During these days the intercourse between Lady Carbury and her daughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Hetta, thinking that she was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to her mother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carbury watching her, but not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl's silence. She had assured herself, when she found that Hetta was disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch, that "things would come round," that Paul would be forgotten quickly,--or laid aside as though he were forgotten,--and that Hetta would soon perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With such a prospect before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no tendency to sympathise with her girl's sorrow. Such heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them. Who were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, nor poverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifle and trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed. She had never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within the last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her shoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hope to be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chance now offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was so devoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her by harsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not spend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of a fair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion that she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe and hard. But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation,--she was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not known how stern and how enduring her daughter could be. "Hetta," she said, "why don't you speak to me?" On this very day it was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention to any one. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be no deceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she had done. But she considered herself to be emancipated from control. Among them they had robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to the robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. "Hetta, why don't you speak to me?" said Lady Carbury.
"Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy."
"What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?"
"None other at all," said Hetta obstinately.
"What folly it is,--I will not say only to speak like that, but to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!"
"How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I had owned to you that I loved a man,--after I had owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself,--I could have myself separated from him, and then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me."
There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the mother felt,--as she was intended to feel it,--but to which she could make no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her son to feel any real affection for her daughter. "You are ignorant of the world, Hetta," she said.
"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate."
"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? In what little you see around you do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?" She paused, but Hetta made no answer to this. "Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague."
"Marie Melmotte!"
"She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat dry bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she thinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has a fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none she must allow herself to be chosen."
"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?"
"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin Roger, you know--"
"Mamma," said Hetta, getting up from her seat, "you may as well believe me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart."
"How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost contumely?"
"I know nothing of any contumely. What reason have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that I have any right whatever to be angry with Mr. Paul Montague." Having so spoken she walked out of the room without waiting for a further reply.
It was all very sad to Lady Carbury. She perceived now that she had driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague's sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier which she had striven to construct between them. But that which pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded all Hetta's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world who could not be taught the folly of such idle dreams?
That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King's Cross. She had studied her geography, and she walked from thence to Islington. She knew well the name of the street and the number at which Mrs. Hurtle lived. But when she reached the door she did not at first dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on to the end of the silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she would commence her strange petition. And she endeavoured to dictate to herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her. Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of replying to a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the worst come to the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure. Having gone to the end of the street, she returned with a very quick step and knocked at the door. It was opened almost immediately by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.
"Oh laws,--Miss Carbury!" said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. "Yes;--sure enough she must be Felix's sister." But Ruby did not dare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her that Sir Felix should not be her lover any more, and that John Crumb should be allowed to return. But, nevertheless, her heart twittered as she showed Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room.
Though it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil down. She adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurtle rose from her chair and came forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care,--simply, and in black, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a flower. But with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired herself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought that she would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or that she was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman might have graces of her own? As she came forward she was gentle and soft in her movements, and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. Hetta at the first moment was almost dumbfounded by her beauty,--by that and by her ease and exquisite self-possession. "Miss Carbury," she said with that low, rich voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as much as her loveliness, "I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing you. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?" Hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. She had had no personal description of Mrs. Hurtle, but had expected something very different from this! She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they were both of the same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes of the same colour. Hetta thought of all that at the moment,--but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such as that which this woman owned. "And so you have come to see me," said Mrs. Hurtle. "Sit down so that I may look at you. I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury."
[Illustration: "Sit down so that I may look at you."]
"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry."
"Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me I should have declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to see you. It is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were an American I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is an Englishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do, or what can I say?"
"He told me that you could tell me the truth."
"What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarrelled with him too. Is it not so?"
"Certainly I have quarrelled with him."
"I am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such caution with you. What is it, Miss Carbury?"
Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. "Mrs. Hurtle," she said, "I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife."
"I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?"
"Because,--oh, because--. Surely he ought, if it is true that he had once promised to marry you."
"That certainly is true."
"And you were here, and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should have been very different to him had I known that,--that,--that--"
"That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle interfering with him. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?"
"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me ask you. I have not been unjust."
"I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. To me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide."
"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?"
"Because I asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not to have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I followed him here to England--because I loved him. I came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He had told me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country,--I will not say a broken-hearted woman, for I will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him,--or I would; or a bullet,--or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice." Then she paused and looked up to Hetta as though expecting a reply.
But Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come to hear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul,--had seemed to intend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta. What was it to Hetta that her lover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that head. Mrs. Hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs. In saying that Mrs. Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him. "You have been very kind," she said at last,--speaking only because it was necessary that she should say something.
"It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself have declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me."
"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, do not say that of me!"
