Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. A gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned,


I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly.


A deal more, Mrs. Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that before their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do it, I suppose,--only not like that.


You did it on the sly.


I think we got married quicker than they do, any way. When the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's just walking the streets.


Mind you go by the 5 P.M. train. That will take you into Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station. Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle Racine. We are to have one cabin between us. You must get yours to-morrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room.


I'll be all right.


Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure to suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We leave at 7 A.M. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. Robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?


Clothes,


Yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. Think of that! What a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and Madame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but I shall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all my jewels. I'm not going to leave them behind. They'll go off in our cab. We can get the things out behind the house into the mews. Then Didon and I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near nine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted.


If the servants were to hear.


I don't think they'd tell. But if I was to be brought back again, I should only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent me marrying.


Won't your mother find out?


She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if she knew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be like that.


I'm all right,


How about money though?


You have got some?


I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and not a shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not let me have it back.


Look here. I told you I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the tickets.


And whose is this?


It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the house and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't. If you take it to the bank you'll get the money. Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on board the ship?


I think Didon had better get the money, and bring it to me to-morrow, at four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club. You see. I'm so much in the City that they might know me at the bank. And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning, without looking for you.


Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till we are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you think? Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman on board. I wonder whether he'd marry us.


Of course he will.


Won't that be jolly? I wish it was all done. Then, directly it's done, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? Of course he'll make the best of it.


But he's so savage; isn't he?


When there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. But I don't think he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of everything;--misfortunes and all. Things go wrong so often that if he was to go on thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. It'll be all right in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see him. He never can say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged, but it was he broke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!


C'est tout en règle?


What; Felix?


You're surprised; are you not? Mother, would you mind coming into the other room? I've got something to tell you,


Good news?


That's as may be,


Don't keep me in suspense, Felix.


The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie off.


Oh, Felix.


You said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore I'm going to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing.


But when?


Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything. I've had it in my mind for the last fortnight.


And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed.


It was your own idea, you know. We're going to;--where do you think?


How can I think?--Boulogne.


You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn't have done at all for us. We're going to--New York.


To New York! But when will you be married?


There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't go without telling you.


Oh; I wish you hadn't told me.


Come now;--that's kind. You don't mean to say it wasn't you that put me up to it. I've got to get my things ready.


Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?


Wednesday afternoon.


For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?


When I spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling.


They always say that.


You are going to risk it?


I am going to take your advice.


There is money settled on her.


Settled on whom?


On Marie;--money which he can't get back again.


How much?


She doesn't know;--but a great deal; enough for them all to live upon if things went amiss with them.


But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to give to her husband.


Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the pull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for me about money, mother?


I have none, Felix.


I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it.


That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn't £20 at the bank altogether.


They would let you overdraw for £50 or £60.


I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but I have not money to give you.


That's a blue look out,


just when £60 or £70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune.


I will do no such thing, Felix. £50 or £60 would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have some money?


Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help me.


Here's Carbury. Now we can have a game at three-handed loo.


Thank ye; not for me. I hate three-handed loo.


Dummy,


I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together. By-the-bye, Grendall,--look here.


'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week,


It's always waiting till next week with you. I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?


Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here. If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room.


Of course. I won't say a word about the matter down here. It isn't the proper thing.


Come up into the card-room, then. It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say.


How I do hate a row! One has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club.


He likes a row,--Carbury does,


I should like my money, if I could get it. Dear, dear; I'm sure she was unaware of it.


Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this.


stump up.


pas un baiser!


Bah!


You, I think, are Miss Melmotte.


No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab?


I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte, and that this other--person is your servant, Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte.


French.


And English too. I think you had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you.


Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!


They had both a right to come to Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their luggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was it to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?


You had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed,


But why?


A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided.


Who was going to stop her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she pleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her.


But the box in her hand is mine,


After all I don't know that he cares for me. Put a good face on it, and don't be cast down. Oh, I won't. I don't mean.


Your mother will be delighted to have you back again.


I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow if I had the chance. I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it.


Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte.


It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people.


You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that.


Of course I wouldn't. And are you to come? All the people will wonder who you are,


This is your game, is it?


Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it.


You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you? As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?


If you have found out all about it, you know, papa.


Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little idiot.


No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so.


Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now? An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in Welbeck Street.


I don't believe it, papa.


You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed behind, I think I'd have let you go.


I'm sure he didn't stay behind.


If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?


She's gone on board the ship.


And where is the money you took from your mother? Who got the cheque changed?


Didon did.


And has she got the money?


No, papa.


Have you got it?


Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?


Yes, papa.


Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it.


Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back again.


I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to marry him again if I don't prosecute him? Unless you do that I shall go to a magistrate at once.


I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. I gave it to him.


Will you promise me?


No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only break it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?


All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here. I've been very good to you. You've had your share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else.


Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches.


What do you care for?


Only for somebody to love me,


You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion. You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than you do.


You can't know better than me what'll make me happy.


Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you.


Then I won't,


Oh, Felix!


It'sh all up,


What has happened, Felix?


Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush. Bettersh go to bed.


MY DEAR MRS. HURTLE,-- I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what I found them to be then. But circumstances have made our lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain that, were we married, we should not make each other happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame,--and the evil consequences, let them be what they may,-- to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon,-- than to be married with the consciousness that even at the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be a matter of sorrow and repentance. As soon as my mind was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not,--I dare not,--blame you for the step you have since taken. But I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed. The first day I saw you here in London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results. I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury I have done you,--or even to undergo retribution for it,--I would do so. But what compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last time,--because I have promised. Your most sincere friend. PAUL MONTAGUE.


PAUL MONTAGUE,-- I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable,--and the most unmanly. Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. What;--you are to bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,--when they have affected my whole life,--that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On thinking over it, you find that an American wife would not make you so comfortable as some English girl;--and therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother, no man near me;--or you would not dare to do this. You can not but be a coward. You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer retribution. I desire you to come to me,--according to your promise,--and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body. And then I will see what you will dare to do;--whether you will drag me into a court of law for the assault. Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a weapon. I call upon you to come. But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make London too hot to hold you;--and if I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you have. I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. Yes. Come.


Yes, sir; she's at home. Don't pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?


So you have come,


Of course I came, when you desired it.


I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Will you sit down there. So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?


I did think so certainly. What more can I say?


Oh, nothing; clearly nothing. Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart? And having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace.


I came because I promised.


But you did not promise to speak;--did you?


What would you have me say?


Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have you say? Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?


You might indeed,


But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul,--still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you,--none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid. Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it. You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are you not,--for my loneliness?


I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions.


You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate in this. You thought my letter very short; did you not?


It said, I suppose, all you had to say.


No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was writing it, I was determined that that should go.


I am glad you did not send that,


I meant it.


But you have changed your mind?


Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak out and tell me.


I am thinking of you, not of myself.


Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?


You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip.


It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all. I have not sent it, you know. I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work.


It hurts me more than the other,


Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?


I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind.


But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon. I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go. Tell me one thing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?


No; indeed no.


I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle.


And am I to keep the other?


Good-bye, my friend,


Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken.


Mrs. Pipkin,


everything is over between me and Mr. Montague.


As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him.


And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too.


As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him.


I'm well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle.


And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all.


Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all.


We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not together. And there's an end of it.


I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault.


There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say anything more about it.


And are you going to leave, ma'am?


We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin.


Felix,


speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake.


You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock.


All right,


What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother.


I am so sick, mother.


You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?


At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me.


I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?


It hasn't come off.


But how has it not come off?


I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?


You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it.


Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather stay here.


You must have something to eat, Felix.


Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then.


Where is the money, Felix?


I paid it for the ticket,


Is he ill, mamma?


Yes, my dear.


Had you not better send for a doctor?


No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow.


Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything.


I can't. Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined.


Has he done anything, mamma?


No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much better it would be to be childless!


Oh, mamma, do you mean me? Mamma, say that you do not mean me.


It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless.


Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?


Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble.


Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?


Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad.


I have never said so.


But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others.


I don't know what there is to explain. It didn't come off, and of course that knocked me off my legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't another shilling in the world.


