"This is so kind of you," said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's hand as she got out of the carriage.
"The kindness is on your part," said Roger.
"I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And--and--"
"Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull."
"Oh no," said Hetta smiling. "You ought to remember that I am never dull in the country."
"The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,--and the Hepworths."
"I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more," said Lady Carbury.
"I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen."
"A new neighbour?"
"Yes,--a new neighbour;--Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in this parish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to know something of his family."
"He is a gentleman then?"
"Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes."
"How shocking!" said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands.
"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be quite friends."
"Will the bishop like to meet him?"
"Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull."
"I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury," said Henrietta.
"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here," said Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down on Saturday, with the intention of returning on Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between Caversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness to Marie Melmotte.
"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday," said Roger.
"They are down here then?"
"I think they arrived yesterday. There is always a flustering breeze in the air and a perturbation generally through the county when they come or go, and I think I perceived the effects about four in the afternoon. They won't come, I dare say."
"Why not?"
"They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and they know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."
"I know they are to have guests," said Lady Carbury.
"What guests?"
"The Melmottes are coming to them." Lady Carbury, as she made the announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession were failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she would any matter that was indifferent to her.
"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been brought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte in the country.
"Oh yes,--Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate."
"Mr. Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!"
"Why not?"
"I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have been induced to ask them here."
"I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary assistance."
"And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't as they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all for the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that such a man as Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr. Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room." Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger Carbury knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and then tried to make some half apology. "I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country."
Then there was a movement. The ladies were shown into their rooms, and Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he understood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in order that she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in this which he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of him that she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have been brought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her presence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, even while he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with the object of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object would be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, though he could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been gratified. But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in order that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might be furthered!
As he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in the garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty, as she well knew how to do. And now she dressed her face in her sweetest smiles. Her mind, also, was full of the Melmottes, and she wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good that might come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. "I can understand, Roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should not like those people."
"What people?"
"The Melmottes."
"I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? I dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the reputation of being rich."
"Meaning me."
"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people. I was thinking of the Longestaffes then."
"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own gratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I find pleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here for any good that they will do me?"
"I would not follow them at all."
"I will go back if you bid me, but I must first explain what I mean. You know my son's condition,--better, I fear, than he does himself." Roger nodded assent to this, but said nothing. "What is he to do? The only chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a girl with money. He is good-looking; you can't deny that."
"Nature has done enough for him."
"We must take him as he is. He was put into the army very young, and was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune. He might have done better; but how many young men placed in such temptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left."
"I fear not."
"And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with money?"
"I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury."
"Oh, Roger, how hard you are!"
"A man must be hard or soft,--which is best?"
"With women I think that a little softness has the most effect. I want to make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to reason that the girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him."
"But does he love her?"
"Why should he not? Is a girl to be debarred from being loved because she has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should she not have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathize with my anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name and to the family?"
"We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury."
"But I think so much about it."
"You will never get me to say that I think the family will be benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr. Melmotte. I look upon him as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all his money, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a question of marriage people at any rate should know something of each other. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is his daughter?"
"He would give her her fortune when she married."
"Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurer and a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman. There is a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses his money not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks,--as does a card sharper. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much less to our tables, on the score of his own merits. But because he has learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but settle upon his carcase as so many birds of prey."
"Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they love each other?"
He shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love on the part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only as regarded him, but also his mother. He could not quite declare this, and yet he desired that she should understand that he thought so. "I have nothing more to say about it," he continued. "Had it gone on in London I should have said nothing. It is no affair of mine. When I am told that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house as Caversham, and that Felix is coming here in order that he may be near to his prey, and when I am asked to be a party to the thing, I can only say what I think. Your son would be welcome to my house, because he is your son and my cousin, little as I approve his mode of life; but I could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the work that he has on hand."
"If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it hard to explain to Hetta;--but we will go."
"No; I certainly do not wish that."
"But you have said such hard things! How are we to stay? You speak of Felix as though he were all bad." She looked at him hoping to get from him some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly word; but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. She could bear much. She was not delicate as to censure implied, or even expressed. She had endured rough usage before, and was prepared to endure more. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she would have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,--would have forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have been deserved. But for her son she was prepared to fight. If she did not defend him, who would? "I am grieved, Roger, that we should have troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You are very harsh, and it crushes me."
"I have not meant to be harsh."
"You say that Felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to be brought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that? At any rate, you should remember that I am his mother."
[Illustration: "You should remember that I am his mother."]
She expressed her sense of injury very well. Roger began to be ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. And yet he did not know how to recall them. "If I have hurt you, I regret it much."
"Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard the world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once."
"You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You cannot think that I meant to offend you." They walked on in silence till they had reached the door leading from the garden into the house, and here he stopped her. "If I have been over hot with you, let me beg your pardon." She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house. "Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury."
"I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly stand."
It was late in the afternoon,--about six,--and according to his daily custom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as they came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on the spot where Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the lawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet. Could it really be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her daughter with her? Was it thus that he was to part with the one human being in the world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of the duties of hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was bound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more gracious than the world required elsewhere. And of all guests those of his own name were the best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury. He held the place in trust for the use of others. But if there were one among all others to whom the house should be a house of refuge from care, not an abode of trouble, on whose behalf were it possible he would make the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their wont, to whom he would declare, were such words possible to his tongue, that of him and of his house, and of all things there she was the mistress, whether she would condescend to love him or no,--that one was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told by his guest that he had been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to London!
And he could not acquit himself. He knew that he had been rough. He had said very hard words. It was true that he could not have expressed his meaning without hard words, nor have repressed his meaning without self-reproach. But in his present mood he could not comfort himself by justifying himself. She had told him that he ought to have remembered that Felix was her son; and as she spoke she had acted well the part of an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that though he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemned himself. Look where he would there was no comfort. When he had sat half-an-hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house to dress for dinner,--and to prepare himself for an apology, if any apology might be accepted. At the door, standing in the doorway as though waiting for him, he met his cousin Hetta. She had on her bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he thought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness towards him than he had ever seen there before.
