Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last thing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as a friend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look for sympathy.


She ain't that poor, neither. I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor. And I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. It never was her way.


It never is the way with a Protestant,


We'll say no more about that for the present,


Ye ain't a' found her, Mr. Ruggles, ha' ye?


Noa;--we ain't a' found no one yet.


If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr. Carbury, I'd never forgive myself,--never,


As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend,


In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there last night a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' been left alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over to Sheep's Acre. But,--oh! He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk, I've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronite has been and done this! Oh, Mr. Carbury! If I was to wring his neck round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now? They says as how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hiding himself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all. They've gals enough of their own,--them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;--if he's had a hand in this.


But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do with this, Mr. Crumb.


In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as he did it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned!


I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can trace her better than Mr. Crumb can do, and you will both trust me.


There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon,


But you'll let us know the very truth,


perhaps the grandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people,


It is no use, father, for I will never have him,


Is it about that other scamp?


If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to you and told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue.


You'll both starve, my lady; that's all. By ----, if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, not you, you little fool!


Well, Miss Melmotte, governors are stern beings: are they not?


Is yours stern, my lord?


What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think you understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; I was indeed.


I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale.


That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and I can't marry without leave from the governors.


Nor with it,


I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere,--I don't quite know where. But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?


No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can.


Do you mean that?


I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it. I have seen more of things since then.


And you've seen somebody you like better than me?


I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought to blame me, my lord.


Oh dear no.


There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn't it now?


The governors were off, I think.


The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one.


I agree with you there;--I do indeed,


And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal about it since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine.


But I don't know why you shouldn't--just marry me--because you--like me.


Only,--just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale.


Thanks;--so much!


I like you ever so,--only marrying a person is different.


There's something in that to be sure.


And I don't mind telling you, because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody else;--oh, so much.


I supposed that was it.


That is it.


It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think of it again?


I tell you, my lord, I'm--in love.


Oh, ah;--yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket.


I'll be d---- if he shall live in my house,


It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall never have to see him,


'Cut and scotched and lopped!' I suppose she has been. I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her. 'Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,' I should have done the best for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were necessary.


Be it so. It need not break our friendship.


No;--no; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my mouth.


If anybody don't understand, it's his own fault,


A cussed deal of trouble and all that, you know! He's used to it, and it's what he's meant for. I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that kind.


He couldn't do it, if it was ever so. I don't think I'd bully him if I were you. He gets £500 a-year, and if you knew all he owes, and all he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him of it.


Gentlemen, is it your pleasure that I shall sign the record?


Gentlemen, it may perhaps be as well if I take this occasion of saying a few words to you about the affairs of the company.


I suppose that's about all,


Well;--perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here is engaged elsewhere, we had better adjourn this meeting for another week.


I cannot allow that,


I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board,


I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and Chairman, and I must say that it is not expedient just at present to go into matters too freely.


My lords and gentlemen. I hope that you trust me.


Hear, hear,


All right, go on;


I trust, that my young friend, Sir Felix, doubts neither my discretion nor my ability.


Oh dear, no;--not at all,


My Lords and Gentlemen. I am delighted to receive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in the world I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell you that we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has ever been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think our friend here, Mr. Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as any gentleman.


What do you mean by that, Mr. Melmotte?


What do I mean?--Certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir. Your firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of the Company are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt you are in correspondence with Mr. Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph wires are open to you, sir. But, my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able to inform you that in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. On behalf of the shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands, I think it expedient that any general statement should be postponed for a short time, and I flatter myself that in that opinion I shall carry the majority of this Board with me. I now move that this meeting be adjourned to this day week,


I second that motion,


I understood that we were to have a statement,


You've had a statement,


I will put my motion to the vote,


I shall move an amendment,


There is nobody to second it,


How do you know till I've made it? I shall ask Lord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I think that he will not refuse.


Oh, gracious me! why me? No;--don't ask me. I've got to go away. I have indeed.