The world of London generally knows what it is about, and the London world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it. The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there.


He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all day. Did she go?


So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her.


How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start,


Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?


What money?


They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit.


That would be dreadful,


Had you not better ask him about it?


What do you mean by a large sum?


Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps.


I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune.


He is eating you up, Lady Carbury. You must put a stop to this.


But how?


You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you.


MY DEAR NIDDERDALE,-- Pray come to the Board to-day;--or at any rate come to me in the city. I specially want to speak to you. Yours. A. M.


Did Mr. Longestaffe want to see Mr. Melmotte? Oh;--Mr. Longestaffe wanted to see Mr. Melmotte as soon as possible! Of course Mr. Longestaffe should see Mr. Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr. Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing Mr. Longestaffe. Mr. Melmotte had mentioned Mr. Longestaffe's name twice during the last three days. Would Mr. Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr. Longestaffe seen the "Morning Breakfast Table"? Mr. Melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment a deputation from the Canadian Government was with him;--and Sir Gregory Gribe was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thought that the Canadian Government would not be long,--and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very best to get an interview for Mr. Longestaffe,--more especially as Mr. Melmotte was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend.


I'll just send him a note. I'm commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte.


What's up with the Governor?


Anything particular do you mean? There are always so many things up here.


He has sent for me.


Yes,--you'll go in directly. There's that fellow who does the 'Breakfast Table' in with him. I don't know what he's come about. You know what he has sent for you for?


I suppose all this about Miss Melmotte is true?


She did go off yesterday morning,


But Carbury wasn't with her.


Well, no;--I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He's such a d---- brute, he'd be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand.


You don't like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I've no reason to love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as Cloe. He'd lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour.


Brute!


I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I'm sure he couldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night;--no end of portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy taking a girl to New York! It was plucky.


It was all her doing,


What a fiasco! I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it.


I never talk about the 'Breakfast Table,' We endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended. I have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's friend, I have called to return the money to you.


Oh, indeed,


No doubt you understand all about it.


Yes;--I understand. D---- scoundrel!


We won't discuss that, Mr. Melmotte. I've drawn a cheque myself, payable to your order,--to make the matter all straight. The sum was £250, I think.


I dare say it's all right. But, remember, I don't think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel.


At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's behalf. Good morning. Good morning.


Well, my Lord, and how are you?


fresh as paint.


You don't look down in the mouth, my Lord.


Cheer up, Sam; Don't let your spirits go down. There's many a girl that I know well, Is waiting for you in the town.


Ha, ha, ha, very good. I've no doubt there is,--many a one. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie.


Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me.


A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She's been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody.


She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr. Melmotte.


No;--of course we had her back again from Liverpool.


But they say that she got further than the gentleman.


He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what he is now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I'm very sorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always. She's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy,--that is, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, I want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of course has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury.


I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything.


She won't forgive him. By George, she shan't. She shall hear the whole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever!


I don't know about that, Mr. Melmotte.


Why not? You're not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly as that! He didn't even see her all the time.


That wasn't her fault.


The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale.


The money's all right, I've no doubt. And there isn't a man in all London would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than I would. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. Everybody knows it.


In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it.


To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me the slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she did once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very much changed since then. The thing was off.


She had nothing to do with that.


No;--but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right to complain.


You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come on Sunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday morning about noon? That's all very well for you, young man, but I must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid fortune. Come this way, Nidderdale;--come this way. I must get out without being seen. There are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his mouth.


After all it's only an affair of money,


Then say that I can't wait any longer,


Ah, Mr. Longestaffe, you are the very man I am desirous of seeing.


I have been waiting two hours up in your place,


Tut, tut, tut;--and they never told me!


I spoke to Mr. Grendall half a dozen times.


Yes,--yes. And he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk. I do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that I hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the Board? It's just the time now.


No; I can stay no longer in the City.


I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help myself. And when they get me there I can never get away again.


My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering,


Payments for Pickering! Haven't they been made?


Certainly not, unless made this morning.


There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My second cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at this moment. Let me see;--Pickering! Wasn't there some question of a mortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage.


