But he won't. Why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil cursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself now not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I should care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look here;--will you have this back?


If you wish it I will,--of course,


I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing on earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another man,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I live it shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect for the proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman. Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself because you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love you,--oh, with my very heart of hearts. For one moment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here. Oh, Paul, my love;--my love!


There, there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you must forgive me.


No;--but you cut me to the heart.


That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment. Yours will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr. Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me again. Indeed it will be better that you should not. Good-bye. No, sir; no; not again; never again, never,--never,--never again. Good-bye, Paul;--and now go.


They do tell bad things about them Americans, and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I only wish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost. She had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating pudding just as if they was her own.


She's her father's own daughter,


Ah; yees, but bigger. He vas passionate, and did lose his 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness. 'E bursted himself, Mr. Fisker. 'E vas a great man; but the greater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'E ate so much that he became too fat to see to eat his vittels. But Ma'me'selle,--ah, she is different. She vill never eat too moch, but vill see to eat alvays.


My dear, are you going to be married to Mr. Fisker?


What makes you ask that?


It is so important I should know. Where am I to live? What am I to do? What money shall I have? Who will be a friend to me? A woman ought to know. You will marry Fisker if you like him. Why cannot you tell me?


Because I do not know. When I know I will tell you. If you go on asking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more.


I have got excellent berths,


I am to be alone?


Oh, yes. There is a cabin for Madame Melmotte and the maid, and a cabin for you. Everything will be comfortable. And there is another lady going,--Mrs. Hurtle,--whom I think you will like.


Has she a husband?


Not going with us,


But she has one?


Well, yes;--but you had better not mention him. He is not exactly all that a husband should be.


Did she not come over here to marry some one else?


There is a story, and I dare say I shall tell you all about it some day. But you may be sure I should not ask you to associate with any one you ought not to know.


Oh,--I can take care of myself.


No doubt, Miss Melmotte,--no doubt. I feel that quite strongly. But what I meant to observe was this,--that I certainly should not introduce a lady whom I aspire to make my own lady to any lady whom a lady oughtn't to know. I hope I make myself understood, Miss Melmotte.


Oh, quite.


And perhaps I may go on to say that if I could go on board that ship as your accepted lover, I could do a deal more to make you comfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere friend, Miss Melmotte. You can't doubt my heart.


I don't see why I shouldn't. Gentlemen's hearts are things very much to be doubted as far as I've seen 'em. I don't think many of 'em have 'em at all.


Miss Melmotte, you do not know the glorious west. Your past experiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold country in which passion is no longer allowed to sway. On those golden shores which the Pacific washes man is still true,--and woman is still tender.


Perhaps I'd better wait and see, Mr. Fisker.


And then, the laws regulating woman's property there are just the reverse of those which the greediness of man has established here. The wife there can claim her share of her husband's property, but hers is exclusively her own. America is certainly the country for women,--and especially California.


Ah;--I shall find out all about it, I suppose, when I've been there a few months.


But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such much better auspices,--if I may be allowed to say so,--as a married lady or as a lady just going to be married.


Ain't single ladies much thought of in California?


It isn't that. Come, Miss Melmotte, you know what I mean.


Yes, I do.


Let us go in for life together. We've both done uncommon well. I'm spending 30,000 dollars a year,--at that rate,--in my own house. You'll see it all. If we put them both together,--what's yours and what's mine,--we can put our foot out as far as about any one there, I guess.


I don't know that I care about putting my foot out. I've seen something of that already, Mr. Fisker. You shouldn't put your foot out farther than you can draw it in again.


You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte. I shouldn't be able to touch a dollar of your money. It would be such a triumph to go into Francisco as man and wife.


I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a while and looked about me.


And seen the house! Well;--there's something in that. The house is all there, I can tell you. I'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like the house. But if we were engaged, I could do every thing for you. Where would you be, going into San Francisco all alone? Oh, Miss Melmotte, I do admire you so much!


I'll tell you how it must be then,


How shall it be?


Not like that, Mr. Fisker. It shall be in this way. You may consider yourself engaged to me.


I'm the happiest man on this continent,


But if I find when I get to Francisco anything to induce me to change my mind, I shall change it. I like you very well, but I'm not going to take a leap in the dark, and I'm not going to marry a pig in a poke.


There you're quite right, quite right.


You may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and I'll tell Madame Melmotte the same. She and Croll don't mean going any farther than New York.


We needn't break our hearts about that;--need we?


It don't much signify. Well;--I'll go on with Mrs. Hurtle, if she'll have me.


Too much delighted she'll be.


And she shall be told we're engaged.


My darling!


But if I don't like it when I get to Frisco, as you call it, all the ropes in California shan't make me do it. Well;--yes; you may give me a kiss I suppose now if you care about it.


What is to be the end of it then? Do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?


Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid things.


It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself compelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can he do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?


If he could only be married!


Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?


He is so handsome.


What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He has agreed to go;--let him go. Your mother, has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make you go to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so.


I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune.


No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so. You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take her advice £175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in England not a shilling further will be paid.


It will be just enough to bring him home,


It will be gone, long before they reach their destination.


Then why the deuce should you give it him? I wouldn't write another novel if I were you,


I don't think you'd find it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great many others. But then that is saying so little!


I thought I could make some money.


I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I don't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else.


It is so very hard to get paid for what one does.


I shall give up this house. I can't afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now.


I don't see why you should say that.


What does it matter?


You wouldn't think of going out of London.


Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest.


I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you,


So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to.


I want you,


Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?


When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours.


Well, what do you think of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son.


That was the reason,


But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will accept me.


You can hardly have thought of it enough,


I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for six months at least.


There is so much against me.


What is there against you?


They say bad things of me in India.


I know all about that,


And Felix!


I think I may say that I know all about that also.


And then I have become so poor!


I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily for me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I should do so.


And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to give to me.


Yourself,


I don't know what you mean to live on. I don't see anything like an income, but I suppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himself now it seems.


As to settling your property on her or her children, it is quite out of the question. Your lawyer would not allow you to do it. Where would you be if after all you were to marry?


I shall never marry.


Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked.


I think you hardly understand just what I feel, and I know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir.


But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes.


I do not believe it in the least, my lord,


That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' The world, I take it, thinks that the fool was right. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gav'st thy golden one away.


I hope all our troubles are over now,


You mean about Felix, and mamma?


No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and Mr. Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself, I hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to Felix and your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself.


I hope that you will never have any troubles.


I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear. I was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--when I was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should have known that I was too old to have a chance.


Oh, Roger,--it was not that.


Well,--that and other things. I should have known it sooner, and have got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly and stronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainly marked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is done now. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I look forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there. That is what I wanted to say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all,--except your husband.


There is no teaching necessary for that,


As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta. You will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish.


You never were foolish.


Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me this. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence.


We have no plans as yet at all, Roger.


Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?


What will mamma say?


She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard as settled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your home really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position.


Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that.


But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mind is quite made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you,--and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr. Montague.


Pray,--pray do not call him Mr. Montague.


Well, I will not;--to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger. There goes the last of my anger. I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter. It is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble.


But Felix, Roger!


To a sister. I will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. The disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded. I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that.


John, what a fool you are!


Yes, I be, but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you.


No, John; it was I was the fool then,


We'll see about that when the bairn's born,