At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not say whether every affair of this Company should or should not be published to the world.


You'd break up everything if you did,


Perhaps everything ought to be broken up. But I say nothing about that. What I do say is this. That as we sit here as directors and will be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know what is being done. We ought to know where the shares really are. I for one do not even know what scrip has been issued.


You've bought and sold enough to know something about it,


I, at any rate, began, by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the affair.


That's more than I know. Whatever shares you have, were issued at San Francisco, and not here.


I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for. Nor have I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares which my capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my own concerns.


It looks very like it,


So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of everything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is being done with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large that I, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth know anything about it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from further responsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right from this time forward,--and that course I intend to take.


The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board. There will be no difficulty about that.


Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear that there will be difficulty.


Not in the least. You need only gazette your resignation and the thing is done. I had intended, gentlemen, to propose an addition to our number. When I name to you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout England as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of fortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I mean Mr. Longestaffe of Caversham--


Young Dolly, or old?


I mean Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham. I am sure that you will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought to strengthen our number by this addition. But if Mr. Montague is determined to leave us,--and no one will regret the loss of his services so much as I shall,--it will be my pleasing duty to move that Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be requested to take his place. If on reconsideration Mr. Montague shall determine to remain with us,--and I for one most sincerely hope that such reconsideration may lead to such determination,--then I shall move that an additional director be added to our number, and that Mr. Longestaffe be requested to take the chair of that additional director. Certainly. Carbury, if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment for me. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr. Montague, what can I do for you? The thing is about this way, I take it, Mr. Montague;--you think you know more of this matter than I do.


Not at all, Mr. Melmotte.


And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may be right. But as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less we speak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest in the threat you made, because you would be making public things communicated to you under the seal of privacy,--and no gentleman would do that. But as long as you are hostile to me, I can't help you;--and so good afternoon.


I am delighted to see you here. You come regularly, and you'll find that it will be worth your while. There's nothing like attending to business. You should be here every Friday.


I will,


And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I can put you more in the way of understanding things there than I can here. This is all a mere formal sort of thing. You can see that.


Oh yes, I see that.


We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellow Montague. By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?


Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the women know him at home. He isn't a pal of mine if you mean that.


If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the wall;--that's all. But never mind him at present. Was your mother speaking to you of what I said to her?


No, Mr. Melmotte,


I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she might have told you. This is all nonsense, you know, about you and Marie. You understand that; don't you? It's all d---- nonsense. You haven't got a brass farthing, you know. You've no income at all; you're just living on your mother, and I'm afraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I shall give my girl to you? You're a baronet, and that's about all, you know. The Carbury property, which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me if he pleases;--and who isn't very much older than you are yourself.


Oh, come, Mr. Melmotte; he's a great deal older than me.


It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam. The thing is out of the question, and you must drop it. You hear what I say. She is going to marry Lord Nidderdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What do you expect to get by it?


I suppose it's the old story,


Just so;--the old story. You want my money, and she wants you, just because she has been told to take somebody else. You want something to live on;--that's what you want. Come;--out with it. Is not that it? When we understand each other I'll put you in the way of making money.


Of course I'm not very well off,


About as badly as any young man that I can hear of. You give me your written promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie, and you shan't want for money.


A written promise!


Yes;--a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you in the way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able to marry any other girl you please;--or to live without marrying, which you'll find to be better.


By-the-bye, Mr. Melmotte, could you let me have those shares?


What shares?


Don't you know?--I gave you a thousand pounds, and I was to have ten shares.


You must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place.


When is the proper day?


It is the twentieth of each month I think. But what does that signify? Do you want a little money?


Well, I do. A lot of fellows owe me money, but it's so hard to get it.


That tells a story of gambling. You think I'd give my girl to a gambler?


Nidderdale's in it quite as thick as I am.


Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father can destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now--


What;--to Marie?


No;--not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be shown to her. If you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before you leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour as a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my property to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind about that.


And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the twentieth of next month?


