not exactly suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young enough for any girl. But Henrietta had an opinion of her own. She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him and praised the house so loudly to her mother,--having in her innocence never dreamed of such a proposition as this,--so that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in that way. She did refuse the offer very plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency. When Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it, and her mother supported Roger's suggestion, she could say nothing stronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do any good. Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. In the following February she went there again,--much against the grain as far as her own wishes were concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost dumb in the presence of her cousin. Before they left the offer was renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not do as they would have her. She could give no reason, only she did not love her cousin in that way. But Roger declared that he by no means intended to abandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, and love with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the beginning of our present story.
But something else happened also. While that second visit was being made at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger Carbury had said much to his cousins,--one Paul Montague, of whom some short account shall be given in this chapter. The squire,--Roger Carbury was always called the squire about his own place,--had anticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins to his house that they must of necessity meet Paul Montague there. But great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen into love with his cousin's guest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness.
Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thus spoke to the guest who had last arrived. "I've got to tell you something, Paul."
"Anything serious?"
"Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own life can approach it in importance." He had unconsciously assumed that look, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating his resolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight if fighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware that he had done something, he knew not what, militating against this serious resolve of his friend. He looked up, but said nothing. "I have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger very gravely.
"Miss Carbury?"
"Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refused me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life to me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy."
"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague in a hoarse voice.
Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of them declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable. Montague at once asserted that he also loved Henrietta Carbury. He blurted out his assurance in the baldest and most incomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no doubt. No;--he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger Carbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on that very day had not Roger spoken to him. "You have neither of you a shilling in the world," said Roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it." Then Montague declared that he had a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that Miss Carbury cared a straw about him. He had not the least reason to think that she did. It was altogether impossible. But he had a right to his chance. That chance was all the world to him. As to money,--he would not admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he might earn an income as well as other men. Had Carbury told him that the young lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, Carbury's, addresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene. But as it was not so, he would not say that he would abandon his hope.
The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague packed up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway station by Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been very hot words between the men, but the last words which Roger spoke to the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in their nature. "God bless you, old fellow," he said, pressing Paul's hands. Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the pressure.
Paul Montague's father and mother had long been dead. The father had been a barrister in London, having perhaps some small fortune of his own. He had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others, a sufficiency with which to begin the world. Paul when he had come of age had found himself possessed of about 6,000. He was then at Oxford, and was intended for the bar. An uncle of his, a younger brother of his father, had married a Carbury, the younger sister of two, though older than her brother Roger. This uncle many years since had taken his wife out to California, and had there become an American. He had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and fruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not always been plain to the Montagues and Carburys at home. The intercourse between the two families had in the quite early days of Paul Montague's life, created an affection between him and Roger, who, as will be understood by those who have carefully followed the above family history, were not in any degree related to each other. Roger, when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education, and had sent him to Oxford. But the Oxford scheme, to be followed by the bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of the country, had not succeeded. Paul had got into a "row" at Balliol, and had been rusticated,--had then got into another row, and was sent down. Indeed he had a talent for rows,--though, as Roger Carbury always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them. Paul was then twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea,--based on very insufficient grounds,--that rows are popular in California. At the end of three years he found that he did not like farming life in California,--and he found also that he did not like his uncle. So he returned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to get his 6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed he had been compelled to come away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take him home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his uncle that an income amounting to ten per cent. upon his capital should be remitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. The clock alluded to must have been one of Sam Slick's. It had gone very badly. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper remittance;--then half the amount;--then there was a long interval without anything; then some dropping payments now and again;--and then a twelvemonth without anything. At the end of that twelvemonth he paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from Roger for his journey. He had now again returned, with some little cash in hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in his favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. In accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per cent. on his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his name put up as one of the firm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague, and Montague. A business declared by the two elder partners to be most promising had been opened at Fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty miles from San Francisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the elder Montague were very high. Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his 6,000 had he been able. But he was not able, and returned as one of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in obtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed to Roger, and to live for a few months. He was intent on considering how he should bestow himself, consulting daily with Roger on the subject, when suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom he himself loved. What then occurred has been told.
Not a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real cause of Paul's sudden disappearance. It had been necessary that he should go to London. Each of the ladies probably guessed something of the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject. Before they left the Manor the squire again pleaded his cause with Henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. Henrietta was colder than ever,--but she made use of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all the effect which her coldness might have had. She said that she was too young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to say it. It was easy to tell her that in a twelvemonth she would be older;--but it was impossible to convince her that any number of twelvemonths would alter the disparity between her and her cousin. But even that disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.