"But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman,--and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the touch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery." Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. "I am so glad to have seen you," continued Mrs. Hurtle, "so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifrid Hurtle. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help."
When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she must have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again,--and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the face of that American female,--how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and above all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! That she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta, but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was wonderful. And yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.
Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been unjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance and confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? No doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched her lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with unrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has trodden. But in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work. As to the "now," she felt that Mrs. Hurtle had given her sufficient assurance.
She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with favour,--but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy at the door that Lady Carbury had returned.
"Hetta, wherever have you been?" asked Lady Carbury.
"Mamma," she said, "I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that I have been unjust to him."
"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said Lady Carbury, rising from her seat.
"Yes, mamma. I have been unjust, and I must do so."
"It will be asking him to come back to you."
"Yes, mamma:--that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be friends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me my love?"
"You have sent him back his brooch," said Lady Carbury hoarsely.
"He shall give it me again. Hear what I have done. I have seen that American lady."
"Mrs. Hurtle!"
"Yes;--I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman."
"And she has told you wonderful lies."
"Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favour."
"I can well believe that. What can any one say in his favour?"
"But she told me that which has assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will show you the letter."
"Any letter to him, I will tear," said Lady Carbury, full of anger.
"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself." Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that the letter might be written.

During these days, the relationship between Lady Carbury and her daughter was constrained. Hetta kept herself aloof, until Lady Carbury was almost frightened at her daughter's silence. She had assured herself that Paul would be forgotten quickly, and that Hetta would soon perceive it to be in her interest to marry her cousin. With this prospect, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no sympathy with her girl's sorrow. Such heart-breakings occurred daily. She herself had never been happy in love. She had refused to marry a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden. A woman who had no wealth of her own, she thought, must give up everything, her body, heart and soul, to getting a fitting maintenance for herself.
And Roger was so good. He would not torture Hetta with a cruel temper. He would not drink. He would give her a fair, free life. Lady Carbury repeated to herself that it was a mother's duty to impel her girl to marry such a man. But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response - how gloomy, silent and severe - she was almost frightened.
"Hetta," she said, "why don't you speak to me?"
On this very day it was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention to anyone. On her return she would tell her mother what she had done. But she was not under her mother's control.
"Mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy."
"What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?"
"None at all," said Hetta.
"What folly, to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!"
"How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I had owned that I loved a man, I could be separated from him, and then not think about it? It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me."
There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the mother felt, but to which she could make no reply. It accused her of being more concerned for her son than her daughter.
"You are ignorant of the world, Hetta," she said.
"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate."
"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered? Do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts? Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague."
"Marie Melmotte!"
"The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and do the best you can for yourself. A girl who has no fortune cannot pick and choose, but must allow herself to be chosen."
"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?"
"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man. But your cousin Roger-"
"Mamma," said Hetta, getting up, "nothing shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It is horrible that you should propose it when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart."
"One who has treated you so offensively?"
"What reason have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched; but I do not know that I have any right to be angry with Mr. Montague." She walked out of the room without waiting for a reply.
It was all very sad to Lady Carbury. What pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded Hetta's thoughts - the folly of her idle dreams.
That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King's Cross. She walked from there to Islington. She knew the address of Mrs. Hurtle's lodgings. But when she reached the door she did not at first dare to knock. She walked on to the end of the silent street, striving to collect her thoughts, and trying to plan how she would answer if the woman should be rough and insolent. Should the worst come to the worst, the woman would hardly try to stop her leaving.
Having gone to the end of the street, she returned quickly and knocked at the door. It was opened by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.
"Oh laws, Miss Carbury!" said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. Her heart twittered as she showed Miss Carbury to the lodger's sitting-room.
Hetta put her veil down as she entered the room, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurtle came forward to greet her, putting out both her hands. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care - simply, and in black, without any ornament. She had attired herself so as to look her very best. As she came forward she was gentle in her movements, and wore a pleasant smile.
Hetta at first was almost dumbfounded by her beauty and her self-possession. "Miss Carbury," she said in her low, rich voice, "May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?"
Hetta, removing her veil without a word, stood gazing at her. She had expected something very different from this! She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they were both of the same dark complexion, with hair nearly black; but Hetta acknowledged to herself that she had no beauty such as this woman's.
"I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury."
"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry," said Hetta.
"Why should I be angry? It is a poor time we women have, is it not, in becoming playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there is any I can give you. Now tell me; what can I do, or say?"
"He told me that you could tell me the truth."
"What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarrelled with him too?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. What is it, Miss Carbury?"
Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. "Mrs. Hurtle," she said, "I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife."
"I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?"
"Surely he ought, if he had once promised to marry you. I should have been very different to him had I known that - that-"
"That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?"
