Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also the faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of pleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having more than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that American clergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon thought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistress very often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go without food in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at the railway-station.
At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his ten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by Marie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement was so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their seats without any impediment,--and then they were off.
During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the things she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale;--especially when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no token of love;--"pas un baiser!" Didon suggested that such was the way with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from devoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was ugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. "Bah!" exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations should prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would never have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had thought that New York, with 50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress. Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was running away,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would be with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing for marquises.
As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station should know that they were going on board the packet for New York. They had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and other things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine, Passenger to Liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety would not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was sure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe on board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath the bedclothes.
When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat for a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any hurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte." Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab?
[Illustration: "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."]
But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to their cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at once gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.
"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte," said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant, Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte." Marie declared that she spoke French. "And English too," said the gentleman. "I think you had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you."
"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position and of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their luggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was it to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?
The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit himself to reply in the same language. "You had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.
"But why?" demanded Marie.
Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided."
There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not to have been punished with special severity in that they had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced. Who is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their old interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie, when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr. Scudamore.
When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further opposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "Who was going to stop her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another document which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she pleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what little English she could command to half-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene. They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay. She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "But the box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.
Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape. And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love! But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true to him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before, and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mind from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her present disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how then would it be with poor Felix? "After all I don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over it all.
The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a little advice. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down."
"Oh, I won't," she answered. "I don't mean."
"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."
"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow if I had the chance." The gentleman looked at her, not having expected so much determination. "I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it."
"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."
"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people."
"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."
"Of course I wouldn't," said Marie.
The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it. "And are you to come?" Marie asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. "All the people will wonder who you are," said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much suffering.
When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room,--and there she found her father, alone. "This is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.
"Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it."
"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?" To this she vouchsafed no reply. "As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?"
"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."
"Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little idiot."
"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so."
"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in Welbeck Street."
"I don't believe it, papa."
"You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed behind, I think I'd have let you go."
"I'm sure he didn't stay behind."
"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?"
"She's gone on board the ship."
"And where is the money you took from your mother?" Marie was silent. "Who got the cheque changed?"
"Didon did."
"And has she got the money?"
"No, papa."
"Have you got it?"
"No, papa."
"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?"
"Yes, papa."
"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."
"Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back again."
"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to marry him again if I don't prosecute him?" Marie considered. "Unless you do that I shall go to a magistrate at once."
"I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. I gave it to him."
"Will you promise me?"
"No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only break it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?"
"All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here," and he took her by the arm. "I've been very good to you. You've had your share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else." He held her very hard and shook her as he spoke.
"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches."
"What do you care for?"
"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.
"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion. You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than you do."
"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy."
"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you."
"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let the girl for one minute out of her presence.
The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady with whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they been said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that Grendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo,--as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club. They had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock the party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.
There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix wandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of affliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction by producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is conscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and losing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better do with himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last, as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he had wandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where he was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled half down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.
Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At last it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not probably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a condition. "Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.
"It'sh all up," he said, stumbling in.
"What has happened, Felix?"
"Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush." Drunk as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old shap" was fast asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews. "Bettersh go to bed." And so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, the wretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own room, a miserable woman.

Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night with Didon. To Marie the night was full of pleasurable excitement. She unpacked and repacked her treasures, including her wedding dress, and asked Didon if she thought the dress would be fit for getting married on board ship. Didon thought that the dress would not much signify. They had no breakfast, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates.
At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, and Marie and Didon with the smaller luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had agreed that not a word of English was to be spoken till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad tea, then took their seats - and they were off.
Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future life, and all the things she would do, and how she had hated Lord Nidderdale. Nidderdale was ugly, and Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning.
"Bah!" exclaimed Didon in disgust. She had learned that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and would never have anything at all. She had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon thought, however, that New York might offer her a new career, so she had yielded.
Marie bore her disgust with good humour. She was running away to a distant continent - and her lover would be with her! She cared nothing for marquises.