Within a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor House, Paul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. He had promised before he went that he would not see Henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing further. "If she won't take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try." That had been his argument. Roger would not accede to the justice even of this. It seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had got no income, partly because of Roger's previous claim,--partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not such a man as his friend had taken him to be.
Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his friend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once to Roger Carbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of them. Indeed he could have no chance if the girl were disposed to take Roger for her husband. Roger had all the advantage of Carbury Manor at his back, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, in a wretched little town 250 miles further off than San Francisco! But if, with all this, Roger could not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about want of money was mere nonsense. Paul was sure that his friend would have created no such difficulty had not he himself been interested. Paul declared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.
He came up to London at various times in search of certain employment which had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the three months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that he would not declare his passion,--now for two months, then for six weeks, then for a month. In the meantime the two men were fast friends,--so fast that Montague spent by far the greater part of his time as his friend's guest,--and all this was done with the understanding that Roger Carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever receive the privilege to call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth between them should Henrietta be persuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall. So things went on up to the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should also be informed that there had been already a former love affair in the young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California;--but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.

Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, a small property in Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in Suffolk a great many years - certainly since the War of the Roses - and had always held up their heads. But they had never held them very high. They had, however, been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution; and the head Carbury had always lived at Carbury Hall.
Back in 1800 the squire of Carbury had been an important man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. The income of the estate had enabled him to live, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use. He had an old butler, a cook, and a couple of maidservants; while the housekeeper was Mrs. Carbury herself, who marked her own linen, made her own preserves, and cured her own hams.
Since that time the Carbury property had considerably increased in value; but the income was no longer comfortably adequate for the wants of an English gentleman's household. Land is a costly luxury, and the Carburys never had anything but land. No eldest son had gone into a profession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had been married. There had been no ruin; yet the present Squire of Carbury was a poor man.
His estate was supposed to bring him 2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House and live abroad, he would have had enough to live luxuriously. But he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham - of whom Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son - had the name of great wealth, although the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of London and a chandler as lately as Queen Anne's reign. The Hepworths had married money. The Primeros had been Spanish traders fifty years ago, and had bought their property from a great duke.
The estates of those three gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth altogether overshadowed our squire. He did not mind the Bishop's superior riches. But the grandeur of the Longestaffes and the wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though he never breathed a word of such oppression. He felt that a man's standing in the world should not depend upon his wealth. The Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasants. Hepworth was a very good fellow, who gave himself no airs; but he could not be higher than Carbury, though he had 7,000 a year.
But the Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in the country, had powdered hair. They owned a house in town, and lived like magnates. The lady was Lady Pomona Longestaffe. The daughters, who were handsome, had been destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had, a fortune of his own. To make the matter worse, rich as they were, they were never able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They lived with all the trappings of wealth. The house at Caversham Park was for six or seven months of the year full of servants, and all the tradesmen in the little towns around knew that the Longestaffes were great people. Though occasionally much distressed for money, they would always fulfil the Longestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, and assume they would be paid in the end.
Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay. His orders to the tradesmen of Beccles were not extensive, and he took care to see that he was not overcharged. The Beccles tradesmen, consequently, did not care much for Carbury of Carbury; though perhaps one or two of the elders among them had some ancient reverence for the family.
Roger Carbury himself was alone in the world. His nearest Carbury relatives were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no more than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since married and gone away with their husbands, one to India, and another to the United States.
At present Roger was almost forty, and still unmarried. He was a robust, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, and finely cut features. His hair was red and curling, though he was now partly bald. He wore no beard. His eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was good. He had the appearance of great strength and perfect health. A more manly man was never seen. And he was one with whom you would instinctively wish to be on good terms, because he looked as if he would be very stout in holding his own against opponents, but also as if he would be very pleasant to his friends.
When Sir Patrick and Lady Carbury had come home from India, Roger Carbury had hurried to see the invalid, and had offered him all kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to go down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care a straw for the old place in the country, and told his cousin so. But when the violent old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit to the widow and her daughter. Sir Felix had just joined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to make them happy.
Henrietta was indeed very happy there. As for the widow, Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun to sigh for a literary career, and "Dear cousin Roger," as she called him, could not assist her. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms. She found the Primeros odious; the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes - she had tried to make up a little friendship with Lady Pomona - insufferably supercilious. She had declared to Henrietta that Carbury Hall was very dull.