There was a mortgage, of course;--but that only made three payments necessary instead of two.


But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--something occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't be inconvenienced, Mr. Longestaffe.


It's my son, Mr. Melmotte. He's got a lawyer of his own.


I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money. Oh, yes;--there were three payments to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak to Mr. Smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive. What; you won't come to the Board? I am sorry for that.


Mind, I know nothing. The report has reached me, and if it be true, it shows that Mr. Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It does not concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seems to be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title-deeds.


I must get that money for Longestaffe,


What, eighty thousand pounds! You can't do it this week,--nor yet before this day week.


It isn't eighty thousand pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes to the son, I can put the father off.


You must raise what you can on the whole property.


I've done that already,


And where's the money gone?


Brehgert has had £40,000. I was obliged to keep it up with them. You can manage £25,000 for me by Monday?


Such a time was now present.


If this special seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on the matter.


If only Mr. Melmotte could be got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected during the last forty years,--from the first reform in Parliament down to the Ballot,--had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men.


The Ballot was on the whole popular with the party.


The Ballot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull,--and, in spite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative measure.


It was considered that the Ballot might assist Melmotte at Westminster very materially.


Could anything betray so bad a cause as contradictions such as these?


Could anything be so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned,--in fact, so "Liberal" as a course of action such as this?


The hotter the opposition the keener will be the support.


This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man.


This man was Mr. Melmotte himself.


Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him?


Alfred's more than half afraid of him,


Something really must be done, Mr. Beauclerk. He is making a great many personal enemies.


He's the finest old turkey cock out,


Alfred. I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotte about his manner. They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he doesn't mean it. Couldn't he draw it a little milder?


If you ask me, I don't think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you might make him mild. I don't think there's any other way.


You couldn't speak to him, then?


Not unless I did it with a horsewhip.


My Lord. I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty.


This is Mr. Melmotte. Lord De Griffin, let me introduce you to Mr. Melmotte.


Oh--oh--oh. I am delighted;--ah, yes,


I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty. Will you do me the honour of making my request known to Mr. Wilson?


I hardly know. I'm afraid it's all arranged. I don't know anything about it myself.


You can introduce me to Mr. Wilson.


He's up there, Mr. Melmotte; and I couldn't get at him. Really you must excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him I'll tell him.


I'm not going to stand this kind of thing. It is generally understood, I believe, that the Emperor is to do me the honour of dining at my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm made acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't going to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented to him. Perhaps you'd better let Mr. Wilson know, as a good many people intend to come.


Here's a row. I wish he'd be as good as his word.


He has taken a little wine. Melmotte, upon my word it isn't the thing. They're only Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here,--not a fellow among 'em all who hasn't been in India or China, or isn't a Secretary of State, or something of that kind.


Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball. By George, Alfred! I'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to his Imperial Majesty to-night, by G----, there shall be no dinner in Grosvenor Square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, I suppose, to be able to manage that.


There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his obstinacy,


Bring him up. He's going to do something out in the East, isn't he?


Nothing in India. The submarine telegraph is quite impossible.


My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself. I know my own position and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be d---- if any of the lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday.


If you will come with me, it shall be managed. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be done.


I do wish it,


If you will be so kind as to follow me,


You might as well come, Alfred;--there are two or three things I must settle before I go to bed.


I'm about knocked up,


Knocked up, nonsense! Think what I've been through. I've been all day at the hardest work a man can do.


I mean to let the fellows know what's what. Give and take is a very good motto. If I scratch their back, I mean them to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend ten thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private enterprise. I don't know of any other man of business who could do it, or would do it. It's not much any of them can do for me. Thank God, I don't want 'em. But if consideration is to be shown to anybody, I intend to be considered. The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests.


You might turn the election against you if you said anything the Prince didn't like.


D---- the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as a man of business, not as a courtier,--as a man who understands commercial enterprise, not as one of the Prince's toadies. Some of you fellows in England don't realise the matter yet; but I can tell you that I think myself quite as great a man as any Prince. I'll teach them a lesson before long. Didn't I teach 'em a lesson to-night,--eh? They tell me that Lord De Griffin has sixty thousand a-year to spend. What's sixty thousand a year? Didn't I make him go on my business? And didn't I make 'em do as I chose? You want to tell me this and that, but I can tell you that I know more of men and women than some of you fellows do, who think you know a great deal.


