DEAR FRIEND,-- I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only would aid from you help me more than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII. and his sinful but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband. But I must not take up your time by sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving. Yours gratefully and faithfully, MATILDA CARBURY. After all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?


Mr. Broune, how foolish, how wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!


Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that.


Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my daughter,--both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--so much suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as you do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten.


You know that for worlds I would not offend you,


Confound them all, no amount of experience enables a man to know them.


DEAR MR. BOOKER,-- I have told Mr. Leadham--[Mr. Leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs. Leadham and Loiter]--to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend Mr. Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold. Yours sincerely, MATILDA CARBURY.


Bad; of course it is bad. Who doubts that? How many very bad things are there that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong enough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are.


Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground influences to get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker, but I have heard of no one who has extended the good nature to the length of reading his poetry. Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the reputation of popular authorship without adding a word to the literature of their country worthy of note? It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as myself. Much as I hate the thing from my very soul, and much as I admire the consistency with which the "Pulpit" has opposed it, I myself am so much in want of support for my own little efforts, and am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity offered to me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low things, in order that I might one day have the pride of feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing for the needs of my children. But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards; and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, to anything which may appear in the "Pulpit" respecting my "Criminal Queens." I venture to think that the book,--though I wrote it myself,--has an importance of its own which will secure for it some notice. That my inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged I do not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will be able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the portraits well considered. You will not hear me told, at any rate, that I had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor unfortunate Mrs. Effington Stubbs. I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or the week following. And pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile.


My dear boy, pray leave your tobacco below when you come in here.


What affectation it is, mother. Some women swear they like smoke, others say they hate it like the devil. It depends altogether on whether they wish to flatter or snub a fellow.


You don't suppose that I wish to snub you?


Upon my word I don't know. I wonder whether you can let me have twenty pounds?


My dear Felix!


Just so, mother;--but how about the twenty pounds?


What is it for, Felix?


Well;--to tell the truth, to carry on the game for the nonce till something is settled. A fellow can't live without some money in his pocket. I do with as little as most fellows. I pay for nothing that I can help. I even get my hair cut on credit, and as long as it was possible I had a brougham, to save cabs.


What is to be the end of it, Felix?


I never could see the end of anything, mother. I never could nurse a horse when the hounds were going well in order to be in at the finish. I never could pass a dish that I liked in favour of those that were to follow. What's the use?


Have you been at the Melmottes' to-day?


I have just come away.


And what do you think of her?


To tell the truth, mother, I have thought very little about her. She is not pretty, she is not plain; she is not clever, she is not stupid; she is neither saint nor sinner.


The more likely to make a good wife.


Perhaps so. I am at any rate quite willing to believe that as wife she would be 'good enough for me.'


What does the mother say?


The mother is a caution. I cannot help speculating whether, if I marry the daughter, I shall ever find out where the mother came from. Dolly Longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a Bohemian Jewess; but I think she's too fat for that.


What does it matter, Felix?


Not in the least.


Is she civil to you?


Yes, civil enough.


And the father?


Well, he does not turn me out, or anything of that sort. Of course there are half-a-dozen after her, and I think the old fellow is bewildered among them all. He's thinking more of getting dukes to dine with him than of his daughter's lovers. Any fellow might pick her up who happened to hit her fancy.


And why not you?


Why not, mother? I am doing my best, and it's no good flogging a willing horse. Can you let me have the money?


Oh, Felix, I think you hardly know how poor we are. You have still got your hunters down at the place!


I have got two horses, if you mean that; and I haven't paid a shilling for their keep since the season began. Look here, mother; this is a risky sort of game, I grant, but I am playing it by your advice. If I can marry Miss Melmotte, I suppose all will be right. But I don't think the way to get her would be to throw up everything and let all the world know that I haven't got a copper. To do that kind of thing a man must live a little up to the mark. I've brought my hunting down to a minimum, but if I gave it up altogether there would be lots of fellows to tell them in Grosvenor Square why I had done so.


Going to dine here, Dolly?


I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhere else. I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to getting home and dressing. By George! I don't know how fellows do that kind of thing. I can't.


Going to hunt to-morrow?


Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall. I was going to hunt every day last week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. I can't tell why it is that things are done in such a beastly way. Why shouldn't fellows begin to hunt at two or three, so that a fellow needn't get up in the middle of the night?


Because one can't ride by moonlight, Dolly.


It isn't moonlight at three. At any rate I can't get myself to Euston Square by nine. I don't think that fellow of mine likes getting up himself. He says he comes in and wakes me, but I never remember it.


How many horses have you got at Leighton, Dolly?


How many? There were five, but I think that fellow down there sold one; but then I think he bought another. I know he did something.


Who rides them?


He does, I suppose. That is, of course, I ride them myself, only I so seldom get down. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two of them last week. I don't think I ever told him he might. I think he tipped that fellow of mine; and I call that a low kind of thing to do. I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that I had lent them. Perhaps I did when I was tight, you know.