But then something happened which altogether changed her opinions. Roger Carbury followed them up to London, and made a most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very cool in his love-making, and Henrietta told her mother that she had not in the least expected it. But he was very persistent.
Lady Carbury was eager on his side. Though Carbury Manor did not suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for age, to her thinking (she being over forty) a man of thirty-six was young enough for any girl.
But Henrietta had an opinion of her own. She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him so loudly and innocently to her mother that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes; her cousin was charming, but not in that way. She refused the offer very plainly, but when Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think about it, she could say only that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do any good.
Their first visit to Carbury had been made in September. In the following February she went there again - against her wishes; and she had been cold and constrained in her cousin's presence. The offer was renewed, but Henrietta again refused it, saying she did not love her cousin in that way.
But Roger declared that he would not abandon his suit. He truly loved the girl, and love with him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the beginning of our story.
But something else happened also. During that second visit to Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger Carbury had said much to his cousins - one Paul Montague. The squire, Roger, had anticipated no evil in his guests meeting Paul Montague at his house. But great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen in love with Henrietta, causing much unhappiness.
Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury spoke to him.
"I've got to tell you something, Paul."
"Anything serious?"
"Very serious to me. Nothing in my own life can approach it in importance." He had unconsciously assumed that look, which his friend understood, of his resolve to fight if fighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware that he had done something wrong, he knew not what.
"I have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger gravely. "She has refused me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do. Everything in life to me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy."
"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague hoarsely.
Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange, each of them declaring himself to be in the right and ill-used by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable. Montague baldly asserted that he also loved Henrietta Carbury. No; he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger in a day or two - perhaps that very day, had Roger not spoken to him.
"You have neither of you a shilling in the world," said Roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it."
Then Montague declared that he had a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that she cared a straw about him. But he had a right to his chance, which was all the world to him. He was not a pauper, and he might earn an income as well as other men. If the young lady had accepted Roger, Paul would at once have left. But as it was not so, he would not abandon his hope.
The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague packed up his clothes and was driven to the railway station by Roger, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been very hot words between the men, but the parting on the railway platform was not quarrelsome.
"God bless you, old fellow," said Roger, pressing Paul's hands. Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the pressure.
Paul Montague's parents had long been dead. The father had been a barrister in London, who left a moderate sum of about 6,000 to this son, when he was twenty-one. He was then at Oxford, and was intended to be a lawyer. An uncle of his had married Roger's sister, and had taken her out to California; there he grew wool, wheat, and fruit; but whether he prospered or not was not clear to his English relatives.
An affectionate friendship had grown up between Paul Montague and Roger, despite the fact that they were not related. Roger had had charge of the boy's education, and had sent him to Oxford. But Paul had got into a "row" at Balliol, and then another row, and was sent down. Indeed he had a talent for rows - though, as Roger Carbury always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them.
At twenty-one, Paul took himself and his money out to California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea that rows are popular in California. At the end of three years he found that he did not like farming there, and nor did he like his uncle.
So he returned to England, but was unable to get any of his 6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed his uncle had assured him he would be sent an income amounting to ten per cent of his capital with the regularity of clockwork. But the clock must have been a very bad one. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper amount; then half the amount; then there was a long interval without anything; then some low payments now and again; and then a year with nothing.
Paul paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from Roger for his journey. He had now again returned, with a little cash, and with a deed executed in his favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. The deed stated that he was to get twelve per cent on his capital, and had his name put up as one of the firm - now Fisker, Montague, and Montague.
Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his 6,000 had he been able. But he was not able. However, he had succeeded in getting enough of his income to pay what he owed Roger, and to live for a few months. He was considering what to do next, consulting with Roger on the subject, when suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom he loved - with the result which has been told.
Nothing was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the cause of Paul's sudden disappearance. They probably guessed the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject. Before they left the Manor, the squire again pleaded his cause with Henrietta - in vain. Henrietta was colder than ever; but she used one unfortunate phrase. She said that she was too young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to say it. But that was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.
A week after the departure of the Carburys from the Manor House, Paul Montague returned, as a still dear friend. He had promised that he would not see Henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing further.
"If she won't take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try." That had been his argument. Roger would not concede the justice of this. It seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had no income, partly because of Roger's previous claim - and partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, he was not the man Roger had taken him to be.
Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his friend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once if Roger could succeed in his suit. But if Roger could not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about lack of money was mere nonsense. Paul declared to himself that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.
He came up to London at various times in search of employment which had been half promised him, and, after the three months were up, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that he would not declare his passion. In the meantime the two men were fast friends; so much so that Montague spent most of his time as Roger's guest - with the understanding that Roger would blaze up into hostile wrath should Paul ever call himself Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth between them if Henrietta could be persuaded to become the mistress of Carbury Hall.
So things went on until the night at which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should be informed that there had already been a love affair in the young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California; but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.

Chapter 6: Roger Carbury and Paul Montague


When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins in Welbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself. That he should be discontented generally with the circumstances of his life was a matter of course. He knew that he was farther removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was set. Had Hetta Carbury learned all the circumstances of Paul's engagement with Mrs. Hurtle before she had confessed her love to Paul,--so that her heart might have been turned against the man before she had made her confession,--then, he thought, she might at last have listened to him. Even though she had loved the other man, she might have at last done so, as her love would have been buried in her own bosom. But the tale had been told after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his own interests. Hetta had never heard Mrs. Hurtle's name till she had given herself away, and had declared to all her friends that she had given herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. The more Roger thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the more convinced that that man had done him an injury which he could never forgive.
But his grief extended even beyond that. Though he was never tired of swearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul Montague, yet there was present to him a feeling that an injury was being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. He had declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs. Hurtle,--actuated by a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust put in him by a man who was at the time his friend; and he had told nothing. But no one knew so well as he did the fact that all the attention latterly given by Paul to the American woman had by no means been the effect of love, but had come from a feeling on Paul's part that he could not desert the woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness. If Hetta could know everything exactly,--if she could look back and read the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it,--then she would probably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that there was nothing for her to forgive. Roger was anxious that Hetta's anger should burn hot,--because of the injury done to himself. He thought that there were ample reasons why Paul Montague should be punished,--why Paul should be utterly expelled from among them, and allowed to go his own course. But it was not right that the man should be punished on false grounds. It seemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to his enemy by refraining from telling all that he knew.
As to the girl's misery in losing her lover, much as he loved her, true as it was that he was willing to devote himself and all that he had to her happiness, I do not think that at the present moment he was disturbed in that direction. It is hardly natural, perhaps, that a man should love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make her happy by giving her to another man. Roger told himself that Paul would be an unsafe husband, a fickle husband,--one who might be carried hither and thither both in his circumstances and his feelings,--and that it would be better for Hetta that she should not marry him; but at the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit.
And yet he had said not a word. He had referred Hetta to the man himself. He thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know, the state of Hetta's mind. She was wretched because she thought that while her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willingly allowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, and making to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her. This was not true. Roger knew that it was not true. But when he tried to quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out among themselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance.
His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become tired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never for a moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. Roger had told him once that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject of further conversation between them. In answer to this, Father Barham had declared that he would never consent to remain as an intimate associate with any man on those terms. Roger had persisted in his stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his host's intention to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply, and the priest had of course been banished. But even this added to his misery. Father Barham was a gentleman, was a good man, and in great penury. To ill-treat such a one, to expel such a one from his house, seemed to Roger to be an abominable cruelty. He was unhappy with himself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come back to him. It was already being said of him among his neighbours, at Eardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that he either had become or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the priest's influence. Mrs. Yeld had even taken upon herself to write to him a most affectionate letter, in which she said very little as to any evidence that had reached her as to Roger's defection, but dilated at very great length on the abominations of a certain lady who is supposed to indulge in gorgeous colours.
He was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at Sheep's Acre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry John Crumb. Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and accused by his neighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to that source of consolation which he found to be most easily within his reach. Since Ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was making himself generally a scandal and a nuisance. His landlord had interfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had always declared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause of it all; for now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the lover as he did to the girl. John Crumb wasn't in earnest. If he had been in earnest he would have gone after her to London at once. No;--he wouldn't invite Ruby to come back. If Ruby would come back, repentant, full of sorrow,--and hadn't been and made a fool of herself in the meantime,--then he'd think of taking her back. In the meantime, with circumstances in their present condition, he evidently thought that he could best face the difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, early in the day and all day long. This, too, was a grievance to Roger Carbury.