"Mr. Carbury," she said, "mamma is so unhappy!"
"I fear that I have offended her."
"It is not that, but that you should be so,--so angry about Felix."
"I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,--more vexed than I can tell you."
"She knows how good you are."
"No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me that she talked of going back to London." He paused for her to speak, but Hetta had no words ready for the moment. "I should be wretched indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger."
"I do not think she will do that."
"And you?"
"I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only wish that Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to him." Roger could express no hope in this direction or even look as though he approved of the directorship. "I don't see why he should not try at any rate."
"Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you."
"Girls are so different, you know."
It was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he made his apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at last it was accepted. "I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix," he said,--"and I beg your pardon."
"You were energetic, that was all."
"A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never be rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me." She answered him by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel was over.
Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now come down to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and prosecute his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further objection. And Felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed. Roger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy by the former severity of his language. Such points as these Lady Carbury never missed. He understood it too, and though he was soft and gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant as he could to his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out of his undoubted right to disapprove of all connection with the Melmottes. In the course of the evening there came a note,--or rather a bundle of notes,--from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was in the form of a letter. Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the Longestaffe party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests. Lady Pomona hoped that Mr. Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady Pomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday following, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That was the purport of Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury. Then there were cards of invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix.
Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady Carbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The tone of his voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was something in it of his former harshness. But she knew how to use her triumph. "I should like to go," she said.
"I certainly shall not go," he replied; "but there will be no difficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once, because their servant is waiting."
"Monday will be best," she said; "--that is, if nobody is coming here."
"There will be nobody here."
"I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,--and Felix will accept their invitation."
"I can make no suggestion," said Roger, thinking how delightful it would be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was that Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the Melmottes. Poor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to meet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousin Roger.
"That will be best," said Lady Carbury after a moment's thought. "It is very good of you to let us go, and to send us."
"Of course you will do here just as you please," he replied. But there was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A quarter of an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home with two letters,--the one from Roger expressing his regret that he could not accept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the other from Lady Carbury declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasure in dining at Caversham on the Monday.

"This is so kind of you," said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's hand as she got out of the carriage. "I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury."
"Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull."
"Oh no," said Hetta, smiling. "I am never dull in the country."
"The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming to dine tomorrow, and the Hepworths."
"I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more," said Lady Carbury.
"He is a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen: a Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here. I used to know his family."
"He is a gentleman then?"
"Certainly. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond his priest's pay, which is not much more than a labourer's. He told me the other day that he was forced to buy second-hand clothes."
"How shocking!" said Lady Carbury.
"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be quite friends."
"Will the bishop like to meet him?"
"Why not? I've told the bishop all about him, and he wishes to know him. He won't hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull."
"I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury," said Henrietta.
"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here," said Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to come down from Saturday until Monday, and Lady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between the Manor House and Caversham.
"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday," said Roger. "But they won't come, I dare say."
"Why not?"
"They never do. They probably have a house full of guests, and they know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."
"I know they are to have guests," said Lady Carbury.
"What guests?"
"The Melmottes." Lady Carbury felt that her voice and self-possession were failing her.
"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been brought here solely in order that her brother might have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte.
"Why not?" said Lady Carbury. "I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe needs a little pecuniary help."
"And he condescends to get it in this way! I should have thought that Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such a man as Mr. Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room."
Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed, as she remembered that Roger knew she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and tried to make some half apology. "I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country."
Then the ladies were shown into their rooms, and Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he understood it all. Lady Carbury had come to his house not for love of him, but to be near the Melmottes! He and his house had been simply used in order to further a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other!
As he was thinking all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in the garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty. And now she dressed her face in her sweetest smiles. She wished to explain to her stern cousin the good that might come by an alliance with the heiress.
"I can understand, Roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should not like those Melmottes."
"I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? I dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the reputation of being rich."
"Meaning me."
"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people."
"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own pleasure? You know my son's condition. What is he to do? His only chance is to marry a girl with money. He is good-looking; you can't deny that."
"Certainly."
"He was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune. He might have done better; but how many young men placed in such temptations do well? He has nothing left. Is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with money?"
"I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury."
"Oh, Roger, how hard you are! The girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him."
"But does he love her?"
"Why should he not? Of course she hopes to be married, and why should she not have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathize with my anxiety that he shall not be a disgrace to the family?"
"We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury. The family will not be benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr. Melmotte. I look upon him as dirt in the gutter. All his money, if he has it, can make no difference. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is his daughter?"
"He would give her a fortune when she married."
"Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurer and a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman. His money is amassed not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much less to our dining-tables, on his own merits. But because he has learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but settle upon his carcase like birds of prey."
"Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they love each other?"
He shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love on the young man's part was a sham - and that his mother knew it. "It is no affair of mine. When I am told that the girl is at Caversham, and that Felix is coming here in order to be near his prey, I can only say what I think. Your son is welcome to my house, little as I approve his mode of life; but I could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the work that he has on hand."
"If you wish, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it hard to explain to Hetta; but we will go."
"No; I certainly do not wish that."
"But you have said such hard things! You speak of Felix as though he were all bad." She looked at him hoping to get some retraction, but he had nothing to say. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she would have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come. But for her son she was prepared to fight. "I am grieved, Roger, that we should have troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You are very harsh, and it crushes me."
"I have not meant to be harsh."
"You say that Felix is brought here to be near - his prey. What can be more harsh than that? You should remember that I am his mother."