As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be very careful, and say nothing about New York till they were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine, Passenger to Liverpool;" so was a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that she would be anxious until the ship was moving. Marie was sure that all their dangers were over, if only Sir Felix was safe on board.
Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion from his distressing situation and loss of money, and his headache, beneath the bedclothes.
When the train arrived at Liverpool a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the packages, keeping the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat.
"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."
Marie was struck dumb. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab?
But the gentleman would not allow them to pass on to their cab. With him was another gentleman, and not far in the distance Didon espied a policeman, who seemed to be quite ready if he were wanted.
"You are Miss Melmotte," said the gentleman, "and this is your servant, Elise Didon. You had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you."
"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up her courage, asserted that they had a right to come to Liverpool. They had done nothing against the law. Why were they to be stopped in this way?
"You had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman. "A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are back with him. But in order to bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque, if necessary. We shall not let you go on board. If you travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience."
There was no help to be found anywhere. Marie blamed the telegraph system; and she offered no further opposition. Bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes.
But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf. "What had she - Didon - done? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug her box away.
The gentleman looked at his telegram. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing unlawful. He suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress; but Didon only clamoured the more. No; she would go to New York. Nobody should stop her. She started off to the nearest cab, and no one did stop her.
"But the box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and got into the cab without a word of farewell. Then she was driven away - and out of our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.
Poor Marie! If she had succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then have been carried to New York without him. She had a lucky escape.
But she was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!
She would be true to him. But might it not be even better to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how would it be with poor Felix?
"After all I don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself.
The gentleman was very kind to her. As they got near town he ventured to advise her. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down. Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."
"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again tomorrow if I had the chance. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it."
"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."
"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man; and I won't."
The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square, and at Euston they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow later in a cab, so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had happened. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it.
When she got home she was hurried at once to her mother's room - and there she found her father, alone.
"This is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.
"Well, papa; yes. You made me do it."
"You fool! You were going to New York? As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?"
"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."
"Of course I know; but you don't know all about it, you little idiot."
"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so."
"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" She looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in Welbeck Street."
"I don't believe it, papa."
"Don't you? It's true. If you had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone."
"I'm sure he didn't stay behind."
"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. Where is Didon?"
"She's gone on board the ship."
"And where is the money you took from your mother?" Marie was silent. "Who got the cheque changed?"
"Didon."
"And has she got the money?"
"No, papa."
"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?"
"Yes, papa."
"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."
"Oh, papa, don't do that. He didn't steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back again."
"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never try to marry him again if I don't prosecute him?"
"No, papa. What's the good of making a promise when I should only break it? Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?"
"All the money! What do you know about the money? Look here," and he took her by the arm and shook her. "I've been very good to you. You've had your share of everything; carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves."
"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches."
"What do you care for?"
"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.
"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this way. You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by G__, you shall have a hard time of it. I know more than you do, you fool."
"You don't know what'll make me happy."
"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you."
"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte told her not to let the girl out of her presence.
Sir Felix's condition was worse than Marie's. He had played at the Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour at the club he had made himself very unpleasant, saying all manner of harsh things about Miles Grendall; declaring that he would not pay his debts, and that he cheated. There was a desperate row. At four o'clock Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.
There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix wandering about the streets that night. He was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. He felt himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman. What had he better do?
He fumbled in his pocket for his ticket to New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last he remembered that it was at the club, and tried to get back there, staggering down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with him to Oxford Street. He had not strength of will left to go back for his luggage and start for Liverpool.
Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had been locked. At last it was opened by Lady Carbury. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. A sorrier sight cannot meet a mother's eye than that of a son coming home drunk at six in the morning.
"Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.
"It'sh all up," he said, stumbling in.
"What has happened, Felix?"
"Discovered, and be d___ to it! The old chap'sh stopped ush." Drunk as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old chap" was fast asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab. "Bettersh go to bed." So he stumbled upstairs. His wretched mother took off his clothes and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went to her own room, a miserable woman.


Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for the best part of an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had there discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. There are men,--and old men too, who ought to know the world,--who think that if they can only find the proper Medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and new and unembarrassed. These great conjurors are generally sought for in the City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though the result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. No greater Medea than Mr. Melmotte had ever been potent in money matters, and Mr. Longestaffe had been taught to believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But the necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any cauldron. He, Mr. Melmotte, could put Mr. Longestaffe in the way of realising property without delay, of changing it from one shape into another, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing. "You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe."
"No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte."
"Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other."
"There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there."
"Your son will not join you in selling the other place?"
"I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my life."
"I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty."
Then Mr. Longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to Caversham,--and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter. He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange, and this had been effected simply on the security of the lease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this, an absence of that delay which generally took place between the expression of his desire for money and the acquisition of it,--and this had gratified him. But he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification. At the present moment, too, Mr. Melmotte was odious to him for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr. Melmotte to make him a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he,--Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham,--had had his request refused! Mr. Longestaffe had condescended very low. "You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!" he had said in a complaining tone. Then Mr. Melmotte explained that Lord Alfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for the position. "I'm sure I could do anything that he does," said Mr. Longestaffe. Upon this Mr. Melmotte, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness, replied that the number of directors required was completed. Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr. Melmotte was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.
Mr. Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought very much of his personal appearance. It was not that he considered himself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He entertained an idea that all who understood the matter would perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the first water, and a man of fashion. He was intensely proud of his position in life, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the English gentleman of gentlemen was he who had land, and family title-deeds, and an old family place, and family portraits, and family embarrassments, and a family absence of any useful employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having stood and been beaten three or four times for his county, he was of opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark of bad breeding. He was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it behoved him to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a certain nobility of feeling. There was very little that his position called upon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him to do. It was not allowed to him to be close in money matters. He could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous, but he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not make inquiry as to the consumption of his wines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for his tenants in regard to game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family.
At the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. The debt had not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. It would also serve his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with debt. The father could not bear to be refused; and he feared that his son would decline. "But Adolphus wants money as much as any one," Lady Pomona had said. He had shaken his head and pished and pshawed. Women never could understand anything about money. Now he walked down sadly from Mr. Melmotte's office and was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Even for the accommodation of those few thousand pounds he was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr. Longestaffe felt that the world in general was very hard on him.
"What on earth are we to do with them?" said Sophia, the eldest Miss Longestaffe, to her mother.
"I do think it's a shame of papa," said Georgiana, the second daughter. "I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them."
"Of course you will leave them all on my hands," said Lady Pomona wearily.
"But what's the use of having them?" urged Sophia. "I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to the girl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her."
"It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her," said Lady Pomona.
"Dolly will never marry anybody," said Georgiana. "The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't come down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless."
"Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?" asked Sophia.
"Because everybody wants money," said Lady Pomona. "I'm sure I don't know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any money for anything. I don't spend it."
"I don't think that we do anything out of the way," said Sophia. "I haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to live at all, I don't know how we are to make a change."
"It's always been like this ever since I can remember," said Georgiana, "and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it."
"But, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as these Melmottes!"
"As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan't trouble myself about them. I suppose it will only be for two days."
"My dear, they're coming for a week!"
"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down there?"
"He is wonderfully rich," said Lady Pomona.
"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued Georgiana. "Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in Florence. It was there that Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Caversham. No one knows who they are, or where they came from, or what they'll turn to." So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes was supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue.