But he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the present moment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. He was making hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river side; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw John Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since the eventful journey to London; nor had he seen him in London; but he knew well all that had occurred,--how the dealer in pollard had thrashed his cousin, Sir Felix, how he had been locked up by the police and then liberated,--and how he was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, as far as arms were concerned, but as being very "soft" in the matter of love. The reader need hardly be told that Roger was not at all disposed to quarrel with Mr. Crumb, because the victim of Crumb's heroism had been his own cousin. Crumb had acted well, and had never said a word about Sir Felix since his return to the country. No doubt he had now come to talk about his love,--and in order that his confessions might not be made before all the assembled haymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meet him. There was soon evident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of delight. As Roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave a bit of paper that he had in his hands. "She's a coomin; she's a coomin," were the first words he uttered. Roger knew very well that in his friend's mind there was but one "she" in the world, and that the name of that she was Ruby Ruggles.
[Illustration: "She's a coomin; she's a coomin."]
"I am delighted to hear it," said Roger. "She has made it up with her grandfather?"
"Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me. Know'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd she would."
"Has she written to you, then?"
"Well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn't the way they does it. But it's all as one." And then Mr. Crumb thrust Mrs. Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's hand.
Roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of Mrs. Hurtle. Since he had first known Mrs. Hurtle's name, when Paul Montague had told the story of his engagement on his return from America, Roger had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman. It may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced against all Americans, looking upon Washington much as he did upon Jack Cade or Wat Tyler; and he pictured to himself all American women as being loud, masculine, and atheistical. But it certainly did seem that in this instance Mrs. Hurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity. "She is a lady," Crumb began to explain, "who do be living with Mrs. Pipkin; and she is a lady as is a lady."
Roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he explained that he, too, knew something of Mrs. Hurtle, and that he thought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true. "True, squoire!" said Crumb, laughing with his whole face. "I ha' nae a doubt it's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was to blame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into him when I first heard as he was arter her. It's that as girls like. So, squoire, I'm just going again to Lon'on right away."
Roger suggested that old Ruggles would, of course, receive his niece; but as to this John expressed his supreme indifference. The old man was nothing to him. Of course he would like to have the old man's money; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed that things would come right in time. But this he knew,--that he wasn't going to cringe to the old man about his money. When Roger observed that it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she might at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all the substantial comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea, that on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to church and be married to her out of hand. He had thrashed his rival, and what cause could there now be for delay?
But before he left the field he made one other speech to the squire. "You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin to yourself?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Crumb."
"That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and Ruby's once spliced, I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first day as he'll come to Bungay."
Roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation on the part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on his own part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in that matter of the street encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate and continued happiness of Mr. and Mrs. John Crumb.
"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said Crumb as he went exulting out of the field.
On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed him very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return any answer, or what answer. It was from Paul Montague, and was written by him but a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta with his own hands, at the door of her mother's house. Paul's letter to Roger was as follows:--
MY DEAR ROGER,--
Though I know that you have cast me off from you I cannot write to you in any other way, as any other way would be untrue. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to you in the name of justice.
You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I am justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right.
Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix, and that he had learned it from those people at Islington. But she has been told that which is untrue. Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. She supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months, although during that very time I have asked for and have received the assurance of her love. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs. Hurtle,--as to which nothing at present need be said,--it is certainly the truth that her coming to England was not only not desired by me, but was felt by me to be the greatest possible misfortune. But after all that had passed I certainly owed it to her not to neglect her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one. I went down to Lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place to her as one known to myself, and because I could not refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and you know also, as no one else does, that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been constrained to show her.
I appeal to you to let Hetta know that this is true. She had made me understand that not only her mother and brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the story of my acquaintance with Mrs. Hurtle. Neither Lady Carbury nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it. You, and you only, have known the truth. And now, though at the present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. You will understand me when I say that I feel that I am being destroyed by a false representation. I think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of setting me right, at any rate as far as the truth can do so. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that.
Yours always,
PAUL MONTAGUE.
What business is all that of mine? This, of course, was the first feeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's letter. If Hetta had received any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told no stories against his rival, whether true or false. He had been so scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And if any false impression had been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances or by untrue words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall upon him? Though every word in Montague's letter might be true, nevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him, even should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous impressions. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering to make Mrs. Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury. Such, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as he thought over all the circumstances. At any rate, it was no business of his to correct these wrong impressions.
And yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. He did believe that every word in Montague's letter was true. Though he had been very indignant when he met Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together on the sands at Lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their coming there had been precisely that which Montague had stated. It took him two days to think over all this, two days of great discomfort and unhappiness. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girl did not care for him,--looked upon him as an old man to be regarded in a fashion altogether different from that in which she regarded Paul Montague. He had let his time for love-making go by, and now it behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not to lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could never attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings. And yet the passion which dominated John Crumb altogether, which made the mealman so intent on the attainment of his object as to render all other things indifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with Roger Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger, strong as his passion was, it was embarrassed by other feelings. It never occurred to Crumb to think whether he was a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having a decided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him. But with Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamper him. John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should do. He had to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her whatever she might cost him. He was always confident though sometimes perplexed. But Roger had no confidence. He knew that he should never win the game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. The people around him, from old fashion, still called him the young squire! Why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years old,--so old that he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile spirits as those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend Hepworth. Could he, by any training, bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?
In such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's letter,--and he answered it as follows:--
I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I do not know that I have any that I wish to tell in your favour, or that I could so tell if I did wish. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, and which you say no one else can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.
ROGER CARBURY.
Paul Montague, Esq.
You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!
There was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that spirit of self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself; and so he himself felt after the letter had been dispatched.

When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk after seeing his cousins in Welbeck Street, he was discontented with himself. He knew that he was farther removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was set. If Hetta Carbury had learned about Paul's engagement with Mrs. Hurtle before she had confessed her love to Paul, she would have buried her love, and might have come to love him, Roger. But Hetta had never heard Mrs. Hurtle's name till she had given herself away. The more Roger thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague, and the more convinced that the man had done him an injury which he could never forgive.
But his grief extended beyond that. He also felt that an injury was being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. He had declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs. Hurtle. Yet he knew well that Paul's attention to the American woman had not been because of love, but because Paul had felt that he could not desert her when she asked him for kindness. If Hetta could read the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it, then she would probably forgive the man. Roger was anxious that Hetta's anger should burn hot, because of the injury done to himself, and he thought that Paul Montague should be punished; but not on false grounds.
As to the girl's misery in losing her lover - even though Roger was devoted to her happiness, I do not think that he was disturbed about that. He told himself that Paul would be an unsafe, fickle husband, and that it would be better for Hetta not to marry him. At the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit.
And yet he had not said a word. He had referred Hetta to Paul. He tried to quieten his conscience by saying that they must fight it out between themselves, but he was uneasy.
His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become tired of the priest, who kept trying to convert him. Roger had told him that he did not wish to discuss religion with him any more; Father Barham had declared that he could never remain as a friend with any man on those terms. When Roger had persisted, the priest had suggested that his host wished to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made no reply, and the priest was banished. But even this added to his misery. He felt he had been cruel to the priest, yet he could not bid him come back. His neighbours were already saying that he was about to become a Roman Catholic.
He was troubled, too, about old Ruggles, at Sheep's Acre, who had taken to drink, and was making himself a scandal and a nuisance. He declared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause; for now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to John Crumb as he did to the girl. This, too, was a grievance to Roger Carbury.
But he did not neglect his work. He was making hay at this time in some meadows down by the river; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw John Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John since the eventful journey to London, but he had heard all that had happened. John was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, though very "soft" in the matter of love.
Roger hurried to meet him. Crumb's broad face beamed with a whole sunshine of delight. As Roger came closer he began to laugh, and to wave a bit of paper.
"She's a coomin; she's a coomin," were the first words he uttered.
"I am delighted to hear it," said Roger. "She has made it up with her grandfather?"
"Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me."
"Has she written to you, then?"
"Well, squoire, she ain't, herself. But it's all as one." And Mr. Crumb thrust Mrs. Hurtle's note into Roger's hand.
Roger was not disposed to think kindly of Mrs. Hurtle. Since he had first heard her name from Paul, he had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing woman. But it certainly did seem that in this case Mrs. Hurtle was trying to do a good turn. Roger said that he thought that what she said of Ruby might be true.
"True, squoire!" laughed Crumb. "I ha' nae a doubt it's true. When I dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. So, squoire, I'm going again to Lon'on right away."
When Roger observed that it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she might at once return, John listed with a renewed grin all the comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea that on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby to church and be married out of hand.
But before he left the field he made one speech about Sir Felix. "You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was your coosin?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Crumb."
"That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man no harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him."
Roger assured him that he thought that Crumb had behaved well in that encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. John Crumb.
"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said Crumb, as he went exulting out of the field.