Roger began to be ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. "If I have hurt you, I regret it."
"Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard the world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once."
"You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak." They walked in silence to the door, where he stopped. "If I have been over hot with you, let me beg your pardon." She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one of forgiveness. "Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury."
"I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly stand."
It was about six in the afternoon, and according to his daily custom Roger should have gone to see his men as they finished their work; but he stood still for a few moments and then went slowly across the lawn to the bridge, sitting on the parapet. Would she really leave his house in anger and take her daughter - the one human being in the world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of the duties of hospitality, especially when his guests were Carburys. But if there were one person among all others to whom the house should be a refuge from care, that one was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told that he had been so rough to his guest that she and her daughter must return to London!
He could not acquit himself. He had said very hard words. He could not have expressed his meaning without hard words. And Lady Carbury had acted well the part of an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that though he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemned himself.
When he had sat half-an-hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house to dress for dinner - and to prepare himself for an apology. At the door, standing as though waiting for him, was his cousin Hetta. She had on her bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he thought that there was in her eyes more graciousness towards him than he had ever seen there before.
"Mr. Carbury," she said, "mamma is so unhappy!"
"I fear that I have offended her."
"It is not that, but that you should be so - so angry about Felix."
"I am more vexed with myself than I can tell you. She talked of going back to London. I should be wretched indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger."
"I do not think she will do that," said Hetta.
"And you?"
"I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only wish that Felix would be better. They say that young men do get better as they grow older. He is something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to him."
Roger could express no hope or approval. "Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you."
"Girls are so different, you know."
It was not till late in the evening, after dinner, that he made his apology to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and it was accepted.
"I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix," he said, "and I beg your pardon."
"You were energetic, that was all."
"A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, nor to his guests. I hope you will forgive me."
She answered by putting out her hand and smiling; and so the quarrel was over.
Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and used it thoroughly. Felix might now come down to Carbury, and go to Caversham to do his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no objection. And Felix would not now be snubbed. Roger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy.
He did understand it, and though he was soft and gracious towards his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out of his right to disapprove of all connection with the Melmottes. During the evening there came a bundle of notes from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was a letter from Lady Pomona; who was sorry to say that the Longestaffes were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests. Lady Pomona hoped that Mr. Carbury and his relatives would do the Longestaffes the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday following, as might best suit. There were cards of invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and for Sir Felix.
Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady Carbury, and asked her what she wished to have done.
"I should like to go," she said.
"I certainly shall not go," he replied; "but there will be no difficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once, because their servant is waiting."
"Monday will be best," she said; "I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta, and Felix will accept their invitation."
"I can make no suggestion," said Roger, thinking how delightful it would be if Henrietta could remain with him instead. Poor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to meet the Melmottes, but nor did she wish to dine alone with her cousin Roger.
"That will be best," said Lady Carbury. "It is very good of you to send us."
"Of course you will do here just as you please," he replied; but still with that tone of voice which Lady Carbury feared. Soon the Caversham servant was on his way with the reply.

Chapter 15: "You Should Remember that I am his Mother"


"I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. Of course if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you."
"What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your own cousin's house?"
"You know what I mean, mamma."
"It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at all in what you say."
This little conversation arose from Lady Carbury's announcement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting the hospitality of Carbury Manor for the Whitsun week. It was very grievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with her, even though he was her cousin. But she had no escape. She could not remain in town by herself, nor could she even allude to her grievance to anyone but to her mother. Lady Carbury, in order that she might be quite safe from opposition, had posted the following letter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter:--
Welbeck Street, 24th April, 18--.
MY DEAR ROGER,
We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what I am going to propose doesn't suit you'll say so at once. I have been working very hard,--too hard indeed, and I feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you would keep us. Felix says he would run down though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying.
I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that Great American Railway Board as a Director. It opens a new sphere of life to him, and will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a great confidence to place in one so young.
Of course you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes with any of your plans, but you have been so very very kind to us that I have no scruple in making it.
Henrietta joins with me in kind love.
Your affectionate cousin,
MATILDA CARBURY.
There was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed Roger Carbury. In the first place he felt that Henrietta should not be brought to his house. Much as he loved her, dear as her presence to him always was, he hardly wished to have her at Carbury unless she would come with a resolution to be its future mistress. In one respect he did Lady Carbury an injustice. He knew that she was anxious to forward his suit, and he thought that Henrietta was being brought to his house with that object. He had not heard that the great heiress was coming into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew nothing of Lady Carbury's scheme in that direction. He was, too, disgusted by the ill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position as a director. Roger Carbury did not believe in the Railway. He did not believe in Fisker, nor in Melmotte, and certainly not in the Board generally. Paul Montague had acted in opposition to his advice in yielding to the seductions of Fisker. The whole thing was to his mind false, fraudulent, and ruinous. Of what nature could be a Company which should have itself directed by such men as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury? And then as to their great Chairman, did not everybody know, in spite of all the duchesses, that Mr. Melmotte was a gigantic swindler? Although there was more than one immediate cause for bitterness between them, Roger loved Paul Montague well and could not bear with patience the appearance of his friend's name on such a list. And now he was asked for warm congratulations because Sir Felix Carbury was one of the Board! He did not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for belonging to such a Board, or the Board for having such a director. "New sphere of life!" he said to himself. "The only proper sphere for them all would be Newgate!"
And there was another trouble. He had asked Paul Montague to come to Carbury for this special week, and Paul had accepted the invitation. With the constancy, which was perhaps his strongest characteristic, he clung to his old affection for the man. He could not bear the idea of a permanent quarrel, though he knew that there must be a quarrel if the man interfered with his dearest hopes. He had asked him down to Carbury intending that the name of Henrietta Carbury should not be mentioned between them;--and now it was proposed to him that Henrietta Carbury should be at the Manor House at the very time of Paul's visit! He made up his mind at once that he must tell Paul not to come.