This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes' family town-house in Bruton Street. It was not by any means a charming house, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which have been added of late years to newly-built London residences. It was gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. But it was the old family town-house, having been inhabited by three or four generations of Longestaffes, and did not savour of that radical newness which prevails, and which was peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Longestaffe. Queen's Gate and the quarters around were, according to Mr. Longestaffe, devoted to opulent tradesmen. Even Belgrave Square, though its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt of the mortar. Many of those living there and thereabouts had never possessed in their families real family town-houses. The old streets lying between Piccadilly and Oxford Street, with one or two well-known localities to the south and north of these boundaries, were the proper sites for these habitations. When Lady Pomona, instigated by some friend of high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longestaffe had at once snubbed his wife. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls then they might remain at Caversham. The threat of remaining at Caversham had been often made, for Mr. Longestaffe, proud as he was of his town-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration. The girls' dresses and the girls' horses, his wife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull London dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that Lady Pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of July, with more dread than to any other period. It was then that he began to know what that year's season would cost him. But he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. The girls, who as yet knew nothing of the Continent beyond Paris, had signified their willingness to be taken about Germany and Italy for twelve months, but had shown by every means in their power that they would mutiny against any intention on their father's part to keep them at Caversham during the London season.
Georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the Melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not often show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wrote to him notes without end,--notes every day, pressing invitations of all sorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to that evening-party? These Dolly barely read, and never answered. He would open them, thrust them into some pocket, and then forget them. Consequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were at any rate superior to him in intellect, treated him with a certain deference. He could do as he liked, and they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dulness of the Longestaffe regime. His freedom was grand to their eyes, and very enviable, although they were aware that he had already so used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of his wealth.
"My dear Adolphus," said the mother, "this is so nice of you."
"I think it is rather nice," said Dolly, submitting himself to be kissed.
"Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?" said Sophia.
"Give him some tea," said his mother. Lady Pomona was always having tea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner.
"I'd sooner have soda and brandy," said Dolly.
"My darling boy!"
"I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don't want it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor?" They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be something going on more than they had dreamed of, when Dolly asked to see his father.
"Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch," said Sophia gravely.
"I'll wait a little for him," said Dolly, taking out his watch.
"Do stay and dine with us," said Lady Pomona.
"I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with some fellow."
"Some fellow! I believe you don't know where you're going," said Georgiana.
"My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't."
"Adolphus," began Lady Pomona very seriously, "I've got a plan and I want you to help me."
"I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother."
"We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come."
"By George! no; I couldn't do that."
"You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are coming."
"The d---- they are!" ejaculated Dolly.
"Dolly!" said Sophia, "do remember where you are."
"Yes I will;--and I'll remember too where I won't be. I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte."
"My dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that Miss Melmotte will have twenty--thousand--a year the day she marries; and that in all probability her husband will some day be the richest man in Europe?"
"Half the fellows in London are after her," said Dolly.
"Why shouldn't you be one of them?"
"She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London," suggested Georgiana. "If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have just at present."
"But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn't at all in my way, mother."
"I knew he wouldn't," said Georgiana.
"It would put everything so straight," said Lady Pomona.
"They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them straight. There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row." Then Mr. Longestaffe entered the room.
"My dear," said Lady Pomona, "here's Adolphus come to see us." The father nodded his head at his son but said nothing. "We want him to stay and dine, but he's engaged."
"Though he doesn't know where," said Sophia.
"My fellow knows;--he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever so long, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't anything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know."
"You'd better come with me into the study," said the father. "We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business." Then the squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making a woful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting,--not the result of the conference, for with that they did not suppose that they would be made acquainted,--but whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the manner and appearance of the squire when he should return to them. Dolly they did not expect to see again,--probably for a month. He and the squire never did come together without quarrelling, and careless as was the young man in every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to his own rights in any dealings which he had with his father. At the end of the half hour Mr. Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family. "My dear," he said, "we shall not return from Caversham to London this year." He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity as he spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion.
[Illustration: Then the squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed.]
"Papa!" screamed Sophia.
"My dear, you don't mean it," said Lady Pomona.
"Of course papa doesn't mean it," said Georgiana rising to her feet.
"I mean it accurately and certainly," said Mr. Longestaffe. "We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham to London this year."
"Our ball is fixed," said Lady Pomona.