On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed him very much. It was from Paul Montague, written a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta. Paul's letter to Roger was as follows:
My dear Roger,
Though I know that you have cast me off I cannot write to you in any other way. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to you in the name of justice.
You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I feel sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right.
Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix. But she has not been told the truth. Nobody knows the truth as you do. She supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs. Hurtle, her coming to England was not desired by me; I felt it to be the greatest possible misfortune. But I owed it to her not to neglect her, as she was a foreigner unknown to anyone. I went to Lowestoft with her at her request, because I could not refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and you know also that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been forced to show her.
Though you are angry with me, I appeal to you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. I think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of telling her the truth. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that.
Yours always,
Paul Montague.
What business is it of mine? This was Roger's first feeling. If Hetta had received any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told no stories against his rival, true or false. He had been so scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall upon him? It would be no more than justice if he were robbed at last of his love. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering to make Mrs. Hurtle his wife rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury. Such, at least, was Roger's verdict.
And yet he was ill at ease. After all, why should he be a dog in the manger? The girl did not care for him; she looked upon him as an old man. He had let his time for love-making go by, and he ought not to lose himself in regrets for a happiness which he could never attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings.
And yet the passion which dominated John Crumb was equally strong with Roger Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger, unlike John Crumb, he knew that he would never win the game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. Why, he felt himself at times to be eighty years old. Could he bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?
In such a mood he did at last answer his enemy's letter, as follows:
I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I do not have any that I wish to tell in your favour. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.
Roger Carbury.
You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!
There was perhaps more hostility in this letter than the self-sacrifice Roger had intended; and so he felt after the letter had been sent.


Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the evening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead. Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance had busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were made instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale himself had assisted them in their departure; and the German, with the poor woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed according to Melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took the mother and the daughter. They did not start till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment would fain have been allowed to rest one other night in Bruton Street. But Lord Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand that the inquest would be held early on the following morning, and Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her point. So the poor woman was taken away from Mr. Longestaffe's residence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in Grosvenor Square, which she had not visited since the night on which she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China.
On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The servants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them, learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned by prussic acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to testify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was there any doubt as to the cause.
In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? Who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon earth? Such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. But let a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his side--a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute who had got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and had disgraced the House by being drunk there,--and, of course, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves, with their wits about them. Just at this moment there was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his having tumbled over poor Mr. Beauclerk in the House of Commons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was _felo de se_, and therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But it may be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There were some, among them Croll and Mr. Brehgert, who absolutely knew that he had committed forgery. He had no money for the Longestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at once. He had assured himself long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not very long ago,--that he would brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs. Melmotte's back had been so utterly crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity.
But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing took place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made to the manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious. Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful things. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone alone that spoke of a monument.
Mr. Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of it a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town; and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much for Mr. Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking upon the stool in Mr. Squercum's office, where he now passed a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage.
"By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"
Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. "They say that the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them," said Squercum.
"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all done without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties." Then he uttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of "making it very hot for them."
It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the management of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively into the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence of Mr. Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had lately lived and had died. The dead man's papers were still there,--deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy;--and these could not be removed quite at once. "Mr. Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely necessary," said Mr. Longestaffe in answer to a message which was brought to him; "but he will of course see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible." But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had received.
All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr. Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of 300 due to him for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty per cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing by Melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before the father took anything. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and his own family, the house in London should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number, and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters. "I have suffered great wrongs," said Mr. Longestaffe, "but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience." From what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but she said not a word even about that.
But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are anticipated. Mr. Longestaffe had remained in London actually over the 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of the year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion,--so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when Mr. Longestaffe's heart had been softened by that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr. Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old port wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening Mr. Brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe. The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to his own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which Mr. Longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart. "Of course there's a difference between me and you," he said. Mr. Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very wide difference. "In our affairs," continued Brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money."
"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard."
"I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely."
"I suppose so."
"It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of our house. The long and the short of it is that I shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds."
"That's a large sum of money."
"Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you."
This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr. Longestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most deserving of censure; but Mr. Longestaffe did not know how to pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact.
"It was so," said Brehgert.
"No doubt;"--and Mr. Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.
"Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would maintain a second house when we should be married."
"It was impossible," said Mr. Longestaffe,--meaning to assert that such hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question.
"It would have been quite possible as things were when that proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."
"There were other reasons," muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed voice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence.
