You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it,


And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended,


Hetta, come out into the garden awhile.


Are not you going to the men?


Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it.


Hetta, put your arm here. I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me.


He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?


He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere. He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I didn't quite like your hearing it.


I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it. It's their business.


Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house.


I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop.


And I like him. I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs.


His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money.


I meant about the Melmottes.


No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything.


I wonder whether she has accepted him.


I think she very nearly did accept him in London.


I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does the necessity of money.


Felix is so disposed to be extravagant.


Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests.


Mamma thinks more of him than of anything,


I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion. I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel.


I felt that there was something unpleasant.


And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things.


I think you are so good,--and so kind.


I have been angry with myself, and so I am making you my father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your mother.


I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess.


You will not exact any penance? I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general.


Will that be a penance?


If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?


But then he was travelling all the Saturday night.


Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday;--and therefore I must do penance. And now. I must speak about myself. No, do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends.


Always friends!


Yes;--always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For, after all, let a woman be ever so good,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect.


Oh, no!


I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am sure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do, and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your husband. Pray,--pray do not say that. Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expect that you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere.


What am I to say?


We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love--?


Mr. Montague has never said a word.


If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house, and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you.


But he never has.


We have been like brothers together,--one brother being very much older than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere.


What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way.


Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know the way of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague,--no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else.


I thought I would tell it you all, because I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if I could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple.


Oh, Roger!


If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall never change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope,--I hope I may be strong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than of my own.


What a poor creature a man is, who is not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling like this.


I hope you like Suffolk,


Pretty well, I thank you. Oh, yes;--very nice place for a little fresh air.


Yes;--that's just it, Mr. Melmotte. When the summer comes one does long so to see the flowers.


We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here,


No doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world at large. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a London street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor Square.


It's a very nice place, is London.


If you have got plenty of money, Mr. Melmotte.


And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do you live in London, ma'am?


Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being entertained by you there.


Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always just remember.


How should you,--with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will remember.


Yes; I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there, next to my daughter.


Happy fellow!


I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness in that way now. They've got other things to think of.


He thinks so much of his business.


Oh! I didn't know,


He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr. Melmotte.


Oh;--that's his business!


I trust that he is diligent, there, and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in having the advantage of your counsel and guidance.


He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much.


I have told mamma,


Did she say anything? As to her, I suppose it does not matter what she says, does it?


She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not rich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear.


Have you been riding?


No; I don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is. How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?


None at all. I just rode home quietly. I go to town to-morrow.


And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long.


Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the city. Does he go every day?


Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him then. Lord Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they play cards. I think the city will be best.


You'll stick to it?


Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will ever turn me. I think papa knows that.


They arranged that you should sit next to her,


Oh, I suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young woman, you know.


Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it unless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melmotte. Oh, Felix! if you can bring it about.


I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it.


No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved beautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together. Good night, Felix, and God bless you! I shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in England if this comes about.


I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday,


I don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind,


You might as well wear them, for I am sure you will not be in London again this year.


You don't mean it, mamma,


I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into his pocket. I know what his face means so well.


It is not possible. He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised.


Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose we must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he meant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could.


Mamma!


My dear, what can we do?


Do! Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do something, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be who it may.


Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me.


I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us,--not the least,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here.


Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that. It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable. I haven't got George Whitstable.


Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are.


You are very unjust, and you say horrid things.


I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the same as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his word.


Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?


have it out Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know about engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago.


You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your engagement.


But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning.


You can't do anything of the kind.


But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed,


Then you can't have a day fixed,


How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?


I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live.


But we are to go back?


You'll not return to London this season,


Do you mean that that is settled?


I mean to say that that is settled,


Then, papa, you have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us.


How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!


I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress,--by law.


Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house.


Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and entertain these people?


I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you.


And you mean to put up with it, mamma?


What can we do, my dear?


I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them.


You do that for your own sake, I suppose,


It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake,


I've kept myself as straight as you have. It's easy enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and nobody cares for a person.


My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?


It is I that have to suffer. Does he expect me to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all.


You may have him if you like,


Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come to that quite yet.


You were talking of running away with somebody.


I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that. I'll tell you what I shall do,--I will write papa a letter. I suppose he'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the Melmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but to have them here was terrible!