"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him. I have not been unjust."
"I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide."
"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?"
"Because I asked him - and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given his hand not to have gone, but he could not refuse. Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I followed him here to England because I loved him. He had told me that he did not want me; but I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! But if you choose to punish him it is not for me to stop you." Then she looked at Hetta as though expecting a reply.
But Hetta had no reply to make. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman, he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul, but she had acquitted him of all sin against Hetta. If he had been false to this American stranger, it did not seem to her to be necessary that she should be angry with him for that reason.
It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that, within her heart, she was bound to forgive him.
"You have been very kind," she said at last.
"It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman; and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you; and am weak enough to forgive his treachery."
Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and weeping, she knew not why.
"I am glad to have seen you," continued Mrs. Hurtle, "so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by me. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help."
When Hetta did not decline to bear this message she must have resolved that she would see Paul Montague again. She now got herself quickly out of the room, kissing the woman whom she had dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the American woman's face - how rich and glorious her voice - above all, how powerful and yet how easy and how gracious was her manner! That any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was extraordinary. And yet Paul Montague had preferred her, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.
She had been unjust to Paul, and that must be remedied. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. All she wanted was that he should be true to her now. The future must be her own work.
She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once to her mother's room.
"Hetta, wherever have you been?" asked Lady Carbury.
"Mamma," she said, "I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that I have been unjust to him."
"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said Lady Carbury, rising from her seat. "It will be asking him to come back to you."
"Yes, mamma: that is what I mean. If he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be friends. Why should you grudge me my love?"
"You have sent him back his brooch," said Lady Carbury hoarsely.
"He shall give it me again. I have seen that American lady. She is a wonderful woman."
"And she has told you wonderful lies."
"She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favour."
"I can well believe that. What can anyone say in his favour?"
"But what she told me assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will show you the letter."
"I will tear it up," said Lady Carbury, full of anger.
"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself." Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room, and went immediately to write her letter.


"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them alone together.
"I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie.
"And what's the result?"
"Oh,--I'll have you."
"That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist.
"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said.
"You might as well call me John."
"Then wait a moment,--John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit."
"That's not true, Marie."
"Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same,--that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit."
"But you will."
"I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've been in love with."
"But you can't be in love with him now."
"Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad."
"Have I behaved bad?"
"Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared."
"Oh yes,--I have."
"Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business."
"How very hard you are, Marie."
"No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. I did love him."
"Surely you have found him out now."
"Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature."
"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most horribly." Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "You hadn't heard it?"
"Who has thrashed him?"
"I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner."
"Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?"
"There was a young lady in the question, Marie."
"A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I suppose you've made up all that out of your own head."
"Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it signifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?"
"I don't care the least," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better I shall like it;--that's all."
"Because I'm so detestable?"
"No,--you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest."
"You couldn't take any interest in me?"
"Not the least."
"Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?"
"It's a castle, I know."
"Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old."
"I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too."
"We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?"
"The year after next."
"Nonsense, Marie."
"To-morrow."
"You wouldn't be ready."
"You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,--kiss me; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;--I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,--John."
So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to any operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it. As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which made him think that she would be able to live with ladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become fond of her. "Have you been up with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him.
"Oh yes."
"And what does Marie say?"
"That you must fix the day."
"We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet."
"I wonder why you gave the dinner then."
"My dear boy,"--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a marquis his dear boy,--"as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition,--one way or the other."
"I wish it could be the same way with me," said Nidderdale.
"If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. I've had it very hard this time."
"I suppose you are getting right now."
"Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it."
"Certainly I would not."
"You see I've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in one or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter."
"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord.
"You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!"
"I don't understand how it could be done."
"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,--according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?"
"Will they never go up again?"
"Oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that, you know, is settled."
He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this occasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.
And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a participation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of his own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Even though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,--though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,--Miles having sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.
This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did Dolly Longestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a resort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed.
But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease and indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck to his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He was very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for the Bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. "By George! the world," he said, "must be coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung." This he spoke openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom he was addressing.
Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. "Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte."
"Mistaken!" Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?"
"I don't believe it has been owing very long."
"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?"
"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it."
"Squercum says--"
"Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind."
"I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte."
"Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you."
"The devil you will."
"I will indeed."
Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower his voice. "That's out of the question, you know," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery."
This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was either engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter. "Since you will speak about it in this public way--" began Nidderdale.
"I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way," said Dolly.
"I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer."
"That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte."
"As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?"
"Eighty thousand, the whole."
"Well,--eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds."
"Why don't he do it then?" asked Dolly.
All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country,--a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr. Ramsbottom. "By George," said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again."