I know nothing about it, and I do not intend to ask. Of course I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I did believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father had consented or not I never enquired. Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the 'Gazette' before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it. A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end,--too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables? No;--it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so can I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate they believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the approval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general.


He has given £200, to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man could spend his money much better than that.


Clap-trap!


The money is not clap-trap, my friend. I presume that the money is really paid.


I don't feel at all sure of that.


Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the election.


And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?


Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,--and I am always for encouraging useful men.


Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?


There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we should say that it is vile in this man.


It's going to the dogs, I think;--about as fast as it can go.


We build churches much faster than we used to do.


Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?


It is very hard to see into the minds of men, but we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury, by following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them.


I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would be done by.


There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be saved even if they have not practised at all times that grand self-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit,--of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in that way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or the causes of them; and do you never judge others after that fashion?


I do not put myself forward as an example.


I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in general. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich and the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the world at large.


But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when Horace wrote.


But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?


In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do you remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured the Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar to post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear Melmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the man to be Conservative member for Westminster?


Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?


I think I know that they are deserved.


That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man is what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of his punishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad time of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps is managed more justly than you think, Mr. Carbury.


My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart,


Very likely,--very likely. Only don't say so to the Prime Minister, or I shall never get any of the better things which may be going.


Have you seen this, Mr. Carbury?


What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongs peculiarly to 'The Surplice.'


That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican Church. Mr. Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man, and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the globe.


Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I'll make you a present of him, and thank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such good riddance.


Mr. Augustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church of St. Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied by a letter from Mr. Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little doubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member, and no inconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during the next session.


That's another dodge, is it?


What do you mean by a dodge, Mr. Carbury? Because money is given for a pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a dodge?


But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave £200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the Bishop exulting in this great act of charity.


I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the Church to which he belonged in his darkness.


And you would be really proud of Mr. Melmotte as a convert?


I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul, but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the great.


The great! oh dear!


A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of Mr. Melmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, it is a great sign to us that the Truth is prevailing.


Do nothing of the kind. If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people. Don't go writing letters.


It's that fellow from 'The Herald' office did it, not me. I don't know how people ought to sit. But that's the reason.


I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house. Who the d---- are you?


I am the Rev. Mr. Barham. I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte.


That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?


I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,


Is it business?


Certainly it is business,


Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the City,


My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith.


Some lunatic. See that there ain't any knives about, Alfred.


No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others.


Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go away.


You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte. If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--


Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not go away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows him.


Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend.


Carbury! D---- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?


You'd better go. Don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow;--but just go.


There shall be no rumpus. I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?


You're in the way,


It's a piece of gross impertinence. Go away.


Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?


What the mischief does he mean?


He wants to know whether you're a papist,


What the deuce is it to him? That's a remarkable thing, very remarkable. I suppose he was in earnest.


Mad as a hatter,


But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant. I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion.


Mad as a hatter, just that and no more.


My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. The truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend that they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em understands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know. I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?


What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about.


I'll have this bar down, at any rate. I look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times. They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes made, and who measures me for my boots!


He insulted me,


Did he intend to insult you?


Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was intent upon that.


He entertains the Emperor of China this very day,


The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?


Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them.


There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose,


Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the world.


He looked like it,--and spoke like it. Think what such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the world! And if he had been against us would he not have said so? Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him.


She'll be sick of him by this time, I should say. What does it matter, if the money's there?


Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?


Mad as a hatter,


I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see to that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred? There's a Dean, I know, for I called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil to him.


Mad as a hatter;--nothing else,


You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as a play to you.


I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir.


D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it. We must go back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room.


Mamma, where are you going? I must see if I can't do something for her,


That's a shame,


Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you. Why should you grudge me the opportunity?


I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale.


Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?


Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better.


Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me.


Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate.


You can't be very fond of him now, I should think.


That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know.


I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmotte.


You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again.


Why did not Sir Felix go?