"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not the slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason."
"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert; why mention this now? The subject is painful."
"Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman." Mr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from so dubious an oracle. "I am sure," continued Brehgert, "that I behaved like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself."
"Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended."
"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend." Finishing the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.
As soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe opened the door and walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had conferred upon him by asking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not all Jews necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Brehgert.

Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late that evening Madame Melmotte and Marie were moved to lodgings far away up at Hampstead. Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's request had seen that the rooms were instantly made ready. Nidderdale himself had helped them depart. They did not go till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte would fain have stayed one more night in Bruton Street. But Marie was imperious with her mother; so the poor woman was taken away.
On Saturday morning the inquest was held. The servants, the doctor, and the police inspector agreed that Melmotte had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, and that he had been found dead, poisoned by prussic acid. There was no doubt that he had destroyed himself - nor as to the cause.
In such cases it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one has been mad at the time. Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, so that the body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad.
But let a Melmotte be found dead - a man who has become horrid to the world, a man who has pretended to be rich, a brute who has got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and has disgraced the House by being drunk there - he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity. There was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, and he was declared to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison.
All the same, I think that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch driven beyond his powers of endurance. He could foresee pretty well what would happen. He had committed forgery; he had no money for the Longestaffes, and was well aware what Squercum would do. Although he had assured himself that he would bear it all like a man, we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs.
His body was carried away, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that, there was a certain amount of whitewashing. In Westminster he was always odious; but Marylebone took him up quite with affection, while Finsbury delighted to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by unkind tongues.
Mr. Longestaffe came back to his house alone. There was much for both him and Dolly to do, in working out how far they had been ruined. They could not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate.
Dolly, as he sat smoking in Mr. Squercum's office, said, "By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"
Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be from the Melmotte estate. "They say that the furnishings, and the silver plate, and carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them."
"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything." Then Dolly uttered threats against the Bideawhiles, declaring he would "make it very hot for them."
It was an added annoyance to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the management of Melmotte's estate fell at last into the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and also energetic and patient. But he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Mr. Brehgert needed to be in the house, for the dead man's papers were still there - those that he had not destroyed - and could not yet be removed.
"Mr. Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, if it is absolutely necessary," said Mr. Longestaffe; "but he will relieve me from such intrusion as soon as possible." However, he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured after the injuries he had received.
All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr. Longestaffe agreed, as it included a sum of 300 due to him for the rent of the house in Bruton Street. Then it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of at least fifty per cent payable on debts which had been owing by Melmotte; an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that his house in London should be sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number.
All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters.
"I have suffered great wrongs," wrote Mr. Longestaffe, "but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. From my daughters I expect cheerful obedience." Exactly what led him to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it is difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down, while Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects.
While Mr. Longestaffe remained in London, he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and formed a kind of friendship with that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion. He once even asked Mr. Brehgert to dine with him in Bruton Street. Mr. Brehgert came, and there was a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old port wine.
Until then not a word had passed between them about the engagement with Georgiana, since the day on which her father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But this evening Mr. Brehgert spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe.
The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert made to his own affairs. His loss would be double Mr. Longestaffe's; but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart.
"Of course there's a difference between me and you," he said. Mr. Longestaffe bowed his head graciously. "In our affairs," continued Brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money."
"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard."
"I can't even yet quite understand why he decided to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely."
"I suppose so."
"I ventured on a speculation with him; and the long and the short of it is that I shall lose about sixty thousand pounds."
"That's a large sum of money."
"Very large; so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you."
This indelicate reference to his daughter altogether upset Mr. Longestaffe. He was so anxious for Brehgert's assistance that he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed more than his normal dignity as he said that his daughter had never mentioned the fact.
"It was so. I had promised your daughter that I would maintain a second house when we should be married."
"It was impossible," said Mr. Longestaffe - meaning the marriage.
"It would have been quite possible as things were when I proposed. But on looking forward to the loss which I anticipated, I found it best to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."
"There were other reasons," muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed whisper.
"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me, she seemed to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason."
"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert? The subject is painful."
"Because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because I wish everyone to know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman and an honest man."
Mr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then nodded three times. "Perhaps less said the soonest mended."
"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing to mend." With this little speech Brehgert arose to take his leave, promising to do all in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.
As soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse himself from impurities. How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how little grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had shown him by asking him to dinner! A horrid Jew! Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis he could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Brehgert.