He wrote his two letters at once. That to Lady Carbury was very short. He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta at the time named,--and would be very glad should it suit Felix to come also. He did not say a word about the Board, or the young man's probable usefulness in his new sphere of life. To Montague his letter was longer. "It is always best to be open and true," he said. "Since you were kind enough to say that you would come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me just at the same time and to bring her daughter. After what has passed between us I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome here together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want of hospitality towards you." Paul wrote back to say that he was sure that there was no want of hospitality, and that he would remain in town.
Suffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be said that the scenery round Carbury was either grand or beautiful; but there were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and the grounds around it which gave it a charm of its own. The Carbury River,--so called, though at no place is it so wide but that an active schoolboy might jump across it,--runs, or rather creeps into the Waveney, and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds Carbury Manor House. The moat has been rather a trouble to the proprietors, and especially so to Roger, as in these days of sanitary considerations it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean with at any rate moving water in it, or else to fill it up and abolish it altogether. That plan of abolishing it had to be thought of and was seriously discussed about ten years since; but then it was decided that such a proceeding would altogether alter the character of the house, would destroy the gardens, and would create a waste of mud all round the place which it would take years to beautify, or even to make endurable. And then an important question had been asked by an intelligent farmer who had long been a tenant on the property; "Fill un oop;--eh, eh; sooner said than doone, squoire. Where be the stoof to come from?" The squire, therefore, had given up that idea, and instead of abolishing his moat had made it prettier than ever. The high road from Bungay to Beccles ran close to the house,--so close that the gable ends of the building were separated from it only by the breadth of the moat. A short, private road, not above a hundred yards in length, led to the bridge which faced the front door. The bridge was old, and high, with sundry architectural pretensions, and guarded by iron gates in the centre, which, however, were very rarely closed. Between the bridge and the front door there was a sweep of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage, and on either side of this the house was brought close to the water, so that the entrance was in a recess, or irregular quadrangle, of which the bridge and moat formed one side. At the back of the house there were large gardens screened from the road by a wall ten feet high, in which there were yew trees and cypresses said to be of wonderful antiquity. The gardens were partly inside the moat, but chiefly beyond them, and were joined by two bridges--a foot bridge and one with a carriage way,--and there was another bridge at the end of the house furthest from the road, leading from the back door to the stables and farmyard.
The house itself had been built in the time of Charles II., when that which we call Tudor architecture was giving way to a cheaper, less picturesque, though perhaps more useful form. But Carbury Manor House, through the whole county, had the reputation of being a Tudor building. The windows were long, and for the most part low, made with strong mullions, and still contained small, old-fashioned panes; for the squire had not as yet gone to the expense of plate glass. There was one high bow window, which belonged to the library, and which looked out on to the gravel sweep, at the left of the front door as you entered it. All the other chief rooms faced upon the garden. The house itself was built of a stone that had become buff, or almost yellow with years, and was very pretty. It was still covered with tiles, as were all the attached buildings. It was only two stories high, except at the end, where the kitchens were placed and the offices, which thus rose above the other part of the edifice. The rooms throughout were low, and for the most part long and narrow, with large wide fire-places and deep wainscotings. Taking it altogether, one would be inclined to say, that it was picturesque rather than comfortable. Such as it was its owner was very proud of it,--with a pride of which he never spoke to anyone, which he endeavoured studiously to conceal, but which had made itself known to all who knew him well. The houses of the gentry around him were superior to his in material comfort and general accommodation, but to none of them belonged that thoroughly established look of old county position which belonged to Carbury. Bundlesham, where the Primeros lived, was the finest house in that part of the county, but it looked as if it had been built within the last twenty years. It was surrounded by new shrubs and new lawns, by new walls and new outhouses, and savoured of trade;--so at least thought Roger Carbury, though he never said the words. Caversham was a very large mansion, built in the early part of George III.'s reign, when men did care that things about them should be comfortable, but did not care that they should be picturesque. There was nothing at all to recommend Caversham but its size. Eardly Park, the seat of the Hepworths, had, as a park, some pretensions. Carbury possessed nothing that could be called a park, the enclosures beyond the gardens being merely so many home paddocks. But the house of Eardly was ugly and bad. The Bishop's palace was an excellent gentleman's residence, but then that too was comparatively modern, and had no peculiar features of its own. Now Carbury Manor House was peculiar, and in the eyes of its owner was pre-eminently beautiful.
It often troubled him to think what would come of the place when he was gone. He was at present forty years old, and was perhaps as healthy a man as you could find in the whole county. Those around who had known him as he grew into manhood among them, especially the farmers of the neighbourhood, still regarded him as a young man. They spoke of him at the country fairs as the young squire. When in his happiest moods he could be almost a boy, and he still had something of old-fashioned boyish reverence for his elders. But of late there had grown up a great care within his breast,--a care which does not often, perhaps, in these days bear so heavily on men's hearts as it used to do. He had asked his cousin to marry him,--having assured himself with certainty that he did love her better than any other woman,--and she had declined. She had refused him more than once, and he believed her implicitly when she told him that she could not love him. He had a way of believing people, especially when such belief was opposed to his own interests, and had none of that self-confidence which makes a man think that if opportunity be allowed him he can win a woman even in spite of herself. But if it were fated that he should not succeed with Henrietta, then,--so he felt assured,--no marriage would now be possible to him. In that case he must look out for an heir, and could regard himself simply as a stop-gap among the Carburys. In that case he could never enjoy the luxury of doing the best he could with the property in order that a son of his own might enjoy it.