I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours.


But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say,--out at once.


You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference.


You knew me before you knew him, you know.


What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many people before I knew you.


And you were engaged to me.


You broke it off.


Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us.


If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away.


There's a great deal of truth in what you say.


It's all true, my lord. Every word of it.


I wish you wouldn't call me my lord.


I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I had consented.


There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now.


Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good.


I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool with you.


You don't know why he didn't go.


Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that.


Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale? If you really know, you might as well tell me.


No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?


I don't know. I do love him;--I do indeed. I know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true. I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true.


Say good-bye to me, Marie.


Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more.


Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet. She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be. Upon my word, she's awfully jolly.


I don't know why Mr. Melmotte is to be different from anybody else. When I buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got the tin, and I suppose it's about the same with him. It's all right, no doubt, but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money was paid down.


Of course it's all right. You think you understand everything, when you really understand nothing at all.


Of course I'm slow. I don't comprehend these things. But then Squercum does. When a fellow is stupid himself, he ought to have a sharp fellow to look after his business.


You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. Why can't you trust Mr. Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been the family lawyers for a century.


Melmotte's at Pickering?


I'll look to it. They've got him to sign something when he was tight. I wonder whether his father did it, or old Bideawhile, or Melmotte himself? It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either,


Never did such a thing in my life, and nothing could make me. I'm never tight except at the club, and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn and quartered if I ever signed it. That's flat.


We'll just ferret this thing out quietly,


Yes, it's easy saying that I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and when I'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter.


It is the merest rumour. I have inquired, and there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be substantiated.


They say that the story is believed in the City.


I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The Prince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we be if Mr. Melmotte to-morrow were able to prove the whole to be a calumny, and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of influencing the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on.


And you will go yourself?


Most assuredly. And I hope that you will keep me in countenance. They should remember, that they are also to meet their own Prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a dishonour to him.


Just at present I can only answer for myself,


Is your Grace going?


I usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton,


You've heard about it; haven't you? They're saying all manner of things in the City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming.


How is it that there are so many places empty?


Don't know,


Hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more.


What the deuce do you mean? You've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place.


Can't say anything about it,


I'll be d---- if I don't find out. There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?


Hasn't come, I suppose.


And where's the Lord Mayor? I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?


No; I haven't seen him at all.


But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?


Don't know anything about it.


And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss? There are ever so many people not here. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know.


I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come. If you go on making a row. I shall go away.


Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soon enough.


And this, is what they call royalty in the West!


Where's Sir Gregory?


Ain't he here? No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it? I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very good dinner.


It's very odd, that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be room. I think it is very odd.


It is odd,


You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte,


Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified. Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd; does it not?


Ah; you mean Killegrew.


Yes; Mr. Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made a particular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a Government thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent;--and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come.


I suppose some of them are engaged,


Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses? No, Mr. Beauclerk, that won't go down.


I'm here, at any rate,


Oh, yes, you're here. You're all right. But what is it, Mr. Beauclerk? There's something up, and you must have heard. Is it anything about the election to-morrow?


One never can tell what is actuating people,


If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell me.


I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. You and I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the result.


Well; I suppose it's all right,


Miles, tell me what the row is.


How row?


There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come? Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it at once. Is it about the election?


No, it's not that,


Then what is it?


They got hold of something to-day in the City--about Pickering.


They did, did they? And what were they saying about Pickering? Come; you might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell.


They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think they say.


Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginning well. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting my invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles; that will do.


As for that, my dear. I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's junior partner.


Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner has, in some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr. Goldsheiner anywhere.


I have.


Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr. Melmotte, of course, entertains all the City people. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine here.


May I speak to Sir Damask about it?


Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are little things which a man and his wife must manage together without interference.


Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert, it does sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, that that kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as West-end people.


A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't make the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort of way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my neighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who come here will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir Damask. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr. Brehgert if I were to see him.


You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you said once, you're glad enough to go there.


Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to throw that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don't at all think of asking them to my house. But if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used to it as I am. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner.


He is not a bit like a butcher,


I did not say that he was.


Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?


You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too free behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there he is.