I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At any rate I won't see you short of money.


You'll give me that cheque for £200, Mr. Melmotte? And you'll see about letting me have those shares?


You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know.


What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?


I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves Directors we ought to know something about it.


I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director.


Because you're a lord,


I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it. They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter.


But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And why should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old Grendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out. I have been thinking about it too,


I suppose old Melmotte is all right? You can speak out to me, you know,


I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest man alive.


He lives as though he were.


I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows very much about him.


be coming a cropper rather. Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there waiting. Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that,


Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me,


Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame.


You'll pay him some day.


I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm concerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things about poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a £10 note. But because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd better come up.


I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met.


Hardly since the Melmottes' ball,


Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town?


I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague.


I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board.


But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham, and that Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter.


She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think.


Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them.


What man, Miss Carbury?


Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end.


But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage.


Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte.


I know he has,


And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?


Of course I will never go against mamma,


I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like that.


You're thinking of Melmotte.


I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody except Roger.


Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do.


I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so. But of all my friends--


Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?


Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend,--because you are his friend.


Look here, Hetta,


It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself.


Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that.


I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I will leave England at once, and never return to it.


There's mamma,


This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague.


Yes,


I thought you were at Liverpool,


I came back to-day,--to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?


A little business,


Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?


Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?


Indeed, no,


I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it.


I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?


A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to.


Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour.


But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden.


Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world. What brought him here?


He brought himself, mamma.


Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent.


Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord.


How long was he here?


Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up.


You did not know that he was to come?


Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us.


What do you mean by that?


If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming.


Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?


No;--I am not.


Has he asked you to marry him?


I do not think he ever has.


You do not think?


I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife.


What has he said? When did he say it?


Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he said; but it meant that.


You told me he had been here but a minute.


It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it.


He had come prepared to say it.


How could he,--expecting to find you?


Psha! He expected nothing of the kind.


I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an accident.


An accident!


It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together.


And you;--what did you say?


Nothing. You came.


I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say? How do you intend to answer him?


I do not know that he will ask again.


That is prevaricating.


No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else.


He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces.


If so,


It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!


I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them.


Why will you not marry your cousin?


I am not good enough for him.


Nonsense!


Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma. Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me.


I do not wish it to be talked of. You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb. Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her.


Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?


No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him.


That would be very bad.


He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect.


He knows nothing about her coming to town?


He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her.


You still believed him?


No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money. I never believed in the thing, you know.


Nor did I. But what could I do?


I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you.


It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to Oregon,


But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her. And what would she do, remaining here? I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can.


You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way.


Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?


I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it.


I wish it were over, old fellow,


So do I,


Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day. Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night. Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?


Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home.


I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me.


Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?


Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?


Yes; she's a friend of mine.


Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?


I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles.


Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire.


But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home.


John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague.


You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought.


Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him,--but I never cared that for him.


I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London.


I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch. But there's Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute.


I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles.


What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling.


Mr. Montague. I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know.


Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you.


What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?


Your grandfather is very anxious about you.


Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him.


He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy.


I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague.


Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town? You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?


I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged.


But I must tell Mr. Carbury.


Then I ain't obliged to you one bit,


Dear Sir,


I am so sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H.


My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,--from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it. And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're run after. Ah, indeed. There are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another for the Bishop of--; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it. You're the only man in London then. But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you. I am particularly anxious, to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,--next to my own.


Have you anything special to say about the Railway?


Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters.


I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter,


Well, well; I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for.


He may easily do that.


Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do. What I wanted to say to you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting.


No; we did not.


I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything. Without unanimity we can do--nothing. Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague.


But suppose the directors are not unanimous.


They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!


Not if it can be carried on honestly.


Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest? Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel in that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,--annihilated, sir;--so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,--just because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by G----! What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is,--as the air,--to buoy you up; how slight it is,--as a mere vapour,--when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?


What do I want? I only want justice.


But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of it.


For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself.


You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter, you had about £6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still.


I don't know what I've got.


I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money.