Now Sir Felix was the next heir. Roger was hampered by no entail, and could leave every acre of the property as he pleased. In one respect the natural succession to it by Sir Felix would generally be considered fortunate. It had happened that a title had been won in a lower branch of the family, and were this succession to take place the family title and the family property would go together. No doubt to Sir Felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most proper thing in the world,--as it would also to Lady Carbury were it not that she looked to Carbury Manor as the future home of another child. But to all this the present owner of the property had very strong objections. It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet himself,--so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good could come from that quarter,--but he thought ill also of the baronetcy itself. Sir Patrick, to his thinking, had been altogether unjustifiable in accepting an enduring title, knowing that he would leave behind him no property adequate for its support. A baronet, so thought Roger Carbury, should be a rich man, rich enough to grace the rank which he assumed to wear. A title, according to Roger's doctrine on such subjects, could make no man a gentleman, but, if improperly worn, might degrade a man who would otherwise be a gentleman. He thought that a gentleman, born and bred, acknowledged as such without doubt, could not be made more than a gentleman by all the titles which the Queen could give. With these old-fashioned notions Roger hated the title which had fallen upon a branch of his family. He certainly would not leave his property to support the title which Sir Felix unfortunately possessed. But Sir Felix was the natural heir, and this man felt himself constrained, almost as by some divine law, to see that his land went by natural descent. Though he was in no degree fettered as to its disposition, he did not presume himself to have more than a life interest in the estate. It was his duty to see that it went from Carbury to Carbury as long as there was a Carbury to hold it, and especially his duty to see that it should go from his hands, at his death, unimpaired in extent or value. There was no reason why he should himself die for the next twenty or thirty years,--but were he to die Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the acres, and then there would be an end of Carbury. But in such case he, Roger Carbury, would at any rate have done his duty. He knew that no human arrangements can be fixed, let the care in making them be ever so great. To his thinking it would be better that the estate should be dissipated by a Carbury than held together by a stranger. He would stick to the old name while there was one to bear it, and to the old family while a member of it was left. So thinking he had already made his will, leaving the entire property to the man whom of all others he most despised, should he himself die without child.
In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carbury was expected, he wandered about the place thinking of all this. How infinitely better it would be that he should have an heir of his own. How wonderfully beautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin would consent to be his wife! How wearily insipid must it be if no such consent could be obtained from her. And then he thought much of her welfare too. In very truth he did not like Lady Carbury. He saw through her character, judging her with almost absolute accuracy. The woman was affectionate, seeking good things for others rather than for herself; but she was essentially worldly, believing that good could come out of evil, that falsehood might in certain conditions be better than truth, that shams and pretences might do the work of true service, that a strong house might be built upon the sand! It was lamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to this teaching, and live in an atmosphere so burdened with falsehood. Would not the touch of pitch at last defile her? In his heart of hearts he believed that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he was beginning to fear evil. What but a sham could be a man who consented to pretend to sit as one of a Board of Directors to manage an enormous enterprise with such colleagues as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury, under the absolute control of such a one as Mr. Augustus Melmotte? Was not this building a house upon the sand with a vengeance? What a life it would be for Henrietta Carbury were she to marry a man striving to become rich without labour and without capital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar,--a city adventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most dishonest? He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but such was the life which he feared the young man was preparing for himself.
Then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms which the two ladies were to occupy. As their host, a host without a wife or mother or sister, it was his duty to see that things were comfortable, but it may be doubted whether he would have been so careful had the mother been coming alone. In the smaller room of the two the hangings were all white, and the room was sweet with May flowers; and he brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass on the dressing table. Surely she would know who put it there.
Then he stood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantly for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before the front door. During that half hour he resolved that he would try again as though there had as yet been no repulse.

"I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. Of course if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you."
"What on earth can be more natural than going to your cousin's house?"
"You know what I mean, mamma."
"It's done now, my dear."
This little conversation arose when Lady Carbury announced her intention of visiting Carbury Manor for the Whitsun week. It was very grievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with her. But she had no escape. She could not remain in town by herself. Lady Carbury had already posted the following letter to Roger:
My dear Roger,
We know how kind you are, and if what I am going to propose doesn't suit you, say so at once. I have been working very hard, and feel it would do me good to get into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you would keep us. Felix says he would run down though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying.
I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being made a Director of that Great American Railway Board. It will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a great confidence to place in one so young.
Of course you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes with your plans, but you have been so very very kind to us that I have no scruple in making it.
Henrietta joins with me in kind love.
Your affectionate cousin,
Matilda Carbury.
There was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed Roger Carbury. In the first place he felt that Henrietta should not be brought to his house. Much as he loved her, he hardly wished to have her at Carbury unless she came with a resolution to be its future mistress. He thought that Henrietta was being brought to his house with the object of furthering his suit. He had not heard that the great heiress was coming into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew nothing of Lady Carbury's scheme in that direction.
He was, too, disgusted by the ill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position as a director. Roger Carbury did not believe in the Railway, or in Fisker, or Melmotte. Paul Montague had acted against his advice in yielding to Fisker's seductions. The whole thing was to his mind fraudulent and ruinous. What sort of company was directed by such men as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury? He did not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for belonging to such a Board, or the Board for having such a director. And did not everybody know that Mr. Melmotte was a gigantic swindler?
There was another trouble. He had asked Paul Montague to come to Carbury the same week, and Paul had accepted. Roger clung to his old affection for the man. He could not bear the idea of a permanent quarrel, though he knew that there must be a quarrel if Paul interfered with his dearest hopes. He had asked him down to Carbury intending that Henrietta's name should not be mentioned between them; and now it was proposed that Henrietta should be at the Manor House at the very same time! He decided that he must tell Paul not to come.
He wrote two letters at once. That to Lady Carbury was very short. He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta, and also Felix. He did not say a word about the Board.
To Montague his letter was longer.