How proud you are of his vices.


He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with me, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say Mr. Brehgert is good-natured.


He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large fortune.


And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a comfort.


If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you find it lonely enough.


Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are trying to be ill-natured, Georgiana.


Why did you say that he was a--butcher?


I said nothing of the kind. I didn't even say that he was like a butcher. What I did say was this,--that I don't feel inclined to risk my own reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. Of course, I go in for what you call fashion. Some people can dare to ask anybody they meet in the streets. I can't. I've my own line, and I mean to follow it. It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would be harder still if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr. Brehgert to come here on Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but as for having him to dinner, I--won't--do--it.


Mamma, there's one thing certain. I shall never do to be poor. And, mamma, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me. Fancy having to live at Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable! And, mamma, I should drive you and papa mad if I were to stay at home always. And what would become of me when Dolly was master of everything?


Dear me. Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr. Todd is--one of us, I suppose.


Yes, and Mr. Brehgert is a Jew. His name is Ezekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew. You can say what you like about it.


I don't say anything about it, my dear.


And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you and I were younger.


Very much changed, it appears,


I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr. Brehgert,


You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel at once, used to call me Ezzy.


Perhaps I shall do so some day,


And ven shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible.


In August!


Vy not, my dear? Ve would have our little holiday in Germany,--at Vienna. I have business there, and know many friends.


I must at any rate ask mamma about it,


Have you heard what's up, Ju?


What is up?


Haven't you been out?


I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that girl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can.


Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are.


Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?


They say Melmotte's been found out.


Found out! What do you mean by found out?


I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought of old Longestaffe.


Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them.


Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money.


Then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them.


Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?


Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe,


They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before long.


Not to-night, Damask!


Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away.


Is Mr. Lupton going?


He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do.


A Cabinet Council!


Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows.


Damask, one thing is certain;--we can't go.


After you've made such a fuss about it!


It is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. You know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?


I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him.


He's a Jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly.


What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?


I suppose you'll go,


Of course we shall,--in about an hour,


Because, you know-- If you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club.


How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night.


All right;--only it's a bore being here alone.


was up. Is there any doubt about our going to-night?


I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there.


Impossible!


It's all very well to say impossible, my dear, but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there. Damask, you must find out.


Find out what?


Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there.


Send John to ask,


He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were you.


What can be the objection? Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come before you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju.


Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if it were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will.


It was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing! He "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off.


It's all right. They're there, safe enough. You are sure that the Emperor is there. As sure as a man can be without having seen him.


I don't understand it at all. Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?


My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start.


no affair of yours. I should go, if it were only for the sake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter.


Nonsense. Mr. Broune sees it quite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour of the Emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothing to offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor.


Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries.


I hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you. I suppose you know about your brother,


I have heard about it. He never told me himself.


Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really loves him,--that ought to go before everything?


I don't quite know. It is so hard to say,


I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? I don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?


Do tell me. Where is he?


He has not been very well lately.


Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what it is to love him as I do;--can't you?


He has been ill. I think he is better now.


Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something? It is cruel, is it not? Tell me,--you must know,--does he really care for me?


Felix hardly ever talks about himself to me,


If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it. If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go through,--oh,--all the world for him. Nothing that papa could say should stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked to any one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person to talk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There's no disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get married without being in love. That's what I think.


It is bad,


But if Felix doesn't care for me! Tell me just what you think. Ah,--I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?


What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my brother,--and of course I love you for loving him.


Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you. Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do you know him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not love me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't the way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from me? Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do know it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all the same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But he ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think he ought to send me word?


Yes, indeed.


You tell him, then,


How do you like the party?


I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?


Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I ever saw. Prince Frederic. Prince Frederic says that he's stuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop in the Haymarket.


I've seen him talk.


He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put anything to eat into his jolly old mouth.


Of course he did.


Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other day?


No, my lord,--I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?


Well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know.


You don't think about it.


Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last three months.


You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not.


That's what I mean,


It isn't what I mean, then.


I'll be shot if I can understand you.


Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness;--they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't he? And who is that in the violet dress;--with all the pearls?


That's the Princess Dwarza.


Dear me;--isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? I don't think it's at all nice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor.