You and Grasslough were never pals.


I don't like him a bit. He gives himself airs because he is a lord, and is devilish ill-natured. I don't know why he should want to ride my horses.


To save his own.


He isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell you what, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I'll stick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows want horses let them buy them.


But some fellows haven't got any money, Dolly.


Then they ought to go tick. I don't think I've paid for any of mine I've bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday--


What! here at the club?


Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! It was horses, I think, because of the fellow's trousers.


What did you say?


Me! Oh, I didn't say anything.


And how did it end?


When he'd done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was biting off the end I went up-stairs. I suppose he went away when he was tired of waiting.


I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours for a couple of days,--that is, of course, if you don't want them yourself. You ain't tight now, at any rate.


No; I ain't tight,


I mean that I wouldn't like to borrow your horses without your remembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfully done up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeeze in the meantime. There's nobody I'd ask such a favour of except you.


Well, you may have them;--that is, for two days. I don't know whether that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe Grasslough, and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the stables. That's what somebody told me.


You could write a line to your groom.


Oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could do that. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. I think I'll have a little drop of curaçoa before dinner. Come along and try it. It'll give us an appetite.


I'm going to hunt to-morrow, and I shall play no more. A man must go to bed at some time.


I don't see it at all. It's an understood thing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay.


Stay how long? That's nonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of this for me to-night.


Oh, if you choose,


I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we'll settle this next time we meet. I've got it all entered.


You are willing to trust your only child to him,


It's to cost sixty thousand pounds,


And worse spent money never was wasted,


By all accounts it was as badly come by,


Of course they are vulgar, so much so as to be no longer distasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose. It's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about Alfred's children? Miles is to have £500 a-year. And then he is always about the house. And between you and me they have got up those bills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suits your uncle to pay them.


They will lie there a long time,


Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl once.


Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred,


It is the first great ball I ever was at in London,


And how do you like it?


Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing.


Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. If you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?


I have danced with you,--twice already.


Is there any law against dancing three times?


But I don't especially want to dance. I think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her.


How well you dance,


Do I? I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself.


I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end.


Ah,--but you don't know.


I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world.


What is that?


Somebody that liked you best in all the world.


Ah,--yes; if one knew who?


How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?


That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out.


And if a gentleman told you so?


I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself.


So should I.


Have you no particular friend?


I mean a girl whom I could love,--oh, ten times better than myself.


Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix,


I wonder whether that will come to anything?


You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, Mr. Montague.


It would be a magnificent chance for him.


To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? He can't care for her really,--because she is rich.


But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress.


What a dreadful thing to say!


But isn't it true? He has beggared himself.


Oh, Mr. Montague.


And he will beggar you and your mother.


I don't care about myself.


Others do though.


I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix.


I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had £20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the world.


You here?


Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers.


I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you.


I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!


Do they?


And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes since. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?


I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest.


I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance.


Do you mean to give it then?


I am giving it them.


Ah;--but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.' Do you mean to give them that?


Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers.


Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?


We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!


Poor Prince!


Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?


Bless my soul;--his Royal Highness come and gone!


You and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away,


Have another rubber, Alfred?


Damn that kind of nonsense,


Marie had behaved well, but had certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men.


You know who it is, likes you better than any one else in the world.


Nobody does;--don't, Sir Felix.


I do. It's weary work,


What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?


It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I go home.


It is two o'clock, Felix,


I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps; I had none.


Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?


I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night.


Do you think he gambles?


He has got no money, mamma.


I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles everything is lost.


I suppose they all do play,--more or less.


I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey me. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger.


He has been so long his own master, mamma.


Yes,--his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague.


No, mamma;--that is unjust.


He was always with you.


I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice. If you did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there.


I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want. I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London,


Is it my fault, mamma?


You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself,--nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment.


I think of you, mamma.


If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man.


No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin very much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma.


I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night,


Certainly,--only one thing,


What one thing?


I think these things should be squared before we play any more!


What do you mean by that? Do you mean to hint anything?


I never hint anything, my Grassy. I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But I'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your revenge to-night.


That's all right,


I was speaking to Lord Grasslough. He is an old friend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night, Mr. Grendall.


Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?


And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again.


A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to,


Dear cousin Roger, that Carbury Hall was very dull.


I've got to tell you something, Paul.


Anything serious?


Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own life can approach it in importance. I have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta,


Miss Carbury?


Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refused me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life to me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy.


Why did you not tell me before? I also loved Henrietta Carbury. No;--he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger Carbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on that very day had not Roger spoken to him.


You have neither of you a shilling in the world, and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it.