"It is always best to be open and true," he wrote. "Since you were kind enough to say that you would come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me just at the same time with her daughter. I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome here together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a lack of hospitality towards you." Paul wrote back to say that he was sure that there was no lack of hospitality, and that he would remain in town.
Suffolk is not an especially picturesque county, nor can it be said that the scenery round Carbury was grand or beautiful; but the house and its grounds had a charm of their own. Carbury Manor House was surrounded by a moat, which was rather a trouble to Roger, as it was felt necessary either to keep it clean with moving water, or else to fill it up and abolish it altogether. That plan of abolishing it had been discussed about ten years previously; but it was decided that it would alter the character of the house, and create a waste of mud around it which it would take years to beautify. The squire, therefore, had given up that idea, and instead had made his moat prettier than ever.
The high road from Bungay to Beccles ran very close to the house; a short, private road led from it to the old bridge over the moat. Between the bridge and the front door there was a sweep of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage. At the back of the house there were large gardens screened from the road by a wall ten feet high, and ancient yews and cypresses. The gardens were partly inside the moat, but chiefly beyond them, and were joined by two bridges - a foot bridge and one with a carriage way.
The house itself had been built in the time of Charles II, when Tudor architecture was giving way to a less picturesque, though perhaps more useful form. But Carbury Manor House had the reputation of being a Tudor building. The windows were long, with strong mullions, and small, old-fashioned panes. There was one high bow window in the library, which looked out on to the gravel sweep by the front door. All the other chief rooms faced the garden. The house was built of a buff stone that was very pretty. It was only two storeys high, except at the end where the kitchens were. The rooms were low, and mostly long and narrow, with large fire-places.
Its owner was very proud of it. The houses of the gentry around him were superior in comfort, but none of them had that thoroughly established look of Carbury Manor. Bundlesham, where the Primeros lived, looked as if it had been built within the last twenty years, and savoured of trade; so at least thought Roger Carbury, though he never said it aloud. Caversham was a very large mansion, built in the early part of George III's reign, and had nothing to recommend it but its size. The Bishop's palace was an excellent gentleman's residence, but modern, with no distinctive features. Carbury Manor House, in its owner's eyes, was pre-eminently beautiful.
It often troubled him to think what would become of the place when he was gone. He was at present in excellent health, and the farmers of the neighbourhood still spoke of him as the young squire. When in his happiest moods he could be almost a boy; but a great care had grown within him. If he should not succeed with Henrietta, he felt that no marriage would be possible to him. In that case he must look for an heir.
Now Sir Felix was the next heir, though Roger could leave his property as he pleased. In one respect the natural succession to it by Sir Felix would be fortunate: the baronetcy and the family property would then go together. No doubt to Sir Felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most proper thing in the world.
But Roger had very strong objections. It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet, but he thought ill of the baronetcy itself. Sir Patrick, to his thinking, should not have accepted the title, knowing that he would leave no property adequate for its support. A baronet, thought Roger Carbury, should be rich enough to grace his rank.
With these old-fashioned notions Roger certainly would not leave his property to support the baronetcy. But Sir Felix was the natural heir, and Roger felt it was his duty to see that his land went from Carbury to Carbury, unimpaired in extent or value. There was no reason why he should himself die for twenty or thirty years - but if he were to die, Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the acres, and then there would be an end of Carbury.
But in such case he, Roger Carbury, would at any rate have done his duty. Better that the estate should be dissipated by a Carbury than held together by a stranger. So thinking, he had already made his will, leaving the entire property to the man whom of all others he most despised, should he himself die childless.
In the afternoon on which Lady Carbury was expected, he wandered about the place thinking of all this. How infinitely better it would be to have an heir of his own - how wonderfully beautiful would the world be to him if his cousin would consent to be his wife! He thought much of her welfare too. He did not like Lady Carbury, accurately judging her as affectionate but worldly. She believed that good could come out of evil, and that falsehood might sometimes be better than truth. It was lamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to this teaching. Would not the touch of pitch at last defile her?
In his heart of hearts he believed that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he was beginning to fear evil. Only a sham would pretend to sit on a Board of Directors with Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury, under the control of Melmotte. What a life it would be for Henrietta were she to marry a man striving to become rich without labour - a city adventurer, of all men the vilest and most dishonest! He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but he feared for his future.
Then he went into the house and wandered through the rooms which the two ladies were to occupy. In the smaller room of the two the hangings were all white, and the room was sweet with May flowers; and he brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass on the dressing table. Surely she would know who had put it there.
Then he stood at the open window, gazing vacantly down upon the lawn for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the arriving carriage. During that half hour he resolved that he would try again.


When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father had already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken from her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth. She knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she should know. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with the object he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge of the details of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when the thing was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie's memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father's anticipation. He was deriving a very considerable income from a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him to draw this income on her behalf. This he had done fearing shipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that, let circumstances go as they might, there should still be left enough to him of the money which he had realised to enable him to live in comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in obscurity, or even in infamy. He had sworn to himself solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this money to go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he had been true to his oath. Though bankruptcy and apparent ruin might be imminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of this money even though it might appear at the moment that the money would be sufficient for the purpose. If such a day should come, then, with that certain income, he would make himself happy, if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever city of the world might know least of his antecedents, and give him the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. Such had been his scheme of life. But he had failed to consider various circumstances. His daughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage might fail to release his property,--or it might be that the very money should be required to dower his daughter. Or there might come troubles on him so great that even the certainty of a future income would not enable him to bear them. Now, at this present moment, his mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume this property it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to the Longestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some other difficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, he certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made for himself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should come they would be as good creditors as any other. But then he was painfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness was involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand traced Dolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old Mr. Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed by the elder Mr. Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and he had himself posted this letter in a pillar-box near to his own house. In the execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly befriended him. He had become the tenant of Mr. Longestaffe's house, and at the same time had only been the joint tenant of Mr. Longestaffe's study,--so that Mr. Longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands. To pick a lock was with him an accomplishment long since learned. But his science in that line did not go so far as to enable him to replace the bolt in its receptacle. He had picked a lock, had found the letter prepared by Mr. Bideawhile with its accompanying envelope, and had then already learned enough of the domestic circumstances of the Longestaffe family to feel assured that unless he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted letter by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended destination. In all this fortune had in some degree befriended him. The circumstances being as they were it was hardly possible that the forgery should be discovered. Even though the young man were to swear that the signature was not his, even though the old man were to swear that he had left that drawer properly locked with the unsigned letter in it, still there could be no evidence. People might think. People might speak. People might feel sure. And then a crash would come. But there would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days.