I only wish it could have been done a little cheaper,


Is that you, Miles? Come in. I'm just going home, and came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?


I suppose he went away.


I suppose he did. It went off very well, I think.


Very well. You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him to-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G----, I've had about enough of him.


Why don't you come in, and not stand there? There's no Emperor here now for you to be afraid of.


I'm afraid of nobody,


Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him? We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose.


That's about it,


I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?


That's the best, I should say.


You'll be there by that time? And tell your father he might as well be there as early as convenient.


All right,


Curs! They neither of them will be there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it. Curs! What cowards they are! Good night, Croll. You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?


It's no more than we've all believed all along, and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?


Has Lord Alfred been here? Nor Mr. Grendall? In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?


Ve didn't expect you here to-day,


Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?


Uncommon;--nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?


Because he's an ass and a cur. Alf and his people had got hold of him. There was ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to come. I shall be even with him some of these days.


Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?


Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?


There's ever so much been said,


Said;--yes. You're not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough to believe, if you do.


There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know,


Look you here, Cohenlupe, keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us.


Oh dear, there has indeed!


But any paper with my name to it will come right.


That's nothing;--nothing at all,


And there is nothing;--nothing at all! I've bought some property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. There's no fraud in that.


No, no,--nothing in that.


You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now.


We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr. Melmotte.


And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens that when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to be done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; but as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they say there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of.


And the dinner went off pretty well?


Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet. For a friend to dine with me every day, you know, I should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. But then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves;--eh? We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over the way didn't come.


The Lord Mayor, you mean.


The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was somehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him. You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know.


There don't seem much the matter with him,


He brazens it out, don't he?


Mr. Melmotte, comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends,--for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,--that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr. Melmotte's committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it. I scorn, to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr. Melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!


What is it all about?


I don't know what to make of it. There is a story abroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it.


Do you believe it?


Ah,--I could answer almost any question sooner than that.


Then he can't be rich at all.


Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills.


Will he be returned?


From what we hear, we think not. I shall know more about it in an hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers.


I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool.


It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her.


I saw him talking to her last night.


There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that. I shouldn't think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.


Has it never been done?


Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the 'Pulpit.' How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground. Where's Felix now?


Do not ask me.


Is he doing anything?


He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.


But that wants money. You do not give him any?


I have none to give.


I should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the door if he will not give it up.


And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence.


Is not Mr. Grendall coming?


No, he is not.


Nor Lord Alfred?


Nor Lord Alfred.


The father and son are two d---- curs.


Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?


What do you call wrong?


I don't know;--but I seem to be afraid of something.


I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time.


Then there is something.


Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with £400 a year paid quarterly in advance.


Shall we have to--move again?


How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale? What a poor creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her over. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so.


Then he may flog me. Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging.


We know not how such an opinion forms itself,


but it seems to have been formed.


As nothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the matter.


We have to remind you, that the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to that effect from the Messrs. Longestaffe, father and son, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid to us by you. We are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We do not state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money,--£80,000,--or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate.


What a horrid affair! Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?


I don't know why you were so late,


Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early.


You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault.


My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it.


What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?


You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?


If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so.


Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix things.


I wonder what has made you so ill-natured. You didn't use to be like that.


It's no good abusing me. Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else.


I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.


He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are among the most leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like,--and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.


I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr. Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr. Melmotte is. It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to to be upset and at sixes and sevens. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.


I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party here to-night, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr. Melmotte.


Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.


I am sick of the Melmottes,


And so am I,


We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us a little longer, but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming. We have a few friends coming to-night, Mr. Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana. Mr. Brehgert will be here,


Mr. who?


Mr. Brehgert. I hope I'm not revealing any secret.


I don't understand anything about it. Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?


My dear Georgiana. I supposed your father knew all about it.


I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing. Who is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?


Mr. Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of him. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father.


Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow.


Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?


Yes, papa.


What Mr. Brehgert is he?


He is a merchant.


You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte;--a man old enough to be your father! Is the man a Jew?


Yes, papa,


He is that fat man?


And nearly as old as I am?


No, papa,--not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty.