But he was angry with you about Mr. Crumb. When a young woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word. Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry that you don't like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now.


I am agoing,--I suppose,


I shall write and tell Mr. Crumb where you are placed.


Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain't nothing to him.


I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken.


You can forget that, Mrs. Hurtle. Pray don't write. I don't want him to know as I'm in service.


I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose you care much now what he hears about you.


Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him to know.


What harm can it do you?


Well, I don't want him to know. It is such a come down, Mrs. Hurtle.


There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to be ashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do;--wasn't it, Ruby?


I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs. Hurtle; only why couldn't he say what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him? What would you feel, Mrs. Hurtle, if a man was to come and say it all out of another man's mouth?


I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last. You know he meant it.


Yes;--I did know that.


And you know he means it now?


I'm not so sure about that. He's gone back to Bungay, and he isn't no good at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh,--he'll go and get somebody else now.


Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better tell him. I know what would happen.


What would happen, Mrs. Hurtle?


He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a place you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say the word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs. Buggins'. I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you did before.


But I'm to go to Mrs. Buggins' to-morrow.


We'll send to Mrs. Buggins and tell her to get somebody else. You're breaking your heart about going there;--are you not?


I don't like it, Mrs. Hurtle.


And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn't good at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester man in the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a woman better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with it? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metal isn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't think now he was a very fine fellow.


He was so beautiful, Mrs. Hurtle!


But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. Well, Ruby, you have one more choice left you. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs. Buggins?


He wouldn't come, Mrs. Hurtle.


Leave that to me, Ruby. May I bring him if I can? And there shall be no more nonsense?


No,


DEAR MR. CRUMB, If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby Ruggles all that you desire. Yours faithfully, WINIFRID HURTLE.


She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done for young women in my time, and I'm not at all so sure that she has deserved it.


John Crumb will think she has.


John Crumb's a fool;--and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no patience with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for you, Mrs. Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, Mrs. Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done.


By George! Perhaps I oughtn't to have promised,


Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me,


You weren't there to be asked, old fellow.


Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my absence. It was a very unprofessional thing on his part, and so I shall take an opportunity of telling him.


It was you told me to go.


Well;--yes. I wanted you to see what they were at in that room; but I told you to look on and say nothing.


I didn't speak half-a-dozen words.


You shouldn't have spoken those words. Your father then is quite clear that you did not sign the letter?


Oh, yes;--the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest.


That's a matter of course. All men are honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side. Bideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to prevent his getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay the money on Friday, has he?


He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street.


I don't believe a word of it;--and I'm sure Bideawhile doesn't. In what shape will he bring it? He'll give you a cheque dated on Monday, and that'll give him two days more, and then on Monday there'll be a note to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should be no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into another. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything.


I suppose we can't help ourselves now. You're to be there on Friday. I particularly bargained for that. If you're there, there won't be any more compromising. If I was a sharp fellow like you, you know, of course I should get along better; but I ain't, you know.


You know what's up now;--don't you?


A good deal will be up soon,


Cohenlupe has gone!


And to vere has Mr. Cohenlupe gone?


He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don't want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him. Nobody seems to know what's become of him.


New York,


They seem to think not. They're too hospitable in New York for Mr. Cohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on the continent somewhere,--half across France by this time; but nobody knows what route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the old boy;--eh, Croll? I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall,


Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to stay.


There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway scrip.


Our governor knew noding about dat,


He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been kept up another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly a million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the bank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayor about the Pickering title-deeds?


It's a bad thing,


Yes;--it is bad. He had a vast amount of my property in his hands. Where has he gone? It never rains but it pours. Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been worse than I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousand pounds at my banker's,--loose cash,--before the month was out.


Yes, indeed,


But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably jealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men will say that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster there has been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that affair of the dinner was planned,--planned by G----, that it might ruin me. It was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of a building. It is hard for one man to stand against all that when he has dealings so large as mine.


Very hard, Mr. Melmotte.


But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the real stuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing that comes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if the stuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose I shall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court.


I should say so, Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Brehgert never leaves much before six.


So Cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the City to-day,


He has gone,


I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for large dealings.


Yes, you did,


Well;--it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?