Then there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had been so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe never would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another matter. Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition, and increasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that were spread abroad,--which to Melmotte were serious indeed,--they named, at any rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing that had been done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done that thing, of what use then would be all that money? When that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might not be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if it might be so used. No doubt all danger in that Longestaffe affair might be bought off by payment of the price stipulated for the Pickering property. Neither would Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr. Melmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the money claimed were paid. But then the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as he firmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove the thing which he had done.
But the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for the country of his adoption Mr. Melmotte had allowed himself to attach higher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belong to them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all the world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost safe from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought he could so use the family with which he would be connected as to force from it that protection which he would need. And then again, if he could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a British Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failed altogether to enquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or what would be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage would add a charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could not be got to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of absolute property, but he did think that the income which might thus be transferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had been promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given proof to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the property in question.
And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within the last few days and which had startled Mr. Melmotte very much indeed. On a certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and had told her that he should require her signature in reference to a deed. She had asked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a document regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a deed once before, telling her that it was all in the way of business. It was not necessary that she should ask any more questions as she would be wanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the transaction than he had thought,--but also by a positive refusal to sign anything at all. The reader may understand that there had been many words between them. "I know, papa. It is that you may have the money to do what you like with. You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do it. If I ever marry the money will belong to my husband!" His breath almost failed him as he listened to these words. He did not know whether to approach her with threats, with entreaties, or with blows. Before the interview was over he had tried all three. He had told her that he could and would put her in prison for conduct so fraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrous perversity. And at last he took her by both arms and shook her violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut her to pieces; but she would sign nothing. "I suppose you thought Sir Felix would have had the entire sum," said the father with deriding scorn.
"And he would;--if he had the spirit to take it," answered Marie.
This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. He would no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would secure the Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in his nicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the Longestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that he could make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he was doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were very great! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him, and this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she would accept Nidderdale,--or the sweep at the crossing.
On Monday morning,--it was on the preceding Thursday that he had made his famous speech in Parliament,--one of the Bideawhiles had come to him in the City. He had told Mr. Bideawhile that all the world knew that just at the present moment money was very "tight" in the City. "We are not asking for payment of a commercial debt," said Mr. Bideawhile, "but for the price of a considerable property which you have purchased." Mr. Melmotte had suggested that the characteristics of the money were the same, let the sum in question have become due how it might. Then he offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. But this offer Mr. Bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds might be restored to them.
"You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds," said Melmotte. "You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told you how I propose to pay it."
Mr. Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole course of his business, in all the records of the very respectable firm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this. Of course Mr. Longestaffe had been the person to blame,--so at least all the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxious to have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the title-deeds should be given up. But then the title-deeds had not been his to surrender. The Pickering estate had been the joint property of him and his son. The house had been already pulled down, and now the purchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?"
"I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value, thirty times the value," said Melmotte proudly; "but you must know I should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice." Mr. Bideawhile without using language that was absolutely vituperative gave Mr. Melmotte to understand that he thought that he and his client had been robbed, and that he should at once take whatever severest steps the law put in his power. As Mr. Melmotte shrugged his shoulders and made no further reply, Mr. Bideawhile could only take his departure.
The attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client, and to his own house in opposition to Mr. Squercum, nevertheless was becoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letter which Dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed. Mr. Longestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given it as his opinion that Dolly had not signed the letter. His son had certainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have had no opportunity of signing it since. He was all but sure that he had left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the room which had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his own. Then, on entering the room in Melmotte's presence,--their friendship at the time having already ceased,--he found that his drawer was open. This same Mr. Bideawhile was with him at the time. "Do you mean to say that I have opened your drawer?" said Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Longestaffe had become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he certainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left the drawer unlocked. He knew his own habits and was sure that he had never left that drawer open in his life. "Then you must have changed the habits of your life on this occasion," said Mr. Melmotte with spirit. Mr. Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within the house, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured the lawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that to the best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within the drawer. Mr. Bideawhile could only remark that it was the most unfortunate circumstance with which he had ever been concerned.
The marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing, if it could only be accomplished. The reader must understand that though Mr. Melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licence in that statement as to property thirty times as great as the price which he ought to have paid for Pickering, still there was property. The man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did not really know what he owned, or what he owed. But he did know that at the present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. His chief trust for immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had really been the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway. He had trusted much to Cohenlupe,--more than it had been customary with him to trust to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done with the railway shares at the present moment. They had fallen under the panic almost to nothing. Now in the time of his trouble Melmotte wanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted money the great railway was worth nothing. Cohenlupe told him that he must tide over the evil hour,--or rather over an evil month. It was at Cohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr. Bideawhile. "Offer 'em again," said Cohenlupe. "He must take the bills sooner or later."