There was back interest due to me.


If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr. Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I know,--of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;--and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,--if it is to be that way,--do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;--the very soul, Mr. Montague.


But if I can't be unanimous?


Well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,--some time before the end of the year. And now, good-bye. I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting down-stairs.


You may buy what you like, mamma, and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him. Nobody shall manage this matter for me. I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa.


Que nous étions encore à Francfort, ou New York,


It was the only thing to do, Marie;--it was indeed.


But you said you had accepted some offer.


You don't suppose I wrote the letter?


It was your handwriting, Felix.


Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it.


And you have accepted nothing?


Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet.


Nobody ever does who gives papa money,


Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel.


I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so.


It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we'd best do now? I wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled.


I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't,--if I should have a husband of my own.


What are you thinking of, Felix?


It's d---- difficult to know what to do.


But you do love me?


Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August.


Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix.


Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough.


I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be.


Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet.


You're not going to give it up!


Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do.


You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?


He's one of those city chaps.


And Lady Julia Start?


She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They got spliced last winter.


Yes,--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate.


How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?


I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier.


Oh;--ah. Didon knows all about it.


That she does.


But she'd lose her place.


There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she'd arrange it all.


And would you come to Folkestone?


I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to--New York. And then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks.


And would Didon go too?


That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call myself by her name;--any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly.


That's Didon's plan?


That's what she thinks best,--and she'll do it, if you'll give her £50 for herself, you know. The 'Adriatic,'--that's a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month,--and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it.


It's deuced important,


It's not more important for you than me,


If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where should we be then?


Nothing venture, nothing have,


That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all.


You'd get me,


Yes;--and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But--


Very well then;--if that's your love,


I'll venture it.


Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!


There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week.


I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long.


There's the money to get, and all that.


I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house.


How much?


A hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred.


That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!


And now, there's Didon. Nobody's looking and she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out. The gate can be left, you know. Then we'll get out on the other side.


It's not so bad as you thought. Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay.


The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?


You didn't tell him as you'd seen me, Mr. Montague?


Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles.


Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been ill-natured,--that's all,


Only fancy,


Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again.


Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to go herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise.


A cockney Paradise.


Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and fancy that that is the sea?


I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,--so that you know more about it than I do.


How very English it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the sea! Ah;--you never were at Newport!


But I've been at San Francisco.


Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling. Well; that's better than Southend.


I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It's generally supposed we're an island.


Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west of Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered. But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs. Pipkin and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid that the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the best of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings. People are just as poor with us;--and other people who happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humble to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference.


He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as agreeable as he can to him who can give.


But Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. However we got back all right yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here,--at last.


You knew that I had to go to Liverpool.


I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?


Yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything very satisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway.


I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man that I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate little peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank in the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the largest railway. It would be better even than being President of a Republic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is it that you do in it, Paul?


They want me now to go out to Mexico about it,


Shall you go?


I think not.


Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not go? It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will never come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico and have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do anything. Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!


Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that one might be out of the way.


I would make the means of doing something.


Means are money. How can I make that?


There is money going. There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money with which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fisker get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where does Melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world? Why should not you get it as well as the others?


If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it.


Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your way, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make people there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money.


You are not in a hurry?


Oh no.


You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I'll ask them to let us have tea. That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers.


I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday.


There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she does not like?


And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like.


That's quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn't the girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,--just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love without having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. She can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an end. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an end.


If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day.


Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. It isn't to be done in a day of course, nor yet in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that.


Thanks. How well you remember!


Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?


Of course I do. Black is your colour;--black and grey; or white,--and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green.


I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things,--as you have, Paul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forbodes, an effete civilisation.


I am sorry that mine should be effete,


You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals. Civilisation was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the time of the great painters; but Savanarola and Galileo were individuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexico gives you the chance.


Are the Mexicans a new people?


They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say have bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally good. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine workmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul.


What makes you so uneasy? Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?


Winifrid. I came here with a purpose, and I had better carry it out.


What purpose?


Stop, my dear,


Must the purpose be told to-night?


Why not to-night?


Paul, I am not well;--I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs. Pipkin is not very charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your purpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--then drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort.


I will not harass you, if you are ill,


I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,--what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go? That is full of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?


Not at this time of the year.


But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;--not that any place can be very far from here.


Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place,--except Southend? There is Cromer in Norfolk,--perhaps ten hours.


Is Cromer by the sea?


Yes;--what we call the sea.


I mean really the sea, Paul?


If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps.


Ah,--now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?


Well, yes;--I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember much. There's Ramsgate.


Mrs. Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should like Ramsgate.


There's the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty.


That's the Queen's place. There would not be room for her and me too.


Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance.


And sea?


Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand.


A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?


A small little place.


Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for me.


They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small.


Paul, if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft. You will take me down, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself. You will do that for old acquaintance sake?


I don't think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that,


No; I will take you down. When will you go?


When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs. Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in ten minutes?--because I could.


I've named a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, and I'll promise it shall suit. Saturday, the 29th.


I'm all right. That's as it may be, by-and-by,


What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?


the fat would be in the fire. Who do you think was at our place yesterday?


Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?


Who was it, Ruby?


A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in Bungay and Beccles.


Paul Montague!


Do you know him, Felix?


Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly in the city--and I know him at home.


Is he nice?


Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow.


He's got a lady friend where I live.


The devil he has! Who is she, Ruby?


Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money.


Is Montague going to marry her?


Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?


Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?


Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?


Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you.


No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind about their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?


Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?


I didn't know. I must say something.


Tell him you're nothing to him.


But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know she will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that.


Your aunt does not know?


No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you know,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?


It's very jolly, I think.


It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it.


What is the worst of it?


I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am. Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night that--


Bother what she says!


She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't such a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man.


Let's go in and have a dance,


And now I must go. You'll see me as far as the Angel, won't you? What am I to say to the Squire?


Say nothing.


And what am I to say to aunt?


Say to her? Just say what you have said all along.


I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?


If you bother me I shall cut it, you know.


Cut it!


Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?


Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?


I'll find a place for you.


You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or--


Go back to John Crumb.


John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy.


I didn't tell you to come away from him,


Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?


So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is.


No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!


Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I know a trick worth two of that.


And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?


Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother.


Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?


Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?


Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls to keep him company.


That's more than you know, Ruby.


If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman. That's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure. You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't. You go your way, and I'll go mine.


We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going.


Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him.


He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours.


To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did, then;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't have treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed.


As you found yourself obliged to run away. I'm glad that you should be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?


I don't know,


You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid.


Oh dear, no.


It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb.


Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like Mr. Crumb, and I never will like him.


Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless you please.


Nobody can't, of course, sir.


But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you.


Nobody won't ruin me. A girl has to look to herself, and I mean to look to myself.


I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost.


I ain't a going to the devil,


But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none. That's what Sir Felix Carbury is. And if I understand it rightly, it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat.


I don't care about any man's coat, but John hasn't ever a word to say, was it ever so.


Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace. He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any disgrace?


There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury.


No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon.


John Crumb's pardon! No!


Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little. I'll tell you what will take place. Mr. Crumb won't put up with this you know.


He can't do nothing to me, sir.


That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd injure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?


John's mortial strong, Mr. Carbury.


If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a brave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?


He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everything again him.


You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and beg his pardon.


I never will;--never.


I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard like that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But I'll let your grandfather know.


Grandfather don't want me no more.


And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you have it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix Carbury any more.


Very clever,--and dashing, but he never had ballast.


I suppose he is very rich,


I dare say he has put by something. But this election will cost him £10,000;--and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allow another £10,000 for action for libel. They've already declared that they will indict the paper.


Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?


I don't believe the 'Evening Pulpit' can prove it,--and I'm sure that they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or four thousand pounds. That's a game in which nobody wins but the lawyers. I wonder at Alf. I should have thought that he would have known how to get all said that he wanted to have said without running with his head into the lion's mouth. He has been so clever up to this! God knows he has been bitter enough, but he has always sailed within the wind.