"Then it must be unfixed." So saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room and descended to his study.
The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly. But the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother.
"He can't really mean it," said Sophia.
"He does," said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.
"He must unmean it again;--that's all," said Georgiana. "Dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun?"
"I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus."
"Dolly can take care of himself," said Georgiana, "and always does do so. Dolly does not care for us."
"Not a bit," said Sophia.
"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn't stir from this at all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir,--unless he has me carried out of the house."
"My dear, I couldn't say that to him."
"Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury, who is rustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me I know. It wouldn't be nice of course. I don't like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;--it's quite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte."
"That's ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine."
"But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how hard papa is to manage."
"Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear."
"No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all England."
The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's company. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables. Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. To her had been imparted up-stairs the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would be desirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed from debt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he replied that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged and would be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold,--and, as a consequence of that, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year.
The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head, as was their custom. There was very little show of affection in the kiss. "You had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week," he said. They heard the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without deigning to notice them.

Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe senior, the squire of Caversham, and of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted one morning for an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane. He had discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. Mr. Longestaffe had believed that if he could get Mr. Melmotte just to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But Mr. Melmotte had explained that property could not be created by the waving of any wand. He could help Mr. Longestaffe to realise property, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing.
"You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe."
"That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte."
"Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other."
"There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there."
"Your son will not join you in selling the other place?"
"He never does anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease?"
"I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty."
Mr. Longestaffe left with a feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to Caversham - and certainly not his lawyer's wife and daughter. He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange, on the security of the lease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this which had gratified him. But he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification.
At present, Mr. Melmotte was odious to him for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr. Melmotte to make him a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he, Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham, had had his request refused!
"You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!" he had complained. "I'm sure I could do anything that he does."
Mr. Melmotte, knitting his brows, had replied that the number of directors required was complete. Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr. Melmotte was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.
Mr. Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed too tight, and who thought very much of his personal appearance. He was especially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He had an idea that people could perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman and a man of fashion. He thought himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the greatest English gentleman was he who had land, an old family place, family portraits, and family debts, and a family absence of any useful employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having stood for Parliament unsuccessfully three or four times, he was of the opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark of bad breeding.
He was a silly man; yet he had a certain nobility of feeling. He could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid, but he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not inquire about the consumption of his wines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for his tenants if they poached game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family.
It was now the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and free the other from debt. The arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family, and also his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with debt. But the father feared that his son would decline.
Now he walked sadly from Mr. Melmotte's office and went to his lawyer's chambers. Even for those few thousand pounds he was forced to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr. Longestaffe felt that the world was very hard on him.
"What on earth are we to do with the Melmottes?" said Sophia, the eldest Miss Longestaffe, to her mother.
"I do think it's a shame of papa," said Georgiana, the second daughter. "I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them."
"Of course you will leave them all on my hands," said Lady Pomona wearily.
"But what's the use of having them?" urged Sophia. "I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. I'm sure I shouldn't remember the girl if I were to see her."
"It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her," said Lady Pomona.
"Dolly will never marry anybody," said Georgiana. "The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't come down to Caversham. If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless."
"Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?" asked Sophia.
"Because everybody wants money," said Lady Pomona. "I'm sure I don't know why there is never any money for anything. I don't spend it."
"I don't think that we do anything out of the way," said Sophia. "I haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to live at all, I don't know how we are to make a change."
"It's been like this ever since I can remember," said Georgiana, "and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it. I suppose we shall only have these Melmottes for two days."
"My dear, they're coming for a week!"
"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa?"
"He is wonderfully rich," said Lady Pomona.
"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued Georgiana. "If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time in Florence. Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey there. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Caversham. No one knows who they are." So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes was supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue.
This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes' London town-house in Bruton Street. It was by no means a charming house, being gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. But three or four generations of Longestaffes had lived there. When Lady Pomona had once suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longestaffe had snubbed her. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls, then they might remain at Caversham.
