And a Jew? If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister.


It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes.


That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?


I have.


It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home to-morrow?


I wrote to say so.


And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--a Jew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way? You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street.


Oh, papa, I can't do that.


Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A Jew! An old fat Jew!


Tell him that I was called away suddenly.


I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it.


Miss Longestaffe, has left me and gone to her father.


Oh, indeed.


Yes,


You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle. Nay, this parting will bear no farewell.


We think that Carbury has drowned himself, and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it. He's taken up the running with the girl. What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass. We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like, and then Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine there every day.


Mamma has gone to her publisher's. She is writing so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, Mr. Montague?


I suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in Parliament or not?


Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?


Just a scoundrel;--that's all.


You heard about Felix?


Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried to run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now.


I think not, Mr. Montague.


I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it.


Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me.


You went to the party, then?


Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens.


Hetta. I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix.


I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people,


Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself, and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too.


I do not know why you should do that.


Hetta, you must know that I love you.


Do you?


Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment so as to let me know. If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once.


Roger is very dear to me.


Do you love him as I would have you love me?


No, --not like that.


Can you love me like that? Is it mine?


If you want it.


Want it! Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.


He is as good as gold, --ever so much better than you are, Paul,


Better than anybody I have ever known,


I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul.


I do,


No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants.


Where should I have been?


Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him.


Do you know I almost feel that he is like a father to me,


Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again.


I cannot believe that.


There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. How could I have known?


That would be unreasonable.


He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--


Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this.


But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful.


If you think, Paul--


Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me. MY DEAR ROGER,-- I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you. I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it. Your affectionate friend. PAUL MONTAGUE.


There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you. You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you. ROGER CARBURY.


Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here.


He always comes here when I am away,


That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's.


I'm not so sure of that, Hetta.


Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think you knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it matter? He has been here, and I have told him--


You have not accepted him?


Yes, mamma.


Without even asking me?


Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I not to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?


Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all Melmotte's wickedness.


Oh, mamma, do not say that!


But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation like that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! I feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think nothing of that.


I think very much of my cousin Roger.


And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been a home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been worse to me even than Felix.


to carry on the game.


Am I to be a slave?


supposed he might as well some day.


There, there!


There must be an end of this. You must not come here, Sir Felix, unless you puts it in writing.


I promised to give you a message,


It's all of no use now,


But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you.


But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her.


She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her.


How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter.


Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?


Just as you like. I don't care.


Felix, you are very heartless.


I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her.


I never put you up to it.


Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her.


Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!


Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague. I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington.


Mr. Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe it.


You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it.


I don't believe it. Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?


What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. There, that's where she is;


It is not true. I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way.


Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me. If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington.


I do not believe it,


By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you.


Roger Carbury will not say so?


Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it,--and has seen the woman.


How can you know? Has Roger told you?


I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her.


I do not believe a word of it,


What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you.


How can he know, mamma?


He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house.


Has he seen her?


I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?


Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him.


But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented.


Contented, mamma!


Satisfied that what we tell you is true.


I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but it can't be that.


If, you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me. You know, what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,--and also yourself.


I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me,


Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?


I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her,--from Felix.


A message--from Felix.


It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now;--could they, mamma?


It is out of the question. That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone, you know,


Do you want my daughter? She is not living here at present.


Oh,--I remember now,


May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?


I am Miss Carbury,


Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury? Oh;--Sir Felix's sister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with my daughter? I wonder whether that is true. Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?


I have come because I thought I could do some good. I was speaking to your daughter at your party.


Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury. You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool;--are you? May I hear what you say to her?


If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt.


You can say it all before me.


No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now.


Oh, you shall see her. I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again.


Miss Carbury, this is so good of you,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?


Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come.


Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me. We are at daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would you?


What does he say, dear? It must all be over, Miss Melmotte.


Is that his message, Miss Carbury? But I have. It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?


I think it is impossible.


Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know. Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don't even know what your name is. Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so. And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes. But I never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?


I don't know what I am to say,


I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you,


I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort.


He will not try again, you think?


I am sure he will not.


I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why should not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will venture if he will.


I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--


Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true.


It is true,


Yes; I did. Men are not, I think, like girls. I suppose not. What liars they are, what brutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me,--once?


It is better that you should think of him no more.


Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted.


You should try to forgive him, Marie.


Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell him that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell you to say that he did not love me?


I wish I had not come,


I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he did not love me? Then how do you know? What did he say?


That it was all over.


Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?


I am sure.


Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot. I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;--that I can't bear. You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases.


Your papa, will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very good young man.


Yes. I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa.


I would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering.


on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.


I don't think we ought to throw him over. It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton,


Not at all, but I also, like Nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too bashful.


You had better let me accompany you,


Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,


There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir,


What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done till the parson has said the word.


You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?


No, I couldn't,


I'm awfully hard up.


So am I.


You've heard it, I suppose,


Heard what?


I believe he doesn't know! By Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others.


What's up now?


Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner has bolted!


Bolted!


Bolted. Bolted by George! He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called 'Flatfleece.'


I know him,


I should think so,


A bottle of champagne!


there was not a bottle of champagne in the house.


Good G----,


It's true,


there was some port left.


Brandy? Send out and get some brandy,


Here's a go. One thing atop of another! There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left.


Had to send round the corner for it, to the public.


We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?


He's down in the House, as big as life. He's all right I think.


I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about £1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink £1,500 in less than six months!


There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly,


He's paid some of your card money, perhaps,


I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U.'s while that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?


I do think so.


I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner.


Mr. Brown is all wrong. Yes, you are,


The honourable member, is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair.


You should take your hat off,


What he said was all wrong, and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better. I ought to know something about it,


We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject, and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member.


Well, that was plucky!


I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place.


Has Longestaffe's money been paid?


Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either, do you leave Mr. Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken.


Oh, dear; yes; You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything.


Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,


Felix, you won't mention that to Mr. Montague!


Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs. Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed.


I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more.


If it is so! I tell you I know it.


Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has.


What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do with our affairs?


Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman,--I will not see Mr. Montague again. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done?


Leave that to me. Montague. I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs. Hurtle.


Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs. Hurtle?


When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of business,


Well;--yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg your pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name;--but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust that will be enough for you.


You were engaged to Mrs. Hurtle?


My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answer to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs. Hurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go,--at any rate, at present. Of course, Carbury. I wish to regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me.


What the deuce is Vossner about? Do you mean to say I can't come in? By George!


Who do you think is in town? John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away. I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again.


He's not of much account,


He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him. And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And they do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him,


Well, now, Sir Felix, if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece.


And what if they're round, Mrs. Pipkin?


Well, or round either, so long as they're honest.


Ruby and I are both honest;--ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs. Pipkin. She shall be back before late;--before ten; she shall indeed. Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you.


Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?


Writing be bothered,


That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor words. Ruby don't go no where to dine unless you puts it into writing.


Aunt Pipkin!


What do you think I'm going to do with her?


If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be as you don't, just say so, and walk away,--free.


I shall go. I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for any one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in a minute.


She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix. She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace. But I'd be loth to see her on the streets.


Then why won't you let me bring her back again?


'Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry her. You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport,--and then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seen scores of 'em, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to the likes o' you.


I haven't done her any harm,


Then go away, and don't do her any. That's Mrs. Hurtle's door open. You go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better nor me.


Mrs. Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well.


Mrs. Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen the world.


Sir Felix Carbury. I am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none. Would it not be better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is really fond of her?


Upon my word, ma'am. I'm very much obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour of your--your--


Interference you mean.


I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it.


I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made. We're all apt to wait a little too long, because we're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You must go and leave her, Sir Felix.


I suppose she may do as she pleases about that.


Do you mean to make her your wife?


Does Mr. Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?


I do not see, that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any rate, am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night?


If you'll answer me, I'll answer you. Does Mr. Montague mean to make you his wife?


It does not concern you to know. The question is insolent.


It does concern me,--a great deal more than anything about Ruby can concern you. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you.


Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head.


I know all about that,


And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you,


You don't come in here again to-night, if you goes out of that there door with that there young man.


Then I shall,


Baggage! Slut! after all I've done for you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood.


I've worked for it, I suppose;--haven't I?


You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here no more. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 've saved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you, only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the lady upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls.


He'll have it hot some day,


Of course you must let her in,


We usen't to have our ways like that when I was young,


She's headstrong, Mr. Crumb,


She is that, ma'am. And it was along wi' the baro-nite she went?


It was so, Mr. Crumb.


Baro-nite! Well;--perhaps I shall catch him some of these days;--went to dinner wi' him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner here?


no starvation nor yet no stint in her house.


It's very good of you, Mr. Crumb, to think of an old woman like me,--particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young 'un.


It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs. Pipkin, or the d'sease in the 'tatoes;--it has to be put up with, I suppose. Is she very partial, ma'am, to that young baro-nite?


Just a fancy for the time, Mr. Crumb,


They never thinks as how their fancies may well-nigh half kill a man! Sir Felix Carbury! I'll Sir Felix him some of these days. If it was only dinner, wouldn't she be back afore this, ma'am?


I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement,


Like enough,


She's that mad after dancing as never was,


And where is it as 'em dances? Does 'em dance all night at them places, Mrs. Pipkin?


They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do,


I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing. I'd a had dancing for her down at Bungay,--just as ready as anything. D'ye think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?


I suppose they go together,


Domn him! Domn him! What 'ad I ever dun to him? Nothing! Did I ever interfere wi' him? Never! But I wull. I wull. I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Bury!


Mr. Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently. She's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's treating you,


No, ma'am;--she ain't nasty. But she's crou'll--horrid crou'll. It's no more use my going down about meal and pollard, nor business, and she up here with that baro-nite,--no, no more nor nothin'! When I handles it I don't know whether its middlings nor nothin' else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it on yourself to say as I was wrong?


I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him,


I could pretty well eat him,--that's what I could. Half past eleven; is it? She must come some time, mustn't she?


I don't know that I think better of the man for having Mr. Carbury's friendship,


Mr. Carbury ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs. Hurtle.


I don't think much of any of the Carburys, Mrs. Pipkin. It seems to me that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. Nobody seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere with nobody else. I suppose we may as well go to bed now. When that girl comes and knocks, of course we must let her in. If I hear her, I'll go down and open the door for her.


I don't mind saying it now, Mrs. Hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't nothing to depend on,--only lodgers, and them as is any good is so hard to get!


Laws a mercy; what is it?


He's been and murdered him! He has! He's been and murdered him!


She is living here,


I won't;--I won't,


It's no good--I won't.


If it isn't John Crumb!


Get up, you wiper. You sholl get up. Now, Ruby, he's a-going to have it,


Don't hit a man when he's down,


I wunt, but I'll hit a fellow when 'un's up.


He's about got enough of it. I know'd he'd have to have it,


dropped into the baro-nite


so mashed and mauled come to


all one as a dead 'un.


'ad it awful 'eavy.


I'm John Crumb of Bungay, and I ain't afeared of nothin' nor nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I ain't. Mauled 'un! In course I've mauled 'un. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is engaged to be my wife.


No, I ain't,


But she is,


Well then, I never will,


Miss Ruggles, if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom.


Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. He's been and killed Sir Felix.


ASK HIMSELF.


What's this about Felix?


Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there.


What has happened to him?


Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him. And mamma has gone to fetch him,


That's John Crumb. You have not been told about John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him.


Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?


They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world. If it be as I suppose. John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself.


Did you--know of him before?


Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb.


But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!


You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he has been punished.


You know all about it then?


No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?


It is very shocking,


Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you.


It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us,


I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,


Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.


I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house.


Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.


Tell you what?


She has written to you;--has she not?


Yes; she has written to me.


And about me?


Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also.


He told me that he would,


Did he tell you of my answer?


No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since.


You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion.


Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?


I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false than Felix.


Oh, Roger, how has he been false?


He should have left the place and never have come near you, when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips.


But, Roger, it would have been the same.


You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him--


Oh, Roger, do not say hatred.


My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me.


Roger. I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice.


If he were unworthy would your heart never change?


I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?


How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you.


If you thought him worthy you would tell me,


No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;


Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?


Ask himself, Hetta.


And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?


Have you asked him?


I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?


There is such a woman certainly.


And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?


Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs. Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying.


And that is all?


All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?


Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart.


Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence.


But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the street?


I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need not see him.


Roger is up-stairs, mamma,


Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?


He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it.


Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?


Is he hurt, mamma?


Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and you?


What am I to do with him? It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is. But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?


Perhaps I should take him abroad,


Would he be better abroad than here?


He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt.


Yes. I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it.


He might go out to one of the Colonies,


Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go.


If you like to let your house for a period, mine is open to you.


But, Felix?


You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that would save you you can try it for six months.


And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?


Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself,


How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?


No;--that is not true.


What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?


I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the truth.


I know, papa. It is that you may have the money to do what you like with. You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do it. If I ever marry the money will belong to my husband!


I suppose you thought Sir Felix would have had the entire sum,


And he would;--if he had the spirit to take it,


We are not asking for payment of a commercial debt, but for the price of a considerable property which you have purchased.


You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds. You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told you how I propose to pay it.


Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?


I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value, thirty times the value, but you must know I should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice.


Offer 'em again. He must take the bills sooner or later.


Have you seen Marie lately?


I'm going up to your house almost immediately,


You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six,


Have you been thinking any more about it?


I have thought ever so much more about it,


And what's the result?


Oh,--I'll have you.


That's right,


Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale,


You might as well call me John.


Then wait a moment,--John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit.


That's not true, Marie.


Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same,--that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit.


But you will.


I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've been in love with.


But you can't be in love with him now.


Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad.


Have I behaved bad?


Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared.


Oh yes,--I have.


Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business.


How very hard you are, Marie.


No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. I did love him.


Surely you have found him out now.


Yes, I have. He's a poor creature.


He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most horribly. You hadn't heard it?


Who has thrashed him?


I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner.


Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?


There was a young lady in the question, Marie.


A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I suppose you've made up all that out of your own head.


Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it signifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?


I don't care the least. The longer it's put off the better I shall like it;--that's all.


Because I'm so detestable?


No,--you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest.


You couldn't take any interest in me?


Not the least.


Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?


It's a castle, I know.


Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old.


I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too.


We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?


The year after next.


Nonsense, Marie.


To-morrow.


You wouldn't be ready.


You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,--kiss me; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;--I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,--John.


Have you been up with the ladies?


Oh yes.


And what does Marie say?


That you must fix the day.


We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet.


I wonder why you gave the dinner then.


My dear boy, as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition,--one way or the other.


I wish it could be the same way with me,


If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. I've had it very hard this time.


I suppose you are getting right now.


Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it.


Certainly I would not.


You see I've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in one or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter.


I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business,


You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!


I don't understand how it could be done.


Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to! That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,--according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?


Will they never go up again?


Oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that, you know, is settled.


By George! the world, must be coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung.


Dolly, do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte.


Mistaken! Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?


I don't believe it has been owing very long.


Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?


I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it.


Squercum says--


Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind.


I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte.


Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you.


The devil you will.


I will indeed.


That's out of the question, you know. How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery.


Since you will speak about it in this public way--


I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way,


I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer.


That's true enough, but it doesn't excuse Melmotte.


As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?


Eighty thousand, the whole.


Well,--eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds.


Why don't he do it then?


By George. I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again.


I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client,


I give up nothing and I assert nothing. Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last.


It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so.


Perhaps not, Mr. Squercum. We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons.


Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But then Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter.


How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?


Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But you see after such a declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in itself a little irregular perhaps--


I don't know that it's irregular at all.


Well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll just say that. What Mr. Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them--


Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that's between Mr. Longestaffe and us.


Just so;--but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr. Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know. And I think I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine.


I say nothing about it, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine.


My client's oath, Mr. Bideawhile.


I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does.


I don't know what you mean by that, Mr. Bideawhile. I fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr. Bideawhile.


I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say anything more.


Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter.


I won't admit even that, Mr. Squercum.


The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court.


If so you may be sure that we shall produce it.


Every rap will have been made over,


By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it,


Now, Mr. Longestaffe, perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter.


I don't think at all. Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory.


I never signed it,


Nobody says you did, sir. If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth.


But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr. Bideawhile says so.


No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that.


Nothing on earth would have made me sign it. Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life.


Now, Mr. Longestaffe, let us see where you put the letter.


There, the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle.


Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter. It's as plain as a pike-staff. It's clear enough to hang any man.


I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced. Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter.


He thought that I had signed it,


I am quite certain now. A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything.


I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury.


What I want to know is how we are to get the money. I should like to see him hung,--of course; but I'd sooner have the money. Squercum says--


Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr. Squercum says.


I don't know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn't be as good as what Mr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very aristocratic.


Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,


No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at present.


Nothing more. It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?


There is no doubt.


And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used. Whoever has done it, did it very well,


Of course Melmotte did it,


Gentlemen, perhaps you think that I am intruding at the present moment. I fear that you do think I am intruding, but I trust that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir, that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before.


The drawer was locked when I left it. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked.


Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it.


No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions,--but I left it locked and I found it open.


I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion, and that would be that somebody else had opened it.


This can answer no purpose at all,


It was but a chance remark. I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business. Mr. Bideawhile, I believe. If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients--


Squercum is my lawyer,


That will make no difference.


It makes a deal of difference,


I wrote, offering my bills at three and six months' date.


They couldn't be accepted, Mr. Melmotte.


I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused before.


You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte, that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became,--well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. You say you have another offer to make, Mr. Melmotte.


Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell, but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is the amount due to these two gentlemen,--ready for payment on Friday at noon.


I have taken no proceedings as yet,


It's Squercum,


Well, sir, let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But what Mr. Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should have been paid,--and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer.


I, on behalf of my client, will consent to wait till Friday at noon.


I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much,


I'll ask Squercum, you know,


Of course Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him,


I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than that. And upon my word, Mr. Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble.


Paul,


Ask himself.


Most affectionately your own Hetta


Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to you.


Paul, let me hear about all this--first.


And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle,


Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her.


Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think your brother is as well informed.


Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?


Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it. And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you.


I will believe anything that you will tell me.


If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle.


Is she a widow? I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her.


Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced.


Oh, Paul! And she is an American?


Yes.


And you loved her?


If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end.


Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her you must have loved her.


Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all.


Had she been divorced then? because I believe they get themselves divorced just when they like.


I could only know what she told me,


Did you give her up then?


I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me, for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you.


But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day.


It was on account of her health.


Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?


I did.


Was that for her--health?


Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?


I cannot understand why you deserted her at all. You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago.


It was nearly three weeks,


Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago.


No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then.


I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you.


She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you.


But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle.


She knows now that it is all over.


I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs. Hurtle.


You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!


I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs. Hurtle.


Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her.


Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me.


What does it matter?


Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier.


Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?


I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye.


Hetta!


No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague.


I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over,


Well; what has he said?


You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true. Enough of it was true,


What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me openly?


I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else.


Roger Carbury is very different.


Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to me that you do not understand in the least.


I say he is not like that.


Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like that.


I say that he can be trusted.


Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?


And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm.


Mamma, how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh, mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me to be more to Roger Carbury than I am now.


You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?


I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean.


That it is all over? Hetta, I have a right to ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague.


I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of.


But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--


I deny that,


And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that you will see him no more?


He understood that.


If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him.


Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly.


Is she here?


I will send for her. I have told her.


You haven't frightened her?


Why should I frighten her? It is not very easy to frighten her, Melmotte. She is changed since these young men have been so much about her.


I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her. Bid her come now.


Marie. I spoke to you the other day about some property which for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we were leaving Paris.


Yes, papa.


You were such a child then,--I mean when we left Paris,--that I could hardly explain to you the purpose of what I did.


I understood it, papa.


You had better listen to me, my dear. I don't think you did quite understand it. It would have been very odd if you had, as I never explained it to you.


You wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble.


I wanted to lay aside a large sum of money which should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercial enterprise.


So that nobody could get at it.


You are a little too quick, my dear.


Marie, why can't you let your papa speak?


But of course, my dear, I had no idea of putting the money beyond my own reach. Such a transaction is very common; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some one who is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he can put full confidence. And it is customary to choose a young person, as there will then be less danger of the accident of death. It was for these reasons, which I am sure that you will understand, that I chose you. Of course the property remained exclusively my own.


But it is really mine,


No, miss; it was never yours. How could it become yours, Marie? Did I ever make you a gift of it?


But I know that it did become mine,--legally.


By a quibble of law,--yes; but not so as to give you any right to it. I always draw the income.


But I could stop that, papa,--and if I were married, of course it would be stopped.


As we are thinking of your marriage, it is necessary that a change should be made. Settlements must be drawn for the satisfaction of Lord Nidderdale and his father. The old Marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendid that I have consented. You must now sign these papers in four or five places. Mr. Croll is here, in the next room, to witness your signature, and I will call him.


Wait a moment, papa.


Why should we wait?


I don't think I will sign them.


Why not sign them? You can't really suppose that the property is your own. You could not even get it if you did think so.


I don't know how that may be; but I had rather not sign them. If I am to be married, I ought not to sign anything except what he tells me.


He has no authority over you yet. I have authority over you. Marie, do not give more trouble. I am very much pressed for time. Let me call in Mr. Croll.


No, papa,


I am sure, Marie, that you will not refuse to do this when I explain to you its importance to me. I must have that property for use in the city to-morrow, or--I shall be ruined.


Oh!


It is true. These harpies have so beset me about the election that they have lowered the price of every stock in which I am concerned, and have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they cannot be sold at all. I don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but on this occasion I cannot help it. The sum locked up here is very large, and I am compelled to use it. In point of fact it is necessary to save us from destruction.


But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to be married,


I think you misunderstood me, Marie. I meant you to understand that settlements must be made, and that of course I must get my own property back into my own hands before anything of that kind can be done. I tell you once more, my dear, that if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use that property the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. Everything will be gone.


This can't be gone,


Marie,--do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined? I have done a great deal for you.


You turned away the only person I ever cared for,


Marie, how can you be so wicked? Do as your papa bids you,


She does not care who is ruined, because we saved her from that reprobate.


She will sign them now,


No; No;--I will not sign them.


No;--I will not sign them. If I am to be married to Lord Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing without telling him. And if the property was once made to be mine, I don't think I ought to give it up again because papa says that he is going to be ruined. I think that's a reason for not giving it up again.


If I am to be married to Lord Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing without telling him. And if the property was once made to be mine, I don't think I ought to give it up again because papa says that he is going to be ruined. I think that's a reason for not giving it up again.


It isn't yours to give. It's mine,


Then you can do what you like with it without my signing,


Marie, will you do this to save your father from destruction?


will you do this now,--to save us all from ruin?


No; I don't think I ought,--and I won't.


You won't! Do you mean that you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at the moment you can destroy him by your wickedness?


Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet.


Marie!


Will you sign them now? Oh, Mr. Melmotte, vat is de matter? Marie. Pig! wicked, ungrateful pig.


Ah, Ma'am-moiselle, you should oblige your fader.


Wretched, wicked girl!


I wish he had killed me,


He knows that the game is pretty well over. You had better return to the city now. I shall follow you in half an hour. It is quite possible that I may bring my daughter with me. If I can make her understand this thing I shall do so. In that case I shall want you to be ready.


Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard,


What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to bear them.


You can do nothing for me.


Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you choose to read them? What do you expect?


You know, papa, that's nonsense.


How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?


Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what's to be the end of it? Sophia, I suppose, is going to be married.


I am happy to say she is,--to a most respectable young man and a thorough gentleman.


And Dolly has his own way of going on.


You have nothing to do with Adolphus.


Nor will he have anything to do with me. If I don't marry what's to become of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should choose.


Do not mention his name to me.


But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I to see people? It was you sent me to Mr. Melmotte.


I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte.


It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could only see the people he had there. I like nice people as well as anybody.


There's no use talking any more about it.


I don't see that. I must talk about it, and think about it too. If I can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should complain.


A Jew!


People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in--


Look here, if you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you shall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. It is disgusting,--degrading,--disgraceful!


Oh, Georgey, this is wonderful news!


I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be married except yourself.


No;--but such a very odd match!


Look here, Sophia. If you don't like it, you need not talk about it. We shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't like to come to us, you needn't. That's about all.


George wouldn't let me go there at all,


Then--George--had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma? I should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a word to me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like this.


Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up and in her own room. You mustn't be surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up about this.


So I've come back,


Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana! This is dreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it from you.


What is the good of all that, mamma?


It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worse than your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bible against it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going to do this.


Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,--and she goes everywhere.


What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he's fixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think of that, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise.


Mamma, that's nonsense.


Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they have been able to sit in Parliament.


One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew,


Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but what they are. I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him.


Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not trouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the moon.


He has always been in county society, and was staying only the other day at Lord Cantab's.


Then there were two fools together,


Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert,--I can't bear to have his name mentioned in my hearing.


Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't be mentioned again by me.


Poor mamma is very ill,


I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this. I'll go away somewhere.


How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing. Of course you must have known that you were going to separate yourself from us. Mamma, thinks you ought to know how Dolly feels about it.


Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought to lock her up.


How can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what Dolly says? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought it worth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after that I must say that I don't much care what papa does.


I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else,


As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are about the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world.


Of course we all know, Georgiana, that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercial classes, and especially among a certain sort.


I've done with you all. I'll have nothing more to do with any one of you.


Well! to send a pottle of gooseberries to his lady love across the country! Who but George Whitstable would do that?


I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold. I don't suppose that Mr. Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is. I suppose that's from Mr. Brehgert,


I don't think it matters much to you who it's from.


MY DEAR GEORGIANA. Your father came to me the day after I was to have met you at Lady Monogram's party. I told him then that I would not write to you till I had taken a day or two to consider what he said to me;--and also that I thought it better that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to you. He has now repeated what he said at our first interview, almost with more violence; for I must say that I think he has allowed himself to be violent when it was surely unnecessary. The long and short of it is this. He altogether disapproves of your promise to marry me. He has given three reasons;--first that I am in trade; secondly that I am much older than you, and have a family; and thirdly that I am a Jew. In regard to the first I can hardly think that he is earnest. I have explained to him that my business is that of a banker; and I can hardly conceive it to be possible that any gentleman in England should object to his daughter marrying a banker, simply because the man is a banker. There would be a blindness of arrogance in such a proposition of which I think your father to be incapable. This has merely been added in to strengthen his other objections. As to my age, it is just fifty-one. I do not at all think myself too old to be married again. Whether I am too old for you is for you to judge,--as is also that question of my children who, of course, should you become my wife will be to some extent a care upon your shoulders. As this is all very serious you will not, I hope, think me wanting in gallantry if I say that I should hardly have ventured to address you if you had been quite a young girl. No doubt there are many years between us;--and so I think there should be. A man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman of the same standing as himself. But the question is one for the lady to decide,--and you must decide it now. As to my religion, I acknowledge the force of what your father says,--though I think that a gentleman brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in language less likely to give offence. However I am a man not easily offended; and on this occasion I am ready to take what he has said in good part. I can easily conceive that there should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in religion. I am indifferent to it myself. I shall not interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, I suppose, will you with me. Should you have a daughter or daughters I am quite willing that they should be brought up subject to your influence. But no doubt your father objects to me specially because I am a Jew. If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on the subject of religion. On this matter as well as on others it seems to me that your father has hardly kept pace with the movements of the age. Fifty years ago whatever claim a Jew might have to be as well considered as a Christian, he certainly was not so considered. Society was closed against him, except under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high position. But that has been altered. Your father does not admit the change; but I think he is blind to it, because he does not wish to see. I say all this more as defending myself than as combating his views with you. It must be for you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern you. He has told me, after a rather peremptory fashion, that I have behaved badly to him and to his family because I did not go to him in the first instance when I thought of obtaining the honour of an alliance with his daughter. I have been obliged to tell him that in this matter I disagree with him entirely, though in so telling him I endeavoured to restrain myself from any appearance of warmth. I had not the pleasure of meeting you in his house, nor had I any acquaintance with him. And again, at the risk of being thought uncourteous, I must say that you are to a certain degree emancipated by age from that positive subordination to which a few years ago you probably submitted without a question. If a gentleman meets a lady in society, as I met you in the home of our friend Mr. Melmotte, I do not think that the gentleman is to be debarred from expressing his feelings because the lady may possibly have a parent. Your father, no doubt with propriety, had left you to be the guardian of yourself, and I cannot submit to be accused of improper conduct because, finding you in that condition, I availed myself of it. And now, having said so much, I must leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself. I beg you to understand that I do not at all wish to hold you to a promise merely because the promise has been given. I readily acknowledge that the opinion of your family should be considered by you, though I will not admit that I was bound to consult that opinion before I spoke to you. It may well be that your regard for me or your appreciation of the comforts with which I may be able to surround you, will not suffice to reconcile you to such a breach from your own family as your father, with much repetition, has assured me will be inevitable. Take a day or two to think of this and turn it well over in your mind. When I last had the happiness of speaking to you, you seemed to think that your parents might raise objections, but that those objections would give way before an expression of your own wishes. I was flattered by your so thinking; but, if I may form any judgment from your father's manner, I must suppose that you were mistaken. You will understand that I do not say this as any reproach to you. Quite the contrary. I think your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that he should be so. As to my own feelings they remain exactly as they were when I endeavoured to explain them to you. Though I do not find myself to be too old to marry, I do think myself too old to write love letters. I have no doubt you believe me when I say that I entertain a most sincere affection for you; and I beseech you to believe me in saying further that should you become my wife it shall be the study of my life to make you happy. It is essentially necessary that I should allude to one other matter, as to which I have already told your father what I will now tell you. I think it probable that within this week I shall find myself a loser of a very large sum of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad treatment of me I will the more readily forgive because he was the means of making me known to you. This you must understand is private between you and me, though I have thought it proper to inform your father. Such loss, if it fall upon me, will not interfere in the least with the income which I have proposed to settle upon you for your use after my death; and, as your father declares that in the event of your marrying me he will neither give to you nor bequeath to you a shilling, he might have abstained from telling me to my face that I was a bankrupt merchant when I myself told him of my loss. I am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to become so. Nor will this loss at all interfere with my present mode of living. But I have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if it occur,--as I think it will,--I shall not deem it right to keep a second establishment probably for the next two or three years. But my house at Fulham and my stables there will be kept up just as they are at present. I have now told you everything which I think it is necessary you should know, in order that you may determine either to adhere to or to recede from your engagement. When you have resolved you will let me know,--but a day or two may probably be necessary for your decision. I hope I need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a happy man. I am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend. EZEKIEL BREHGERT.


Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?


In what way, my dear?


Well;--I suppose he must have some plan.


You must explain yourself. I don't know why he should have any particular plan.


Will he go to London next year?


That will depend upon money, I suppose. What makes you ask?


Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced. Everybody must see that. I'm sure you do, mamma. The long and the short of it is this;--if I give up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a year?


Why should he?


You can't suppose that I should be very comfortable in England. If we are to remain here at Caversham, how am I to hope ever to get settled?


Sophy is doing very well.


Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;--thank God. I don't mean but what Sophy may be very happy, and I am sure that I hope she will. But that won't do me any good. I should be very unhappy here.


I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going abroad, and I don't see why your papa is to be taken away from his own home. He likes Caversham.


Then I am to be sacrificed on every side,


Mamma, as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken off everything with Mr. Brehgert.


Of course it must be broken off. Have you heard from the man?


I have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all settled. I thought that you would have said something kind to me.


It was so dreadful, --so very dreadful. I never heard of anything so bad. When young what's-his-name married the tallow-chandler's daughter I thought it would have killed me if it had been Dolly; but this was worse than that. Her father was a methodist.


They had neither of them a shilling of money,


And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. But it's all over?


Yes, mamma.


And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget it. It has been very hard upon George Whitstable, because of course everybody has known it through the county. I once thought he would have been off, and I really don't know that we could have said anything. It's all over between Georgiana and the--man,


I knew it would be,


Of course it could never have really taken place,


And now I beg that nothing more may be said about it. I suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?


You must send him back his watch and chain, Georgey,


What business is that of yours?


Of course she must. Her papa would not let her keep it.


You come down to Bungay, and I'll show you how we live there.


You see, she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman.


But I wasn't;--not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the wuss.


You let her alone for a time. A little neglect will do her good.


Maybe, only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'll let her have her wittles regular, Mrs. Pipkin.


any hextras,


I thought as he was in prison,


What should they keep him in prison for? He hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was dragging you about as far as I can make out, and Mr. Crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't going to keep him in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be in prison.


And where is he now, aunt?


Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here any more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby.


John Crumb 'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him encouragement. If I'd hold up my finger he'd come.


Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you go about your work.


I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his head,


Ruby, you know, this must come to an end now.


What must come to an end?


You can't stay here always, you know.


I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages.


I can't do with more than one girl,--and there's the keep if there isn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't have you back there; that's certain.


I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so.


But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here always,--nor I couldn't have you. You must go into service.


I don't know anybody as 'd have me,


You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say as nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give you a character;--only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask much wages just at first. It has got to be done sooner or later, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon.


You're going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin.


Well;--if that's turning out, I am. You see you never would be said by me as though I was mistress. You would go out with that rapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for you. You've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it. You must earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover and with your grandfather.


Because, you know, she must stay here really, till Mr. Crumb comes and takes her away.


baggage soft


I hope you like your place, Ruby,


Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you ever see, Mrs. Hurtle.


Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones.


And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross.


It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?


I don't know as I've done anything out of the way.


Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a young man and then to throw him over? All this has come because you wouldn't keep your word to Mr. Crumb. Only for that your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house.


He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my head.