Let them prove it. I defied them to prove it. Englishmen were too great, too generous, too honest, too noble,--the men of Westminster especially were a great deal too high-minded to pay any attention to such charges as these till they were proved. Let them prove it. Such accusations as these were mere lies till they were proved.


If this goes on much longer I shall cut it,


Think of me, governor. I have to be in the city four or five times a week.


You've a regular salary.


Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. What's my salary to the shares you've had? The thing is;--will it last?


How last?


There are a good many who say that Melmotte will burst up.


I don't believe it. They don't know what they're talking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burst up. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell him after this that he must make it easier. He wants to know who's to have every ticket for the dinner, and there's nobody to tell him except me. And I've got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help me except that fellow from the Herald's office. I don't know about people's rank. Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a fellow who writes books?


And you shall come to us for three days,--after it's over,


If your banker is pressing you, refer him to me,


Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?


Yes;--I'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to the Board.


You're going in for that, are you, sir? Do they pay anything?


I believe not.


Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it. It's a sort of Beargarden affair.


A bear-garden affair, Adolphus. How so?


I mean the club. We had them all there for dinner one day, and a jolly dinner we gave them. Miles Grendall and old Alfred belong to it. I don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going. I'd make them fork out something if I took the trouble of going all that way.


I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things.


No, I don't. I don't understand much about business, I know. What I want to understand is, when Melmotte is going to pay up this money.


I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks,


I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. You'd better tell him not. A cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to mine is about the best thing going. You'll be in the city to-morrow, and you'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get Squercum to do it.


I beg you'll do nothing of the kind. It will be very foolish if you do;--perhaps ruinous.


Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else,


My dear young friend, what can I do for you?


About that money, Mr. Melmotte?


What money, my dear fellow? You see that a good many money matters pass through my hands.


The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, and as the shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back.


It was only the other day you had £200,


Exactly;--and you might as well let me have the £800.


I've ordered the shares;--gave the order to my broker the other day.


Then I'd better take the shares. Could I get them, Mr. Melmotte?


My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of my time when you come to me about such an affair as this.


I'd like to have the money or the shares,


You're a spendthrift, and I'm afraid a gambler. I suppose I must give you £200 more on account. No, my friend, you are only entitled to shares for £600 pounds now. I will see that the thing is put right.


What's this I hear about a lady at Islington?


Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?


A little bird. There are always little birds about telling of ladies. I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on your coming marriage.


Then you've been told an infernal falsehood. I don't know who can have told you, but if you hear it again, I'll trouble you to contradict it.


He's awfully full of work just now,--you won't forget that;--will you?


I should not have troubled you, only that I understood that I was to see you before the Board met.


Exactly;--of course. It was quite necessary,--only you see I am a little busy. If this d----d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. It's a deal easier to make a treaty with an Emperor, than to give him a dinner; I can tell you that. Well;--let me see. Oh;--I was proposing that you should go out to Pekin?


To Mexico.


Yes, yes;--to Mexico. I've so many things running in my head! Well;--if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up something of instructions. You'd know better, however, than we can tell you what to do. You'll see Fisker, of course. You and Fisker will manage it. The chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh? We must get that passed at the next Board.


There need be no trouble about that, Mr. Melmotte, as I have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go.


Oh, indeed!


No;--even did I see my way to do any good in America my duties here would not be compatible with the undertaking.


I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? What good are you doing the Company? If you do stay, I hope you'll be unanimous; that's all;--or perhaps you intend to go out. If that's it, I'll look to your money. I think I told you that before.


That, Mr. Melmotte, is what I should prefer.


Very well,--very well. I'll arrange it. Sorry to lose you,--that's all. Miles, isn't Mr. Goldsheiner waiting to see me?


You're a little too quick, Mr. Melmotte,


A man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir.