I have a right to speak to Miss Carbury. I do not suppose that Miss Carbury cared a straw about me. I had not the least reason to think that she did. It was altogether impossible. That chance was all the world to me. As to money,--I would not admit that I was a pauper, and, moreover, I might earn an income as well as other men. Had Carbury told him that the young lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, Carbury's, addresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene.


God bless you, old fellow,


If she won't take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try.


Where is he now, Lady Carbury;--at this moment?


I think he's out with the Baron.


How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for them?


Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do to prevent it?


I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he continues in such courses.


My own son!


Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed to ruin you, and Hetta? It can't go on long.


You wouldn't have me throw him over.


I think he is throwing you over. And then it is so thoroughly dishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on from day to day. I suppose you don't supply him with ready money.


He has had a little.


I can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money. The kind of life that he is leading requires a large income of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with all I have in the world I could not do it myself.


You are so different.


I am older of course,--very much older. But he is not so young that he should not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you give him?


I think he has been playing.


That is the way to lose money,--not to get it,


I suppose somebody wins,--sometimes.


They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would sooner that he were a fool than a knave.


O Roger, you are so severe!


You say he plays. How would he pay, were he to lose?


I know nothing about it. I don't even know that he does play; but I have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at his command. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of hours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and did not wake him. There were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever so much.


Why did you not take them?


What; rob my own boy?


When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay your own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?


Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were papers there;--I. O. U.'s, signed by other men.


You looked at them.


I saw as much as that. It is not that I am curious, but one does feel about one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A groom came here and said something about it to the servants.


Oh dear;--oh dear!


If you could only induce him to stop the gambling! Of course it is very bad whether he wins or loses,--though I am sure that Felix would do nothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for, to tell the truth, I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can say that I spend it on myself.


If he be a man he would sooner break stones than live on you. Young men who gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily found. Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?


Certainly;--why not? She is at home now, I think.


I will wait till to-morrow,--when I call to see Felix. I should like her to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. He was here, I suppose?


Yes;--he called.


Was that all you saw of him?


He was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him;--and we were there. Has he gone down to Carbury?


No;--not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners at Liverpool. There is another case of a young man without anything to do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix.


Don't be too hard upon poor Felix,


What the Devil's the use of it?


If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room.


But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he has got to say just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons to good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain't good.


Why shouldn't you be good?


I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. I can play my hand better than he can play it for me. If you'll go now I'll get up.


I was going to your mother's house on purpose to see you,


Were you indeed? I am so sorry. I have an engagement out here with a fellow which I must keep. I could meet you at any other time, you know.


You can come back for ten minutes,


Well;--not conveniently at this moment.


You must manage it. I am here at your mother's request, and can't afford to remain in town day after day looking for you. I go down to Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along.


Your mother tells me, that you still keep hunters.


I don't know what she calls hunters. I have one that I didn't part with when the others went.


You have only one horse?


Well;--if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the horse I ride.


And another up here in town?


Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying at some stables which has been sent for me to look at.


Who pays for all these horses?


At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them.


No;--you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in asking your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to other friends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her.


That isn't true. I have money of my own.


Where did you get it?


This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can pay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, and you needn't frighten yourself.


Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when you have money not pay it back to her?


She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that.


I mean that, and a good deal more than that. I suppose you have been gambling.


I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I won't do it. If you have nothing else to say, I'll go about my own business.


I have something else to say, and I mean to say it.


I am not going to be kept here against my will,


You have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still. Do you wish to be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?


Oh,--go on.


That is what it will be. You have spent every shilling of your own,--and because your mother is affectionate and weak, you are now spending all that she has, and are bringing her and your sister to beggary.


I don't ask them to pay anything for me.


Not when you borrow her money?


There is the £20. Take it and give it her. When I asked her for it, I did not think she would make such a row about such a trifle. Now, have you done?


Not quite. Do you purpose that your mother should keep you and clothe you for the rest of your life?


I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much better than it has ever been done before. The truth is, Roger, you know nothing about it. If you'll leave me to myself, you'll find that I shall do very well.


I don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less moral conception of what is right and wrong.


Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't all think alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go.


You will ruin your sister, and break your mother's heart,


I knew he would give it me back, if he had it,


Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?


I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he got it by--playing?


No,--he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. You may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling. How else should he have it? And you may take it for granted also that he will lose all that he has got. He talked in the wildest way,--saying that he would soon have a home for you and Hetta.


Did he;--dear boy!


Had he any meaning?


Oh; yes. And it is quite on the cards that it should be so. You have heard of Miss Melmotte.


I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here, and who is buying his way into society.


Everybody visits them now, Roger.


More shame for everybody. Who knows anything about him,--except that he left Paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue? But what of him?


Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is handsome; isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? They say she'll have half a million of money.


That's his game;--is it?


Don't you think he is right?


No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree with each other about that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?


Have you seen Felix?


Yes. I caught him in the street.


We are so unhappy about him.


I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly.


Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on.


Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on.


What can mamma do?


Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf.


What would Felix do in the country?


If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler.


Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!


It seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of such importance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence over your mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family.


I am sure you are.


Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over.


You would not ask me to throw him over.


But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already been taken into the house of that man Melmotte.


I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind,


Pardon me if I seem to interfere.


Oh, no;--it is no interference from you.


Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man. Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply because there is a rich daughter.


Everybody goes there, Mr. Carbury.


Yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place to which we are told that a great many are going, simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own? I admit there is one reason here. They have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves her. After what you have heard, are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?


I don't know.


I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A social connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable.


Felix, has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he may frequent. But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's.


I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not taken where I ought not to be taken.


I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you.


I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not.


I am old-fashioned, Hetta.


And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it is so. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you can change us now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other.


I have thought that you and I were,--or possibly might be fit for each other.


Oh,--as for me, I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that is contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than any one else.


I have always thought that you were better than any one else.


That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have altered your opinion now. Indeed, you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr. Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours.


For myself. I have only one wish in the world; and that is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When I spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of myself?


Oh no;--how should I?


I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an elder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even were you in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--it would be the same. I love you so well that I have already taken you for better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn for such changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me? Do you understand how much I am in need of comfort?


You can do very well without comfort from me.


No, indeed. I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well. As it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you.


I suppose you mean something.


I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That is it. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to some one else.


What can I say, Mr. Carbury?


That you will love me.


But if I don't?


Say that you will try.


No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. I don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing.


It would not be terrible to me, dear.


Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes.


I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this,--that if you promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?


I suppose I may promise that,


There is no one as yet?


There is no one. But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me. I don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so much. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any one.


Are you angry with me?


No.


If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly.


I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman. I don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody all that happens.


Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me. Good-bye now. When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress.


There is no chance.


I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, and may God bless you.


You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done.


But I didn't even speak to him,


In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you in introducing me. We are not going to ask your friend to do us a favour. We don't want to borrow money.


I thought you did.


If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing then. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars out of it. If he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in San Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game and has got the pluck. A man who has done what he has by financing in Europe,--by George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger people than any of you and have more room. We go after bigger things, and don't stand shilly-shally on the brink as you do. But Melmotte pretty nigh beats the best among us. Anyway he should come and try his luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer thing than this. He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half an hour.


Mr. Fisker, as we are partners, I think I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr. Melmotte's honesty.


There is always a want of charity, when a man is successful.


If you could realise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway,


What has become of the mill?


We have put an agent into it.


Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?


He pays us a fixed sum, sir. But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of.


You haven't sold it?


Well;--no. But we've arranged a price for a sale.


You haven't taken the money for it?


Well;--yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed.


And about my own income?


That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an office open already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz.


Where's the money to come from?


Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from in all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves.


Six hundred thousand pounds!


We take them at par, of course,--and as we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now.


I don't know the man.


Never mind. Look here--I'll write it, and you can sign it.


But I have never said that I would superintend the interests,


You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John Bull Englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as should serve to make an additional fortune.


I don't seem to remember, the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you.


I dare say not, Mr. Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco, I make acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't remember afterwards. My partner I think told me that he went to your house with his friend, Sir Felix Carbury.


I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury.


That's it. I could have got any amount of introductions to you if I had thought this would not have sufficed. Our account here in London is kept with the City and West End Joint Stock. But I have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming to London is to see you, and as I met my partner, Mr. Montague, in Liverpool, I took a note from him and came on straight.


And what can I do for you, Mr. Fisker?


You seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own country,


There's not a doubt about getting it all taken up there. Our folk, sir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want me to teach you, Mr. Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like competition. When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that the thing is alive in London, they'll be alive there. And it's the same here, sir. When they know that the stock is running like wildfire in America, they'll make it run here too.


How far have you got?


What we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the line from the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the stations to be twenty-five miles apart.


And the land is to be made over to you,--when?


When we have made the line up to the station.


And what do you want me to do, Mr. Fisker?


I want to have your name there,


Who are to be your directors here, Mr. Fisker?


We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr. Paul Montague should be one, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. We could get probably one of the Directors of the City and West End. But we would leave it all to you,--as also the amount of stock you would like to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, Mr. Melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out for a long time. There would be such a mass of stock!


You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?


We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too closely by old-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, by having our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across the continent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at--


Never mind that, Mr. Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to San Francisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to Vera Cruz. But I will look at it, and you shall hear from me.


My dear fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself? In a thing of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. You may have to work your fingers off before you can make it move, and then fail. But all that has been done for you. If you go there on the Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. You don't suppose that such a man as Melmotte would put up with any real interference.


Fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and barely sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise. And now where are you? Look here, sir;--there's more to be got out of the smashing up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up, than could be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as yours and mine in the regular way of trade. When and how was I to have helped myself? The money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. It's all very well to say that he had no right to do it; but he had done it. I couldn't even have gone to law with him without going over to California, and then I should have got no redress.


Oh! bother, let's have some game that Christians play.


I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix,


I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows. That's Longestaffe, and I'll change that of course. You seem to have £150 from Grasslough, £145 from Nidderdale, and £322 10s. from Grendall,


This won't do, you know. Mr. Fisker must have his money before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury.


Of course he has,


As it happens I have not, but what if I had?


Mr. Fisker starts for New York immediately. I suppose we can muster £600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. I think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way.


Lord Nidderdale. I have already said that I have not got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you, especially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet anything I could lose when I sat down?


Mr. Fisker must have his money at any rate,


It doesn't matter one straw, my lord. Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord.


If you must go this very minute I'll meet you at the train with the money,


I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America,


Just so. My partner, Montague, will tell you the address. One cheer for the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway,


Vossner must get the money. Let's have him up again.


I don't think it's my fault. Of course no one thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way.


Why shouldn't you be called upon? You acknowledge that you owe the money.


I think Carbury ought to have paid it,


Grassy, my boy, your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you had lost it? I don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket;--nor do you!


It's no good jawing, let's get the money.


It'll only be a trifle over £100 each,


Won't Mr. Grendall pay it?


Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?


Then he shouldn't play.


That 'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right for you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles! We've brought you the tin,


Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle.


A man should always have his money when he wins.


We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord.


You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up,--when we can. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant. He's not half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman,


I've got it all in black and white, and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the 'Biographie Universelle.' I'll write to Mr. Alf myself,--a letter to be published, you know.


Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury.


I can prove that I'm right.


And they can prove that you're wrong.


I've got all the facts,--and the figures.


Never fight the newspapers, Lady Carbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing? It's their business, and you are not used to it.


And Mr. Alf is my particular friend! It does seem so hard,


It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury.


It'll stop the sale?


Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. The 'Breakfast Table' gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the 'Pulpit,' myself.


Like it!


Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very good advertisement.


But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history,--after working as I have worked!


That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury.


You think the book has done pretty well?


Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know.


There'll be something coming to me, Mr. Leadham?


If I didn't, somebody else would,


I hope, you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening.


All your people are coming! You know, mother, it is such an awful bore.


Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here.


One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own house. Everybody sees that it has been contrived. And it is such a pokey, stuffy little place!


Felix, I think you must be a fool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anything to please me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hope for a return. But when I am doing everything to advance your own interests, when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, I think you might at any rate help a little,--not for me of course, but for yourself.


I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't want you to work day and night.


There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of this girl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they are going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet Lord Nidderdale down in the country.


She can't endure Nidderdale. She says so herself.


She will do as she is told,--unless she can be made to be downright in love with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once on Tuesday?


If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm not going to be driven.


Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you really love her.


Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;--I'll look in. What time do the animals come to feed?


There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruel that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own way and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about ten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here to receive her, not later than ten.


If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come.


I cannot stand this kind of thing. There's a regular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down.


If you're strong enough,


Well, I think I am. I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that I'm not afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our friend here;--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I could.


What you say is all very right, only you want a different kind of world to live in.


Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the 'Criminal Queens' was the greatest historical work of modern days.


I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, as far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly butterfly.


As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea,


I'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!


Nothing more than my duty,


I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,


I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr. Alf,


Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?


You are very good. But I feared,--


Feared what, Lady Carbury?


That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to welcome you after,--well, after the compliments of last Thursday.


I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see, Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself.


No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did.


To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavour to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alf who has the misfortune to edit a newspaper.


It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you,


I love you better than anyone in the world,


Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that.


You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be my wife.


How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything.


May I go to papa?


You may if you like,


I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went,


He might have stayed to-night. Do you think he asked her?


How can I say, mamma?


I should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. I feel sure he did,--and that she accepted him.


If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her.


Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? A girl need not be odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about her.


No,--nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especially attractive.


Who is? I don't see anybody specially attractive. It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix.


Do not say that, mamma.


Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up.


I would not let him do that, mamma.


It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with £20,000 a-year!


If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be happy.


You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles.


Mother, you up at this hour!


I could not go to bed till I had seen you.


Why not? why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by-and-bye.


Is anything the matter, Felix?


Matter;--what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among the fellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should.


There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?


What, duelling; oh no,--nothing so exciting as that. Whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up.


What did Marie Melmotte say to you?


Nothing particular.


And what did you say to her?


Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think that a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?


If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me,


I must go to the old fellow, of course.


She told you to go to her father?


As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means to settle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me.


Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for Whitsuntide.


To Carbury Manor! I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more.


I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object.


What will Hetta do?


Go too--why shouldn't she?


Oh; I didn't know. I thought that perhaps she mightn't like it.


I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't give way to her.


Has Roger asked you?


No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we should all go.


Not me, mother!


Yes; you especially.


Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at Carbury Manor?


Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to Caversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend.


Oh--h! that explains it all.


Explains what, Felix?


They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to have that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!


Madame Melmotte told me so.


And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England.


Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; and why shouldn't we run down to the family place?


All very natural if you can manage it, mother.


And you'll come?


If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and night,


You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe.


No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte.


Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other.


There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there.


Your son will not join you in selling the other place?


I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my life.


I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty.


You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one! I'm sure I could do anything that he does,


the number of directors required was completed.


But Adolphus wants money as much as any one,


What on earth are we to do with them?


I do think it's a shame of papa. I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them.


Of course you will leave them all on my hands,


But what's the use of having them? I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to the girl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her.


It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her,


Dolly will never marry anybody. The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't come down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless.


Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?


Because everybody wants money. I'm sure I don't know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any money for anything. I don't spend it.


I don't think that we do anything out of the way. I haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to live at all, I don't know how we are to make a change.


It's always been like this ever since I can remember, and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it.


But, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as these Melmottes!


As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan't trouble myself about them. I suppose it will only be for two days.


My dear, they're coming for a week!


Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down there?


He is wonderfully rich,


But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money. Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in Florence. It was there that Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Caversham. No one knows who they are, or where they came from, or what they'll turn to.


My dear Adolphus, this is so nice of you.


I think it is rather nice,


Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?


Give him some tea,


I'd sooner have soda and brandy,


My darling boy!


I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don't want it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor?


Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch,


I'll wait a little for him,


Do stay and dine with us,


I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with some fellow.


Some fellow! I believe you don't know where you're going,


My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't.


Adolphus. I've got a plan and I want you to help me.


I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother.


We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come.


By George! no; I couldn't do that.


You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are coming.


The d---- they are!


Dolly! do remember where you are.


Yes I will;--and I'll remember too where I won't be. I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte.


My dear boy, do you know that Miss Melmotte will have twenty--thousand--a year the day she marries; and that in all probability her husband will some day be the richest man in Europe?


Half the fellows in London are after her,


Why shouldn't you be one of them?


She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London. If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have just at present.


But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn't at all in my way, mother.


I knew he wouldn't,


It would put everything so straight,


They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them straight. There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row.


My dear, here's Adolphus come to see us. We want him to stay and dine, but he's engaged.


Though he doesn't know where,


My fellow knows;--he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever so long, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't anything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know.


You'd better come with me into the study. We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business.


My dear, we shall not return from Caversham to London this year.


Papa!


My dear, you don't mean it,


Of course papa doesn't mean it,


I mean it accurately and certainly. We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham to London this year.


Our ball is fixed,


Then it must be unfixed.


He can't really mean it,


He does,


He must unmean it again;--that's all. Dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun?


I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus.


Dolly can take care of himself, and always does do so. Dolly does not care for us.


Not a bit,


I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn't stir from this at all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir,--unless he has me carried out of the house.


My dear, I couldn't say that to him.


Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury, who is rustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me I know.


That's ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine.


But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how hard papa is to manage.


Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear.


No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all England.


You had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week,


I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. Of course if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you.


What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your own cousin's house?


You know what I mean, mamma.


It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at all in what you say.


MY DEAR ROGER. We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what I am going to propose doesn't suit you'll say so at once. I have been working very hard,--too hard indeed, and I feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you would keep us. Felix says he would run down though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying. I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that Great American Railway Board as a Director. It opens a new sphere of life to him, and will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a great confidence to place in one so young. Of course you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes with any of your plans, but you have been so very very kind to us that I have no scruple in making it. Henrietta joins with me in kind love.


New sphere of life! The only proper sphere for them all would be Newgate!


It is always best to be open and true. Since you were kind enough to say that you would come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me just at the same time and to bring her daughter. After what has passed between us I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome here together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want of hospitality towards you.


Fill un oop;--eh, eh; sooner said than doone, squoire. Where be the stoof to come from?


This is so kind of you,


The kindness is on your part,


I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And--and--


Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull.


Oh no. You ought to remember that I am never dull in the country.


The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,--and the Hepworths.


I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more,


I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen.


A new neighbour?


Yes,--a new neighbour;--Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in this parish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to know something of his family.


He is a gentleman then?


Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes.


How shocking!


He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be quite friends.


Will the bishop like to meet him?


Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull.


I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury,


It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here,


I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday,


I know they are to have guests. The Melmottes are coming to them.


The Melmottes coming to Caversham!


Oh yes,--Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate.


Mr. Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!


Why not?


I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have been induced to ask them here.


I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary assistance.


And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't as they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all for the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that such a man as Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr. Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room. I don't approve of them in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the country.


I can understand, Roger,


What people?


The Melmottes.


I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw? I dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the reputation of being rich.


Meaning me.


No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people. I was thinking of the Longestaffes then.


Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own gratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I find pleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here for any good that they will do me?


I would not follow them at all.


I will go back if you bid me, but I must first explain what I mean. You know my son's condition,--better, I fear, than he does himself. What is he to do? The only chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a girl with money. He is good-looking; you can't deny that.


Nature has done enough for him.


We must take him as he is. He was put into the army very young, and was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune. He might have done better; but how many young men placed in such temptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left.


I fear not.


And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with money?


I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury.


Oh, Roger, how hard you are!


A man must be hard or soft,--which is best?


With women I think that a little softness has the most effect. I want to make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to reason that the girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him.


But does he love her?


Why should he not? Is a girl to be debarred from being loved because she has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should she not have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathize with my anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name and to the family?


We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury.


But I think so much about it.


You will never get me to say that I think the family will be benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr. Melmotte. I look upon him as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all his money, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a question of marriage people at any rate should know something of each other. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is his daughter? Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurer and a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman. There is a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses his money not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks,--as does a card sharper. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much less to our tables, on the score of his own merits. But because he has learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but settle upon his carcase as so many birds of prey.


Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they love each other?


I have nothing more to say about it. Had it gone on in London I should have said nothing. It is no affair of mine. When I am told that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house as Caversham, and that Felix is coming here in order that he may be near to his prey, and when I am asked to be a party to the thing, I can only say what I think. Your son would be welcome to my house, because he is your son and my cousin, little as I approve his mode of life; but I could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the work that he has on hand.


If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it hard to explain to Hetta;--but we will go.


No; I certainly do not wish that.


But you have said such hard things! How are we to stay? You speak of Felix as though he were all bad.


I am grieved, Roger, that we should have troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You are very harsh, and it crushes me.


I have not meant to be harsh.


You say that Felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to be brought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that? At any rate, you should remember that I am his mother.


If I have hurt you, I regret it much.


Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard the world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once.


You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You cannot think that I meant to offend you. If I have been over hot with you, let me beg your pardon.


I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly stand.


Mr. Carbury, mamma is so unhappy!


I fear that I have offended her.


It is not that, but that you should be so,--so angry about Felix.


I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,--more vexed than I can tell you.


She knows how good you are.


No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me that she talked of going back to London. I should be wretched indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger.


I do not think she will do that.


And you?


I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only wish that Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to him. I don't see why he should not try at any rate.


Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you.


Girls are so different, you know.


I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix, and I beg your pardon.


You were energetic, that was all.


A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never be rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me.


She knows how to use her triumph. I should like to go,


I certainly shall not go, but there will be no difficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once, because their servant is waiting.


Monday will be best, --that is, if nobody is coming here.


There will be nobody here.


I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,--and Felix will accept their invitation.


I can make no suggestion,


That will be best. It is very good of you to let us go, and to send us.


Of course you will do here just as you please,


I'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving about our lanes,


I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here,


Why so, mamma?


It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world, and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!


I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice people.


Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I beg that you will not copy him.


Mamma, I think that is unkind.


And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing.


What word?


What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to her father.


Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?


I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte.


How could he do that, mamma?


If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your brother would be his heir.


You should not think of such a thing, mamma.


Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what I say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury.


But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?


You say he is so old that you will not look at him.


I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day.


If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that kind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an old misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the property and title and name of the place will all go together. It will be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?


Who is to say it?


Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally.


Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to go to--Felix, when he--is dead!


It would not kill him a day sooner.


You would not dare to do it, mamma.


I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself.


You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there.


I have the most thorough respect for your religion, but it would not suit me.


Yes, indeed. I think Suffolk is a very nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for Norfolk too. 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'


I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling. Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost all local distinctions.


We still keep our name and reputation. Silly Suffolk!


But that was never deserved.


As much, perhaps, as other general epithets. I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautiful scenery, like the lake country,--no rivers great for fishing, like Scotland,--no hunting grounds, like the shires.


Partridges!


Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can't increase and multiply as they do in the great cities.


I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason. What is the use of a crowded population?


The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury.


Oh, yes. The world must be peopled; but for myself I like the country better than the town.


So do I, and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poor people touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There is something left among us of old English habits.


That is so nice,


Something left of old English ignorance. All the same I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carbury! At any rate, we can grow flowers in Suffolk.


our people


But the Irish always drink,


Not so much as the English, I think. And you are not to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greater proportion are English.


It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours. Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of persons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give the exact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhood I could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be Roman Catholic.


It is not, my lord, because there are none.


Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my neighbours.


I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor,


They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our Saviour,


I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn. We were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible.


The Roman population still believed, when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears.


The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also.


The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord,


That begs the whole question,


Your priest is a very zealous man, and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet.


I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare.


That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company.


I am sure he would repeat nothing.


Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me.


I don't think it answers. Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics.


You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't have them decline to meet each other.


It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion.


It ought to be,


Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again.


I don't know that I do, either, but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly.


Oh, Felix, you have so terrified us!


I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to come fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who could hardly get up a trot.


But why didn't you come by the train you named?


I couldn't get out of the city,


I suppose you were at the Board?


Miserable cub! You had better not keep your mother standing here. I will show you your room.


All right, old fellow. I'm awfully sorry to disturb you all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy and soda before I go to bed, though.


I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have, I don't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you will come with me.


He is born to be hung, and he'll deserve it.


Felix, take your cigar a little farther. You are filling the house with tobacco.


Oh heavens,--what a prejudice!


Let it be so, but still do as I ask you.


How the deuce am I to get there?


Your cousin will lend you a horse.


He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than I am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with insolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard and ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course.


Roger has not a great establishment.


I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. I don't want anything grand.


He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday.


I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him for a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, he may lump it. Can I have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?


Our horses never go out on Sunday. You can have it. I'll give the order.


Soda and brandy! He'll die some day of delirium tremens in a hospital!


In God's name where do you expect the money is to come from?


There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, Miss Melmotte. I think you know Sir Felix Carbury,


Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.


He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like.


I don't think he is coming because of me,


We had heard, that he was a particular friend of yours.


Beautiful garden, for myself I don't much care for gardens; but if one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one would like.


Delicious,


It isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we make the best of it,


Plenty of glass, I see. If one is to live in the country, I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place.


For a small place. I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it is not extensive.


No, by Jove, you may say that, Lady Pomona. It's like a prison to me with that moat round it.


You know why I have come down here?


To see your cousin.


No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief.


How disagreeable!


Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?


I don't know,


Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?


Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular.


Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me. I thought you told me that you would love me.


Did I?


Did you not?


I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it.


Am I to believe that?


Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself.


By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellow more in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it again.


To say what?


Whether you'll accept me?


I don't know whether you love me well enough. Do you really love me well enough?


Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know I love you.


Do you?


By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. I did indeed.


Then I will love you. I will with all my heart.


There's a darling!


Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix now;--mayn't I?


Rather.


Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You know a great many men have asked me to love them.


I suppose so.


But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least;--not in the least.


You do care for me?


Oh yes.


Oh, Felix, no one ever did it before. Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to you.


Of course I will be good to you.


Men are not always good to their wives. Papa is often very cross to mamma.


I suppose he can be cross?


Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this.


But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?


He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again now. He hasn't said so, but mamma tells me. But I never will;--never!


I hope not, Marie. You needn't be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to kill me. I hate him,--and I do so love you.


You will speak to papa; won't you?


Will that be the best way?


I suppose so. How else?


I don't know whether Madame Melmotte ought not--


Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him than anybody;--more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always did that.


Of course I'll do it. I'm not afraid of him. Why should I? He and I are very good friends, you know.


I'm glad of that.


He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day.


Did he? Perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law.


There's no knowing;--is there?


I hope he will. I shall like you for papa's son-in-law. I hope it isn't wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me.


Of course I love you. It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better go and see him in the city.


He is in a good humour now,


But I couldn't get him alone. It wouldn't be the thing to do down here.


Wouldn't it?


Not in the country,--in another person's house. Shall you tell Madame Melmotte?


Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma does not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time. Of course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you.


That's going to be the lucky man,


In what way lucky?


He is going to get the heiress and all the money. What a fool Dolly has been!


I don't think it would have suited Dolly. After all, why should not Dolly marry a lady?


A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone Birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon.


I like your impudence, in calling yourself a friend.


Ain't I a friend, Ruby?


A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,--oh, ever so long ago now.


But I wrote to you, Ruby.


What's letters? And the postman to know all as in 'em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't call letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more.


Did he see them?


No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix,--nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It's all just folly like.


Because I love you;--that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?


I suppose I am to be his wedded wife. I'll never be nothing unless I'm that,


I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning,


To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!


You could make any excuse you like about that.


It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them.


You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world.


That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for.


What did I come for?


That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house.


That's all settled,


Settled!


As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here.


Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?


I told you that before.


My dear Felix. Oh, my boy! No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you.


I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it.


If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?


I don't know that he will.


You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the Directors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true.


I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you know.


Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income.


I quite understand that.


If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand how well I think you have done it all.


But, Felix, you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--


Run away! What nonsense you talk.


If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should.


Oh, bother!


What did you think of our bishop?


Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop.


Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him.


Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and would not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far your clergy consent to his teaching!


I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs,


I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I have not seen.


They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!


I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons?


Indeed, no,


And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?


Hardly, indeed.


The English people, or some of them,--that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a Church.


Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?


In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters.


That, I thought, was for children. The clergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'


It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want no religion.


I am afraid that is true of a great many.


It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity.


That is worse than anything,


I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief, --than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible.


That is very bad,


We're getting too deep, I think,


I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening,


I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of,