The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,--as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,--he did make use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."

"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to Marie as soon as Madame Melmotte had left them alone together.
"I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie.
"And what's the result?"
"Oh, I'll have you."
"That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa so that he might put his arm round her waist.
"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said.
"Call me John."
"Then wait a moment, John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit."
"That's not true, Marie."
"Yes, it is. And I think just the same - that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit."
"But you will."
"I don't know. I don't feel like it at present. You had better know the exact truth. I have told my father that I would accept you. But you know who I've been in love with."
"But you can't be in love with him now."
"Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved badly."
"Have I behaved badly?"
"Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business."
"How very hard you are, Marie."
"No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury."
"Surely you have found him out now."
"Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature."
"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets, most horribly."
Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "Who has thrashed him? Why?"
"There was a young lady in the question, Marie."
"A young lady? I don't believe it. You've made that up."
"Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?"
"I don't care," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better; that's all."
"Because I'm so detestable?"
"No, you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest."
"You couldn't take any interest in me?"
"Not in the least."
"Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?"
"It's a castle, I know."
"Yes; Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old."
"I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week - and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to live there too."
"We shall be there sometimes. When shall the wedding be?"
"The year after next."
"Nonsense, Marie."
"Tomorrow."
"You wouldn't be ready."
"You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes, kiss me; of course you may. What does it matter? I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say yourself - John."
So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was capable of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with the marriage. The girl had lately become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though she was not altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own. And he did think that, in spite of all she said, she was becoming fond of him - as he certainly had become fond of her.
"Have you been with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him.
"Oh yes."
"And what does Marie say?"
"That you must fix the day."
"We'll have it very soon then; some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. To tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer, with the election and that horrid dinner. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind about money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet."
"I wonder why you gave the dinner then."
"My dear boy, as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. The burden of money is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. I've had it very hard this time."
"I suppose you are getting right now."
"Yes. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that you wouldn't hurt me by repeating anything I say."
"Certainly not."
"You see my wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe is all very well, but I never talk over my affairs with him. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter."
"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord.
"Still I should be glad to tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it. The fact was that Alf and his supporters thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were perfectly unscrupulous. They couldn't get their man in, but they did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million. Think what that is!"
"I don't understand how it could be done."
"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon my shares was instantaneous. The Mexican railway fell from 117 to something quite nominal, so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate it, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day, according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, you see how it hits?"
"Will they never go up again?"
"Oh yes; perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money - that, you know, is settled."
He succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he also produced a friendly feeling in the young man - almost a desire to be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles of commerce, which seemed almost more exciting than whist or loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him would never be divulged. He was somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away convinced that the financier was a big man; one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.
And Melmotte himself had derived pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to talk as though he were a young friend whom he trusted. It was out of the question that he should ever speak the truth about his own affairs, and of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been intended to corroborate lies. Yet it was a comfort to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.
After this conversation Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with diminished luxury, and with rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but the institution had become absolutely necessary to its members - and to no one more than Dolly Longestaffe. Now that the club was again open, Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed.
But at this time Dolly was almost mad with the sense of injury. He had expected that the sale of the Pickering estate would pay all his debts and still leave him a comfortable sum. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone - and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing: his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte.
He was very open in talking about it at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for the Bideawhiles, he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced.
"By George!" he said, "there's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, by George! He ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man does." This he said as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables.
Nidderdale, leaving his chair, walked up to him very gently.
"Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte."
"Mistaken!" exclaimed Dolly loudly. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?"
"I don't believe it has been owing very long."
"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?"
"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it."
"Squercum says-"
"Never mind Squercum. Look here, Dolly. I probably know more of Melmotte's affairs than you do. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days, I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you."
"The devil you will."
"I will indeed."
Nidderdale was speaking quietly, but Dolly would not lower his voice.
"That's out of the question," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name. Everybody knows it. He will soon be in jail for forgery."
This was very unpleasant, as everyone knew that Nidderdale was to become engaged to Melmotte's daughter.
"Since you will speak about it in this public way," began Nidderdale, "I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer."
"That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte."
"As to the money, it will certainly be paid. What is it? twenty-five thousand?"
"Eighty thousand, the whole."
"Well - eighty thousand. It's impossible that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds."
"Why don't he do it then?" asked Dolly.
All this unpleasantness made the club less social than it used to be. There was an attempt to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his face covered in plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At present he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned there by Mr. Ramsbottom.
"By George," said Dolly, as he ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though things might never come right again."
The opinion of the club was divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money? But most men thought that Dolly did not know what he had signed. And there was a general feeling that people were not bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years ago. No doubt Melmotte would produce the money sooner or later.
In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."