But I must be precise. I cannot tell you as a fact that I shall withdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend with whom I am consulting. I hardly yet know what my duty may be.


I'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty. It cannot be your duty to make known out of that Board-room any of the affairs of the Company which you have learned in that Board-room. It cannot be your duty to divulge the circumstances of the Company or any differences which may exist between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman who is a stranger to the Company. It cannot be your duty--.


Thank you, Mr. Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I can see my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board without understanding what duties I should have to perform--.


Very much in fault, I should say,


But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or how far I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do not want advice from you.


Very well;--very well. I can't ask you to stay, because a partner from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is waiting to see me, about matters which are rather more important than this of yours.


All right. I know all about it. Go on. I'm not sure but that Mr. Montague's retirement from among us may be an advantage. He could not be made to understand that unanimity in such an enterprise as this is essential. I am confident that the new director whom I have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day will not sin in the same direction.


Did ye find her, squoire?


Oh, yes, Mr. Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington.


Eh, now;--look at that.


You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London.


Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire. I a' heard tell of Mrs. Pipkin, but I never see'd her.


I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there. Of course if she was to go to London it was the proper thing for her to do.


I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. Darned if I didn't. You ask Mixet, squoire,--him as is baker down Bardsey Lane. I allays guv' it her that she'd do the thing as was right. But how about she and the Baro-nite?


I suppose the old man down here did ill use her?


Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged her about awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?


I think she's a good girl, if you mean that.


I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire. Tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. I allays had a leaning to you, squoire; but I'll more nor lean to you, now. I've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't--; well, I was there, and ready.


I hope nobody has said so.


You can't stop them women, squoire. There ain't no dropping into them. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house to-morrow, and what 'll it matter her then what they say? But, squoire,--did ye hear if the Baro-nite had been a' hanging about that place?


About Islington, you mean.


He goes a hanging about; he do. He don't come out straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. There ain't one in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals and all the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles. Huggery-Muggery is pi'son to me, squoire.


We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up your mind.


I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is her aunt now, squoire?


She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say.


She won't let the Baro-nite come there?


Certainly not. Mrs. Pipkin won't let him come there.


If I was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers like, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?


I think she'll try to do her duty without that.


They do like things the like o' that; any ways I'll go up, squoire, arter Sax'nam market, and see how things is lying.


I wouldn't go just yet, Mr. Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet.


I said nothing as warn't as kind as kind.


But her own perversity runs in her own head. If you had been unkind she could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that. And to tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a little hardship up at Mrs. Pipkin's will do her good.


Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?


I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But of course she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or four children to look after.


That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?


As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her in another sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen in London.


My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster, most as big as any in Bungay.


I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it herself. Let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her again in a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters then than she is now.


But,--the Baro-nite!


Mrs. Pipkin will allow nothing of that.


Girls is so 'cute. Ruby is awful 'cute. It makes me feel as though I had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! If I thought that she'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury. They'd have to make an eend o' me at Bury, if it was that way. They would then.


I think the hotel charming. I don't know what you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!


It is Mrs. Hurtle. I must introduce you,


I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft,


I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her.


Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now, that a few additional will not make much difference.


Do you stay long?


I go back probably on Monday,


As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?


Thank you, madam;--I have dined.


Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us.


Is this wise?


You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do.


Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?


No; certainly not.


Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?


I have told her that I would not. I have told her--.


What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?


I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me.


I am not naturally impatient.


But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?


Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter.


I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it.


Then you should have left her.


Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert her in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not desert her. I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would be justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good. She does not think so. She cannot think so. Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why I should trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that I don't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right to complain. For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as though you meant to throw me over. I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it, of course I could have turned the other way. But coming on you by accident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak, what am I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you. Never. And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is good-looking. Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her country are not as the manners of this country.


I trust I may not marry a lady of her country. She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes down here and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it. I believe you, but I don't believe her. She is here with you in order that she may marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. Believing as I do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell her my mind,--and leave her. That's what I should do. You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner.