On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby of the House. "Have you seen Marie lately?" he said. Nidderdale had been assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father's presence, that if he married Miss Melmotte at present he would undoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over 5,000 a year. He had intended to get more than that,--and was hardly prepared to accept Marie at such a price; but then there probably would be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering. Melmotte certainly had been raising money. But this might probably be an affair of a few weeks. Melmotte had declared that Pickering should be made over to the young people at the marriage. His father had recommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could be broken off at the last day if the property were not forthcoming.
"I'm going up to your house almost immediately," said Nidderdale.
"You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six," said Melmotte.

When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father had already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken from her without her consent, she spoke the truth. She knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she should know. Melmotte had kept all the details from her. But it had been necessary for him to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie's memory and also her intelligence were strong beyond her father's anticipation. He had invested a large sum of money in foreign funds in her name, and he had got her to give him a power of attorney enabling him to draw the income from them on her behalf. This he had done so that he should still have enough money to live in comfort, should he be doomed to obscurity.
But he had failed to consider various circumstances. His daughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage might fail to release his property; or there might come troubles so great that even the future income would not be enough.
At present, he was tortured by anxiety. Were he to take back this property it would enable him to pay all that was due to the Longestaffes, and more. He did not care about the Longstaffes themselves. But he was painfully aware that not just a simple debt was involved. He had with his own hand written Dolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old Mr. Longestaffe's drawer. He had discovered it in an envelope addressed in Mr. Longstaffe's writing to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and he had posted it himself.
At the time, he was the joint tenant of Mr. Longestaffe's study; and he had long since learned to pick a lock, though he could not then relock it. He had picked a lock, and had found the letter prepared by Mr. Bideawhile. Even if the young man were to swear that the signature was not his, and the old man were to swear that he had left that drawer locked, still there could be no evidence. People might talk. And a crash might come. But there would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and make merry for the rest of his days.
Then there came annoying complications. Rumours of the forgery were spread abroad. If a jury were persuaded that he had done it, of what use then would be all that money? He wondered whether it might not be better to use the money to save him from such ruin, by paying for the Pickering property. Neither Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum would concern themselves any further if the money were paid. But then the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if - as he believed - no firm evidence of the forgery could be produced.
Perhaps Mr. Melmotte attached higher privileges to the British aristocracy than in truth belong to them. He really believed that if he became the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, he would be safe from the fangs of the law. And if he could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a Marquis for his son-in-law! He knew that Lord Nidderdale would not marry his daughter without property, but he thought that the funds which had been transferred to Marie might suffice; and he had already given proof to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter possessed them.
Now another complication had arisen which had startled Mr. Melmotte very much indeed. One morning he had sent for Marie to the study and had told her that he required her signature for a deed. She had asked him what deed. He had replied that it was a document regarding money, and that she need not ask any more questions as she would be wanted only to sign the paper.
Then Marie astounded him, not merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the transaction than he had thought, but also by a refusal to sign anything at all.
"You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do it," she said. "If I ever marry, the money will belong to my husband!"
His breath almost failed him at these words. He did not know whether to use threats, entreaties, or blows. He tried all three: he told her that he would put her in prison, he besought her not to ruin her parent, and then he shook her violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut her to pieces; but she would sign nothing.
This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. On weighing things up, therefore, he decided to leave the Longestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. The dangers on all sides were very great; but he intended to be bold. Marie had now said that she would accept Nidderdale - or the sweep at the crossing.
On the Monday after his famous speech in Parliament, one of the Bideawhiles had come to him in the City, asking for payment for Pickering. Mr. Melmotte offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. But this offer Mr. Bideawhile rejected indignantly, demanding that the title-deeds should be restored to them.
"You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds," said Melmotte. "You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told you how I propose to pay it."
Mr. Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole course of his business, there had never been such a thing as this. Of course Mr. Longestaffe was to blame - so the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxious to have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the title-deeds should be given up. But the title-deeds had not been his to surrender; for Pickering was the joint property of him and his son. The house had already been pulled down, and now the purchaser offered bills in lieu of money!
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?"
"I have property of ten times, twenty times the value," said Melmotte proudly; "but you must know that a man engaged in large affairs cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice."
Mr. Bideawhile replied that he thought that his client had been robbed, and that he would at once take the severest steps the law put in his power. As Mr. Melmotte shrugged his shoulders and made no further reply, Mr. Bideawhile could only depart.
Mr. Bideawhile was now doubtful about the genuineness of the letter which Dolly declared that he had not signed. Mr. Longestaffe himself had asserted that he had left the letter locked in his own drawer in the room which had become Melmotte's study. On entering the room with Mr. Bideawhile, in Melmotte's presence, he had found that his drawer was open.
"Do you mean to say that I have opened your drawer?" said Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Longestaffe had become very red in the face and had replied that he made no such accusation, but he had certainly locked the drawer. He knew his own habits and had never left that drawer open in his life.
"Then you must have changed your habits on this occasion," said Mr. Melmotte with spirit. Mr. Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within the house. Mr. Bideawhile could only remark that it was most unfortunate.
The marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing, thought Melmotte, if it could be accomplished. He was driven very hard for money. His chief trust was in Cohenlupe, who dealt with the shares of the Mexican railway: to him he had trusted more than he normally trusted to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done with the railway shares at present; they had fallen almost to nothing. It was at Cohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr. Bideawhile.
"Offer 'em again," said Cohenlupe. "He must take them sooner or later."
On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby of the House.
"Have you seen Marie lately?" he said. Nidderdale had been assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, that if he married Miss Melmotte now he would undoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to over 5,000 a year. He had intended to get more than that; but then there probably would be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering. But Melmotte had been raising money, and had declared that Pickering should be made over to the young people at the marriage. His father had recommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could be broken off at the last minute if the property were not forthcoming.
"I'm going up to your house now," said Nidderdale.
"You'll find the women at tea between five and six," said Melmotte.