MY DEAR PAPA,-- I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here. You certainly did say that if we would come down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me. I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and I should not in the least object to reminding her, only it should be done at once. Their house in Queen's Gate is very large, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa. Your affectionate daughter, GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.


Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course you must judge for yourself.


Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?


Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially.


And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful.


You must judge for yourself, Georgiana.


It is that,--or staying here?


I think so, my dear.


If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfully disagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!


She seemed to be very quiet.


Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that if I'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did you not see it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful to look at as he is?


Everybody goes to them. The Duchess of Stevenage has been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie. Everybody goes to their house.


But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma,--to have to sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that woman!


Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs.


But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! Only think of it!


But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear.


Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, oh dear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure. If papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think of it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so much of being with the right set.


Things are changed, Georgiana,


Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman compared with Mr. Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with Madame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such people it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange. Papa has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine.


I hope she'll like it,


Sophy, I do so envy you staying here. Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not going to disgrace yourself.


There's no disgrace in it, Georgey.


Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and housemaids would be much better.


Then don't go, Georgey.


I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain down here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow.


Is he, now?


Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at home. But he is a gentleman.


That he certainly is.


As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always say it has been papa's doing.


I did not think all that was at all necessary.


But from what we see, old fellow, I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain income as far as you are concerned. I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain income as far as you are concerned.


You haven't sold any shares;--have you?


Not a share.


Nor got any profits?


Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my only transaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner.


What do you get then, by going into the city?


I'm blessed if I know what I get. I suppose something will turn up some day.


In the meantime, you know, there are our names. And Grendall is making a fortune out of it.


Poor old duffer. If he's doing so well, I think Miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready when that bill of Vossner's comes round.


Yes, by George; let's tell him that. Will you do it?


Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural to him to pay anything.


Fellows used to pay their gambling debts,


They don't now,--unless they like it. How did a fellow manage before, if he hadn't got it?


He went smash,


I shouldn't. What's the use of being beastly ill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think there's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course cheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can't pay; but I don't know that it's worse than getting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody as Grasslough does,--or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely because she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but I don't believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible, Carbury?


Read the Bible! Well;--yes;--no;--that is, I suppose, I used to do.


I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone and pitch it at that woman. Live and let live;--that's my motto.


But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?


Oh, certainly. I'll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but then he ought to let me live too. Only, who's to bell the cat? It's no good our going to old Grendall, nor yet to young Grendall. The one would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every lie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our great master, Augustus Melmotte.


You go there oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best,


Go where?


To the Board.


But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me, perhaps, because I'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think I was the bigger fool of the two.


I don't see that at all,


I ain't afraid of him, if you mean that. He's a wretched old reprobate, and I don't doubt but he'd skin you and me if he could make money off our carcasses. But as he can't skin me, I'll have a shy at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I've always been on the square with him. If it depended on him, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow.


Would you?


But then she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't all there?


I wanted just to ask you something,


Anything you please, my lord.


Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to sell?


No, I don't,--if you ask me.


Oh;--I didn't know. But why shouldn't we as well as the others?


Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?


Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have. How much has Lord Alfred put into it?


I have taken shares for Lord Alfred. If it suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without asking your lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury.


Oh, certainly. I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with your money.


I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about it. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come all right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are up, can sell at a profit. It's presumed just at present that, at some early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you.


That's it, is it,


If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, if your father consents to a proper settlement.


I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure. Thank you; I'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all to Carbury.


My dear Felix, pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip.


It's everything to get him in a good humour,


But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used.


There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him about money? That's the question.


I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix.


Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down; or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with.


You wouldn't mind having it settled?


No;--I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me,--say £7,000 or £8,000 a year. I wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while. I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out,


Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way.


It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money.


You want to marry her yourself.


I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one means to take,--and whether one is sure to get it.


I don't think there can be any doubt.


If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know.


Of course he'd pay the money first.


It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. You can't carry £10,000 a year about in your pocket, you know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up.


I wish you'd leave me alone,


Is it not my business too?


No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to meddle with me.


You ungrateful boy!


I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't do everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set me against it all.


How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness.


That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort.


He is the best friend I have.


He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't very pleasant. Of course it's your house; but if you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to myself.


I intend to like the young lady very much.