The threat of remaining at Caversham was often made, for Mr. Longestaffe, proud as he was of his town-house, was very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration to London. The girls' dresses and horses, the carriages and dull London dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary to give, made him dread the season and its cost.
But he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. The girls were willing to be taken about Germany and Italy for twelve months, but had shown that they would mutiny against any attempt by their father to keep them at Caversham during the London season.
Georgiana had just finished her protest against the Melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not often show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wrote him notes asking, would he come and dine; would he take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball or that party? These Dolly barely read, and never answered. Consequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were superior to him in intellect, treated him with deference. He was free to do as he liked, while they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dull Longestaffe regime.
"My dear Adolphus," said the mother, "this is so nice of you."
"I think it is rather nice," said Dolly, submitting himself to be kissed.
"Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?" said Sophia.
"Give him some tea," said his mother.
"I'd sooner have soda and brandy," said Dolly.
"My darling boy!"
"I didn't ask for it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor?"
They looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be something going on when Dolly asked to see his father.
"Papa went out after lunch," said Sophia gravely.
"I'll wait for him," said Dolly, taking out his watch.
"Do stay and dine with us," said Lady Pomona.
"No, I've got to go and dine with some fellow."
"Adolphus," began Lady Pomona very seriously, "I've got a plan and I want you to help me. We're all going to Caversham for Whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come."
"By George! no; I couldn't do that."
"You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are coming."
"The d___ they are!" ejaculated Dolly.
"Dolly!" said Sophia, "remember where you are."
"I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte."
"My dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that Miss Melmotte will have twenty thousand a year the day she marries; and that her husband will probably some day be the richest man in Europe?"
"Half the fellows in London are after her," said Dolly.
"She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London," suggested Georgiana. "If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have."
"But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me - it isn't at all in my way, mother."
"I knew he wouldn't," said Georgiana.
"It would put everything so straight," said Lady Pomona.
"There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row."
Mr. Longestaffe entered the room.
"My dear," said Lady Pomona, "here's Adolphus come to see us."
"I've got a letter, sir," said Dolly, "ever so long, from those lawyer fellows. They want me to come and see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it."
"You'd better come with me into the study," said the father. "We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business."
The squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making a woeful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting for whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the squire's manner when he should return to them. Dolly they did not expect to see again - probably for a month. He and the squire never met without quarrelling.
At the end of the half hour Mr. Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family.
"My dear," he said, "we shall not come back to London this year." He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity, but his voice quivered with emotion.
"Papa!" screamed Sophia.
"My dear, you don't mean it," said Lady Pomona.
"Of course papa doesn't mean it," said Georgiana, rising to her feet.
"Certainly I mean it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return to London this year."
"Our ball is fixed," said Lady Pomona.
"Then it must be unfixed." So saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room.
The three ladies expressed their opinions very strongly, the daughters more loudly than their mother.
"He can't really mean it," said Sophia.
"He does," said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.
"Why did he bring us up to London at all," said Georgiana, "if he means to take us away before the season has begun?"
"I wonder what Adolphus said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus."
"Dolly can take care of himself," said Georgiana. "He does not care for us."
"Not a bit," said Sophia.
"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You must give up going to Caversham, unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir, unless he has me carried out of the house."
"My dear, I couldn't say that to him."
"Then I will. To be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury - I won't stand it. If you go there I shall stay in town with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me, I know. It wouldn't be nice, of course. I don't like the Primeros. They are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte."
"She is not a friend of mine."
"But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now."
"Everybody is going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear."
"No, mamma; everybody is not. The Primeros aren't. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house in all England."
The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father. When he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables.
Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. She had been told the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the proceeds were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale was to free the Caversham property from debt - and Caversham would eventually be his - he replied that he also had an estate of his own which would be the better for money.
The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold. In consequence, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year.
The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head with very little show of affection.
"You had better remember that anything you have to do in town must be done this week," he said. They heard the words, but marched out in stately silence.