I may come to the hall as I go back home?


Certainly you may come if you please. I mean that I shall be delighted to see you,


Never. Never.


Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?


Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true that he had dined.


I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of declining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimate terms with you?


Oh, yes.


Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. In point of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it? I can well understand that it should be so. An intimate friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence. But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his friend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told me that Mr. Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman.


So he is.


Then why didn't he behave as such? Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority over you?


Of course he has not. What authority could he have?


Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did after I had gone.


It was nearly that,


Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?


He knew of the letter which I wrote to you.


You have canvassed me between you?


Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the world?


No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best friend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should not have supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travelling with you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own actions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world to make his fortune.


Of course you can say bitter things,


Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter things to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I have to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr. Carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though I loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which have now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because I believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my gift to you.


I cannot say that word.


Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like that. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall dare.


I wrote to you.


Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I think but little of my life and have but little for which to live. But while I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote to me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence! Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distance between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to write that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this country.


I am sorry to hear you say that.


Am I not justified in saying it?


I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I have been wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it.


This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with the purpose. Had you told him you were to be here?


His coming was an accident.


It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to me? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury.


What has to be said, I believe I can say myself.


Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it, that the words stick in your throat?


There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I been fairly careful.


Don't spare me. I know what it all is as well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which they have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at my feet. Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies.


It was not that only,


No; they told you other things. They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of my former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you can hardly know what my life has been.


They told me that--you fought him.


Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a duel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went away to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was the duel. And they have told you that he is not dead.


Yes;--they have told me that.


Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen him dead. How should I?


There would be a certificate.


Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from Galveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him according to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?


I heard nothing of the divorce.


I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before, you did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become more particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself, and do believe. Whether the other story was told or not I do not know.


It was not told.


Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And they have made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my property?


I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have said unasked. I have asked no question about your property.


You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir. I think I have been open with you. Is it because I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or because by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned.


I do not condemn you,


At any rate, Paul, do not lie. If you tell me that you will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?


I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--


Well;--rather. How often before I consented?


It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of us.


You have?


I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me as you please. I can hardly defend myself.


Hardly, I think.


But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the best in declaring that I will not become--your husband.


You will not?


If I speak with abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision. I will not.


Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after man false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary? Perhaps you think that I am--old. Speak, man,--is it that you want a younger wife?


You know it is not.


Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what you tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your character. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing what you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that is impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh, fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! My last word to you is, that you are--a liar. Now for the present you can go. Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shot another man.


I will say good-bye to you,


Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me. Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy. Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman. You would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself. I shall not stay here now. I shall return on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking a means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to come to me on Monday.


I do not see that it will serve any purpose.


It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you; and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myself and to tell my story.


You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you when we were together; but you have learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered. Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me.


I have come earlier than you expected,


Yes, indeed;--much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoft?


Let her follow you, and bear it. Of course you must suffer the effects of your own imprudence.


You won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs. Hurtle? If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am.


I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?


She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come next.


I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite quiet.


Indeed, Ruby, you won't,


Won't what, aunt?


Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'll stay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't come back here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that I should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England.


They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin.


Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take off again.


I've a right to go if I like,


That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, any way.


Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl down-stairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a right to come back;--and go I shall.


You'll be no better than you should be, if you do.


Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all day till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not once in a week?


Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me.


Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into no gutter. I know what I'm about.


There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about.


I shall just go then.


You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and the area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off.


Aunt Pipkin, let me go just this once.


No, Ruby;--it ain't proper.


You don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruin me,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you don't like.


It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it.


And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up.


I've a right to lock my own doors.


Then I shall go away to-morrow.


I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if you choose to go out.


Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?


She's gone to bed,


I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?


Not as I expected, Mrs. Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a bit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. And she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry her.


She is pretty!


But what's beauty, Mrs. Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the scriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave to-morrow.


And where will she go?


Just nowhere. After this gentleman,--and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle.


We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin.


And this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are managed. No gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls as knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. That's my way of looking at it.


Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?