Pooh! You never like no person at all.


Ah, yes; that is all very well,--while it lasts; but you care for no friend. Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after lunch.


Papa is down-stairs in the book-room. Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was out. You go down, and ask the man to show you into the book-room. Shall I come up again? No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon. Or send it by post,--under cover to her. That will be better. Go at once, now.


How do you do, Sir Felix? I suppose you want the ladies.


I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on you as I came down.


I'm very glad to see you, and all that, but this is hardly a day for business, Sir Felix, nor,--yet a place for business.


I didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Melmotte,


I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been going to speak about that railway.


Oh dear no.


Your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you attended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend to.


My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it,


Women never do. Well;--what can I do for you, now that you are here?


Mr. Melmotte, I'm come,--I'm come to;--in short, Mr. Melmotte, I want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand.


The d---- you do!


Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent.


She knows you're coming then?


Yes;--she knows.


And my wife;--does she know?


I've never spoken to her about it. Perhaps Miss Melmotte has.


And how long have you and she understood each other?


I've been attached to her ever since I saw her. I have indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind of thing goes on.


I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that when large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if he don't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given you a promise?


I don't know about a promise.


Do you consider that she's engaged to you?


Not if she's disposed to get out of it. Of course, I should be awfully disappointed.


She has consented to your coming to me?


Well, yes;--in a sort of a way. Of course she knows that it all depends on you.


Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you, she can marry you. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet, I believe?


Oh, yes, I'm a baronet.


And therefore you've come to your own property. You haven't to wait for your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent about money.


Not exactly that. I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course.


Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If my daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. How much is neither here nor there. If she marries to please herself, without considering me, I shan't give her a farthing.


I had hoped that you might consent, Mr. Melmotte.


I've said nothing about that. It is possible. You're a man of fashion and have a title of your own,--and no doubt a property. If you'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it at any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?


It isn't a large property, you know,


Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose,


No;--not quite like that,


But you have got enough to support a baronet's title?


That depends on how you want to support it,


Where's your family seat?


Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old family place.


That doesn't belong to you,


No; not yet. But I'm the heir.


Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family?


Yes, I am the head of the family, of course. But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all.


He's a young man, isn't he?


No,--not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old.


If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?


I don't quite know how it would be. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry.


And in the meantime what is your own property?


My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then I am my mother's heir.


You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my daughter.


Certainly.


Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married man? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on my part.


You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me.


Perhaps that will be best,


Either that, or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will have money; but money expects money. You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as you said you would?


I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out.


I haven't been out of this room all day,--except to lunch. Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy. Do you know anything about that young fellow?


He's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leave it,


Without a shilling! I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in Suffolk;--eh?


Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr. Carbury has a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. I wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever.


Hasn't he now?


You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to get the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference. Why shouldn't he 'go a thou,' and get the difference?


How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up. How the deuce fellows can look one in the face, is what I can't understand. Your father cut up very rough,--about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother? Yours always. F. You couldn't cash your I. O. U.'s for me to-morrow;--could you?


To-morrow! oh, lord!


I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we are really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's.


I'm told you're to have her.


I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in you know for that Board in the city.


I don't know anything about Boards, my boy.


Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Montague's friend, that was here one night and won all our money.


The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to California. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always wondered whether he got there alive.


Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those kinds of things.


And because I am such a fool.


I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. But it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay for them, and old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't. Indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?


It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that.


I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought I was sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you?


Not in the least.


It's about eleven hundred pounds!


I shouldn't wonder.


And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale when they lose always pay with Miles's I. O. U.'s.


So should I, if I had them.


It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going, and they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendall himself, he has no feeling about it.


Not the least, I should say.


You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?


Melmotte has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know any other way.


You could write me that,--in a business sort of way.


I couldn't do that, Carbury. What's the use? I never write any letters. I can't do it. You tell him that; and if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight.


I'm going to take up my shares in that company,


Ah;--indeed.


I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday.


Oh;--ah.


It will be the proper thing to do;--won't it?


Very good--thing to do!


Is it always ready money?


Always ready money,


I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent., is made for the shares?


They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing.


You know I should want to sell again,--for the rise.


Oh; you'll want to sell again.


And therefore I must have the full number.


You could sell half the number, you know,


I'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's £1,000. Well;--I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent. down?


Melmotte does all that himself.


You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me.


That's private,


Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buy the shares with it, though they are public.


I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury.


You can't help me?


Not in that way.


Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me? Do you know how much you owe me?


Of course I know,


Well?


I'm not going to talk about it here.


Not going to talk about it here?


No. This is a public room.


I am going to talk about it,


Will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?


Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out,


It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet,


I hate loo,


I like whist best, but I'll play anything anybody likes;--pitch and toss if you please.


Montague, just change these for the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we've done.


I don't understand this kind of thing. When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my I. O. U.'s, as long as you have any.


By George, that's kind.


But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed.


Pay them yourself, then,


Don't let's have a row,


Carbury is always making a row,


Of course he is,


I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it.


Who is walking off?


And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of us?


I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life,


You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!


Ever so many hands I haven't played at all,


You've always won when I've played. I've been looed every time.


You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much,


I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed.


There's something the matter with that fellow,


There's always something the matter with him, I think. He is so awfully greedy about his money.


The less said about that, Grendall, the better. We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody.


Well, perhaps not Madame,


But if they should say that I'm not an Englishman?


DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX. I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and honour I will never marry any one except you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it,--for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I know. You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never,--never give you up. I suppose you can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were here. I never see him before he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham? Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix. And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,


What an infernal little ass!


She never really cared for anybody but herself,


What's all this about?


Impudent scoundrel!


What's all this about? What brings you here, I wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment.


My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much harm. Why are you staying with these people?


Ask papa.


I don't suppose he sent you here?


That's just what he did do.


You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because they are none of them coming up?


Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for guessing!


Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?


No;--not a bit.


Then I feel ashamed for you.


Everybody comes here.


No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself.


I think as much of myself as ever I did,


I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me.


What did he say, Dolly?


He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself is what I can't understand!


I don't like them,--I hate them.


Then why do you come and live with them?


Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?


I shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor.


You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?


You mean about marrying?


I mean altogether. Of course I have to think of myself.


I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better.


Don't write to papa, Dolly!


Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. Good-bye.


Paul. Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything.


I cannot say that,


You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?


Things are changed,


How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that.


You are beautiful as ever you were,


Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means.


I told you in my letter.


You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off. Why is it to be--off? Do you not love me? Paul. I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss. Now tell me everything,


She always had money when she was here, but no one knew where it came from.


I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership, if you mean that,


Tell me everything,


But you,--when did you arrive here?


Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers. I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful. And now, tell me about yourself?


I am engaged here about this railway. You have heard, I suppose, of our projected scheme?


Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did.


It's doing very well, I believe,


You are the manager here in England?


No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte.


Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of course?


Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week.


I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power;--what grandeur!


Grand enough, if it all came honestly.


Such a man rises above honesty, as a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the rivers.


I prefer to be stopped by the ditches,


Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that he is not honest?


As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing against him.


Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors.


I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay.


Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets.


Personally, I do not like him,


I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove.


Oh no.


But you are prospering in this business?


Yes,--I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no alternative.


It seems to me to have been a golden chance.


As far as immediate results go it has been golden.


That at any rate is well, Paul. And now,--now that we have got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?


You know I did,


I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you doubt me?


No, indeed.


Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl from a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! You owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not taken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give. If you hate me, say so.


Winifrid,


Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there another woman that you love?


There is another,


Oh, --that is the reason why I am told that I am to be--off.


That was not the reason.


What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that? Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to--hate me.


Listen to me, Winifrid.


No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too little like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other reasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies.


We know too little of each other,


What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once.


I wish to hear nothing,


Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?


I do not think that I am mean.


No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--this lady?


I can not name her.


And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections? That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?


I did not say so.


And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?


I hope not.


Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir.


I did say so.


Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me.


I cannot marry you.


Then, sir, are you not a liar?


Oh, Paul, --I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also?


No. I have given no promise.


But she loves you?


She has never said so.


You have told her of your love?


Never.


There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?


I suppose it is,


Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you.


You have told the woman of the house?


Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here? I am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr. Melmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr. Paul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if you dare. Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?


No,-- not to-day.


And you will come back to me?


Yes;--I will come back.


I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember all your promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me. MY DEAR PAUL,-- I think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood to each other yesterday, and I am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake. I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to make you conscious that I really love you. To a woman such love is all important. She cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. Nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it. Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has separated her from other things. My devotion to you has separated me from everything. But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant. If you choose to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you because you have seen some one fairer than I am, whatever course I may take in my indignation, I shall not throw myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs. I wish, however, that you should hear me. You say that there is some one you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her. Alas, I know too much of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress. A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does. But I think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again. I think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me again. You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me. I have given up every friend I have to follow you. As regards the other--nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion. You hinted that there were other reasons,--that we know too little of each other. You meant no doubt that you knew too little of me. Is it not the case that you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented by stories told you by your partners at San Francisco? If this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me. I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved,--like a soiled glove,--because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life. My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in the State of Kansas when I married him, I being then in possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my mother. There his life was infamously bad. He spent what money he could get of mine, and then left me and the State, and took himself to Texas;--where he drank himself to death. I did not follow him, and in his absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas State. I then went to San Francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countryman of ours now resident in Paris,--having forged my name. There I met you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be told. It may be that you do not believe me now; but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my word? I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overborne by passion. I also have heard in California rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your letter. I resolved to follow you to England as soon as circumstances would permit me. I have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and I have won it. I had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw you. I had begun it and had determined that I would not be beaten by fraud. And I was also determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper. We have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them. When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind. When we came here together we were both embarrassed. We both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it. Since that I have made my way through my difficulties. From what I have heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the same. I at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our affairs can be made one. And now about myself,--immediately. I have come here all alone. Since I last saw you in New York I have not had altogether a good time. I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone. Very cruel things have been said of me. You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband. Since that they have been said to others with reference to you. I have not now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me. It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate,--and here I am. I appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude. You know,--no one so well,--that my nature is social and that I am not given to be melancholy. Let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a day. Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as I used to be seen. Come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres. If you wish it I will promise you not to allude to that revelation you made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my heart than any other matter. Perhaps some woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think. You need not fear but you will find me at home. I have no whither to go,--and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me. Send me a line, however, that I may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you. Yours with all my heart. WINIFRID HURTLE.


DEAR WINIFRID. I will come for you to-morrow at half-past five. We will dine together at the Thespian;--and then I will have a box at the Haymarket. The Thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there. You can dine in your bonnet. Yours affectionately. P. M.


You told me to have a hat, and here I am,--hat and all.


The acting isn't very good,


What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon the humour. The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened and laughed and cried, because I have been happy.


It has been very jolly,


And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. I wonder whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover talked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writers and actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day. It's all right that she should cry, but she shouldn't cry there. A woman hides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unable to hide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman see them. Does she?


I suppose not.


Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa.


Women are not all Medeas,


There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. I am quite ready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall. And I have had no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. Are you going to see me home?


Certainly.


You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself. I do so hate all kinds of buckram. I like good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one's throat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose what we have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked.


I don't think it has,


Yes, this is it. Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me. Come in for one moment. Shut the door for one moment. Oh Paul, my darling! Oh Paul, my love! I will not bear to be separated from you. No, no;--never. I swear it, and you may believe me. There is nothing I cannot do for love of you,--but to lose you. But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night. It was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard school-time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see me again soon,--will you not?


Where the blessed angels have you been?


I've had fish of my own to fry. I'm particularly anxious to take up those shares,


Of course you ought to have your money.


I don't say that at all, old fellow. I know very well that you're all right. You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall.


Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I suppose I could get it, and so I ought to pay.


That's no excuse for Grendall,


A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury. A chap ought to pay of course. I've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half hour--here it is. My governor wants to sell Pickering, and Melmotte wants to buy the place. My governor can't sell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what's what. My interest in the property is greater than his. It isn't much of a place, and they are talking of £50,000, over and above the debt upon it. £25,000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and make me very square. From what this fellow says I suppose they're going to give in to my terms.


By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly.


Oh yes. Of course I want it. But I don't like the place going. I'm not much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself to go in for things as I ought to do; but I've a sort of feeling that I don't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't to let his family property go to pieces.


You never lived at Pickering.


No;--and I don't know that it is any good. It gives us 3 per cent. on the money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per cent., and I'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it than you'd think. It ought to be sold, and now I suppose it will be sold. Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if you like I'll go with you to the city to-morrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'll advance me £1,000, and then you can get the shares. Are you going to dine here?


Is there anything up between you and Miles?


I can't bear him.


There never was any love between you two, I know. But you used to speak, and you've played with him all through.


Played with him! I should think I have. Though he did get such a haul last Sunday he owes me more than you do now.


Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?


No;--that is not the reason. I'll tell you all about it in the cab to-morrow.


DEAREST FELIX. Why don't we see you? Mamma would say nothing if you came. Papa is never in the drawing-room. Miss Longestaffe is here of course, and people always come in in the evening. We are just going to dine out at the Duchess of Stevenage's. Papa, and mamma and I. Mamma told me that Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never take any one but the man I love. You know who that is. Miss Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us. What do you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left alone? We are to go afterwards to a musical party at Lady Gamut's. Miss Longestaffe is going with us, but she says that she hates music. She is such a set-up thing! I wonder why papa has her here. We don't go anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray come. And why haven't you written me something and sent it to Didon? She won't betray us. And if she did, what matters? I mean to be true. If papa were to beat me into a mummy I would stick to you. He told me once to take Lord Nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him. And now he wants me to take him again. But I won't. I'll take no one but my own darling. Yours for ever and ever. MARIE.


By George! And you think you saw him do it!


It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I believe he always had an ace somewhere about him. What had I better do?


By George;--I don't know.


What should you do?


Nothing at all. I shouldn't believe my own eyes. Or if I did, should take care not to look at him.


You wouldn't go on playing with him?


Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up.


But Dolly,--if you think of it!


That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it.


And you won't give me your advice.


Well;--no; I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why did you pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nidderdale?


He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?


No, he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out for this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me such a story as this I wouldn't have come with you.


That's nonsense, Dolly.


Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a twitter already.


You mean to go on playing just the same?


Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to think about it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the man of money.


You will wish to sell again, of course;--of course. I'll watch the market for you.


But why didn't he give you the scrip?


I suppose it's all right with him,


Oh yes;--it's all right. Thousands of pounds to him are only like half-crowns to us fellows. I should say it's all right. All the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you know.


I have spoken to her father,


And what did Mr. Melmotte say?


Say;--what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all he's an old screw.


Did he forbid you to come there any more?


Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let me alone I'll do the best I can.


She has accepted you, herself?


Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury.


Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. You could do it now because I know you've got money. From all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you.


Of course, Felix, there must be some risk.


Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last! I couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her.


Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be some risk I mean that there would be very little. There would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world.


I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it.


You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of them as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once. They say she is of age.


I shouldn't know where to take her. I shouldn't know where to take her. All that about Scotland is done with now.


Of course you would marry her at once.


I suppose so,--unless it were better to stay as we were, till the money was settled.


Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come round, if--


The mother is nothing.


He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would. Ten thousand a year is not to be had every year.


But he could not ask Miles. There would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate "a fellow,"--if "the fellow" paid him.


Suppose we go down-stairs,


Certainly, my lord. I'll show your lordship the way.


You should not have been made to come up at all. Il faut que vous vous retirez.


I am very sorry,


I think that I had at any rate better retire,


Qu'elle est méchante. Oh, she is so bad. Sir Felix, you had better go too. Yes,--indeed.


No. Why should he go? I want papa to know.


Il vous tuera. My God, yes.


Then he shall. I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do it. Felix, you love me;--do you not?


Certainly,


Mamma. I will never have any other man but him;--never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me.


You know that, don't you, ma'am?


Oh, love! It is a beastliness. Sir Felix, you had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?


Don't go. No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to be afraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come?


I don't think I have a right to do that, because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house.


I wouldn't mind. I told papa to-day that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale.


Was he angry with you?


He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you.


C'est lui,


Now be brave, and I'll be brave.


Where are the others?


Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma.


Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale.


Sir Felix, I am not engaged--to--marry Lord Nidderdale. It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't do it.


She will marry Lord Nidderdale. As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognised;--or happy to see you in the city at any time.


Papa, he is my lover,


Pooh!


It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life.


Jade! get to your room.


Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa.


I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me! Have you no idea of disgrace?


I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going.


I am very sorry, Mr. Melmotte, to have had a hand in causing this disturbance.


Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't both marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you,--if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city.


I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything.


Take me and marry me without my father's consent,--and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me.


You think him honest;--don't you? Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions.


Perhaps that is the best way of putting it,


If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?


At the expense of veracity?


At the expense of anything? One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule.


You would do evil to produce good?


I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy. You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury. I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity. Did I hold your place, Mr. Booker, in the literature of my country,--


I hold no place, Lady Carbury.


Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this.


I should be dismissed to-morrow,


Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf,


There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see,


I was one of the unfortunates,


I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me.


Ah,--if I had but known!


Mr. Melmotte. I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr. Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Broune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And they declare, you know, that his commercial articles are gospel,--absolutely gospel.


Getting very hot,


Very hot indeed,


It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June.


It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--very good. And I came, because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter. My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man.


You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?


I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board.


I did;--I did.


I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am.


Hetta. I have something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune. I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte. I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man.


I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little, I said less.


It didn't just come off. But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend.


Certainly,


Stupid old goose! And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?


Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte? Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale.


She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her. Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she should not have a penny.


Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?


Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it.


He would be sure to make some such threat.


Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city.


That's bosh,


Do you think it must be so;--certainly?


Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held.


He did make it.


Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving.


You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him.


Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business.


No;--he has no capital.


Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that.


You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father? Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong?


That is a question very hard to answer.


People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them.


Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion.


There would be nothing disgraceful.


I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--I think he would.


I am so glad to hear you say that.


And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance.


I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you. You have been so very kind.


And now. I also have something to say to you. And now I have something to say to you.


The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable.


Lady Carbury, we are neither of us so young as we used to be.


No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately.


I hope we know each other intimately at any rate,


Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you.


I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a foolish truism.


I did not think so,


Or would have been, only that I intended something further. I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to--love.


Mr. Broune. I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way.


To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. After much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily.


Mr. Broune, you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind.


Lady Carbury. I have lived a long time without marrying, and I have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the same way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me till I fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others would think me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much before I resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another person. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping.


You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment,


Well?


How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon your position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved.


That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share with you.


You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness.


Has it made you happy?


It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune.


Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career.


Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world. Mr. Broune. I am now so agitated that you had better leave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock.


When may I hope for an answer?


You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none ready.


Halloo, old fellow, you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?


Felix, why do you make so much noise as you come in?


Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right.


Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?


Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?


Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is.


He always seems to me to like to have his own way.


Why shouldn't he like it?


He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness.


I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people? Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague.


Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, had you not asked me.


I hope they are kind to you,


Your host is a wonderful fellow, by George! No one seems to know which way he'll turn up at last.


There's nothing like being a robber, if you can only rob enough,


If he can manage that I think he'll pull through,


If money'll do it, it will be done,


Heartless, false, purse-proud creature. I think you hardly understand my position. Of course you have cut me. Haven't you? And of course I must feel it very much. You did not use to be ill-natured, and I hardly think you can have become so now when you have everything pleasant around you. I do not think that I have done anything that should make an old friend treat me in this way, and therefore I write to ask you to let me see you. Of course it is because I am staying here. You know me well enough to be sure that it can't be my own choice. Papa arranged it all. If there is anything against these people, I suppose papa does not know it. Of course they are not nice. Of course they are not like anything that I have been used to. But when papa told me that the house in Bruton Street was to be shut up and that I was to come here, of course I did as I was bid. I don't think an old friend like you, whom I have always liked more than anybody else, ought to cut me for it. It's not about the parties, but about yourself that I mind. I don't ask you to come here, but if you will see me I can have the carriage and will go to you.


Of course I shall be delighted to see you. I don't know what you mean by cutting. I never cut anybody. We happen to have got into different sets, but that is not my fault. Sir Damask won't let me call on the Melmottes. I can't help that. You wouldn't have me go where he tells me not. I don't know anything about them myself, except that I did go to their ball. But everybody knows that's different. I shall be at home all to-morrow till three,--that is to-day I mean, for I'm writing after coming home from Lady Killarney's ball; but if you wish to see me alone you had better come before lunch.


John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by. He's welcome to stay away then, for me. The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his saying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm willing. You've been a' drinking, grandfather. Look ye here, Ruby, out o' this place you go. If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay. Who cares for all Bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb. It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb. I knows him. Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise? If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and I shan't be the last. You means you won't have him? That's about it, grandfather.


Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,--for you won't have me.


There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather.


Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings.


What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. You don't know nothing ag'in me.


He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and the dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he ain't.


Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait.


If you can't make it up wi' him--


Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways.


Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you don't. If you don't like to take it,--leave it. But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too.


Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the stoopidest place in all England.


Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind. I'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep's Acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. Stoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's Acre, afore you've done.


It's no good going against love, and I won't try. He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. He cares more for his supper than he do for me.


If here isn't Joe Mixet. Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb? There's no end to his being stoopid.


What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well, John, how is it wi' you? Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat a bit. Don't 'e smell it?


John didn't like going home in the dark like. So I just come along to drive away the bogies.


The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby 'll have enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he? The more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away.


Where be she, Muster Ruggles?


Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr. Mixet.


You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so. My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. What do you say, John?


I loiks to see her loik o' that,


It looks homely; don't it, John?


Bother!


You've got it all afore you,


And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;--that I don't,


That's the chat. There ain't nothing wanting in his house;--is there, John? It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed.


That she do. There's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her.


If you'll sit yourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat. Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?


Where the mischief is the jade gone? The devil's in them. They're off some gates. She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way. She's playing off her games somwheres. Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb, and I'll see after her.


I'll just take a drop of y'ell,


Domm her,


You can answer him as well as I, grandfather. Oh, if it comes to that. I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else. Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather.


I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate,


We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss,


It ain't that at all, Mr. Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves.


But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby.


I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr. Mixet. If you and Mr. Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper--


Which we ain't, nor yet for beer;--not by no means.


We've come for the smiles of beauty,


Mr. Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you.


Except in the way of friendship,


I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be. I won't put up with it no more.


Who wants you to put up with it? Who wants 'em to come here with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what business Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere along o' him.


John Crumb, have you anything to say?


I hove,


Then say it.


I will,


Now speak your mind, like a man,


I intends it,


You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you, John?


I hove.


And you mean to be as good as your word?


I do.


And she has promised to have you?


She hove.


More nor once or twice?


You're ready,--and willing?


I om.


You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?


There ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was.


Everything is ready in your own house?


They is.


And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?


I sholl.


That's about it, I think. I don't think there was ever anything much more straightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all about John Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday,--nor yet the day before. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr. Ruggles. Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will make things that snug that things never was snugger. But John Crumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune.


Nohow's,


Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him. John has a heart in his buzsom.


I has,


And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say.


That's what I has to say, and I means it.


And now, miss, you've heard what John has to say.


I've heard you, Mr. Mixet, and I've heard quite enough.


You can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you? There's your grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted out,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day.


Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it,


I won't say to-morrow, Mr. Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before.


That was only in fun, loike.


Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal of telling.


You don't mean,--never?


I do mean never, Mr. Crumb.


Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?


Young women is allowed to change their minds,


Brute! Pig! Jade! I'll tell'ee what, John. She'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull. I won't keep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut.


She ain't that;--she ain't that. She ain't that at all. She's no slut. I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather. But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself.


Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way,


If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you, Mr. Mixet. If you hadn't come here at all things might have been different.


He's aff now, Ruby,


And you'd better be aff after him,


And when'll I come back again?


Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?


Domm her; domm her. I'll even it to her. She'll have to be out on the roads this night.


She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it, and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her till she sends for me.


I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb. And now if you please, Mr. Crumb, I'll go up-stairs to my own room.


You don't go up to any room here, you jade you.


Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr. Ruggles.


Domm her, John; she breaks my heart. Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr. Crumb? Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. She's been and seen some young buck.


You ain't a meaning of it, master?


I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,--him as they call the baronite.


Been along wi' Ruby? By the mortials I'll baronite him;--I wull,


Grandfather says I'm to go, and I'm gone,


I always thought it was settled they were to be man and wife,


It was settled, squoire;--and he war to have five hun'erd pound down;--money as I'd saved myself. Drat the jade.


Didn't she like him, Daniel?


She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else.


If she was one of our people, we should have her back quick enough.


I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we have,


She'd catch herself. Wherever she might be she'd go to the priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way back to her friends.