You will leave them with me this evening,


Oh, Wednesday! Of course it is,


Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?


A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or in Grosvenor Square?


They are here.


Then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about wool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?


Yes; I understand.


Why don't you speak, then?


What is going to happen, Melmotte?


How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's work is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothing can hurt you.


Can they hurt you, Melmotte?


Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be borne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft all my life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft now.


Shall we have to move?


Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving as though that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you like to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?


Are they going to send you to prison?


Hold your tongue.


Tell me, Melmotte;--are they going to?


I didn't ask you to come here for a scene. Do as I bid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan't answer them.


Is it anything special? Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study.


Well, Croll, what brings you here so early?


Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night,


Eh!


And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all.


Mr. Brehgert came to me, because one signature was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'd bring them to you in the morning. It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte. I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr. Melmotte.


Not back at the office, Croll?


I tink not;--no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it. Adieu.


Papa. I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday.


Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now.


If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether he does or not.


What makes you think that, Marie?


I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there. I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more.


Was he uncivil to you?


O dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how. I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?


What do you mean?


Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?


He is a penniless adventurer.


But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him.


Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?


Never, papa.


Or heard from him?


Not a line.


Then what makes you think he would marry you?


He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in Germany.


We could do that just as well without your marrying.


But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else.


He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you.


He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand. He's as good as anybody else.


It can't be done, Marie.


Why can't it be done?


There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him? And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage.


You don't want me to sign the papers?


No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter.


I won't,--if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more.


I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you.


I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury. I am Marie Melmotte.


Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.


Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street.


Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.


I want to see him. I suppose he told you everything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and telling you.


I thought it was all off,


I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true.


I am afraid, that it would not be suitable.


Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable.


I understand that your papa is opposed to it,


Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare to do it, why can't he?


My son is up-stairs. I will go up and speak to him.


Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him.


I couldn't go down to her, with my face all in this way.


I don't think she would mind that.


I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to Liverpool.


I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you.


What's the use of that, if he is ruined?


What shall I say to her?


She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again.


Miss Melmotte, my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance.


That is his message;--is it? Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury.


Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me.


No;--no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him.


I wonder where he is,


They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in Longestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. The man has got his place in the country and his house in town. There's Nidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all.


This is awful;--ain't it?


It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are concerned,


Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understand it all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was certainly there.


And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago, but he isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in time for you.


There's Brown. He'll be able to tell us where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was off to the continent after Cohenlupe.


Do you know anything about it?


Secretary of State for the Home Department

I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is a general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whether they've got their evidence together.


He's a ruined man, I suppose,


I doubt whether he ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;--he has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal expenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he learns the truth.


Have you been up with Marie to-day?


No;--I've not,


Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make you comfortable.


I'll tell you what it is. I think you had better see my governor again, Mr. Melmotte.


There's nothing wrong, I hope.


Well;--I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only just came down to enter an appearance.


Good night, my boy,


You know what has happened, Nidderdale?


About Melmotte, you mean?


Yes, about Melmotte. He has been arrested in his own house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery.


I wish he had, with all my heart. If you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking to me as though everything were all right.


Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken under a warrant from the Lord Mayor.


The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisoner himself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't on his legs before long.


You needn't think so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean any offence.


I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;


Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing else? No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him,--without a word. You won't say anything,--will you, mamma? There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understand you. I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that.


He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning,


It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more.


He is quite unworthy,


I can't bear to--have him--abused,


My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time. But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once.


Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say any more.


But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of course you must be married.


There is no of course at all.


Of course you must be married, and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune.


Money to Mr. Broune!


Yes,--to Mr. Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr. Broune told me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--your cousin and Mr. Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out of London,--probably abroad.


Of course I shall go with you.


It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!


Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of me always as though I were a burden?


Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want.


Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?


Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown nonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger.


This is horrid. Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly,--and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite--quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse.


If the girl has got the money--


I don't believe a bit of it. From all that I can hear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that way. I would not have anything to do with it.


You think it is all over with the Melmottes?


A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested. But as I came away from my room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to stand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property.


What a wonderful career it has been!


Yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by his reckless personal expenditure.


Why did he spend such a lot of money?


Because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his competitors.


You think he has committed forgery?


Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet.


Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her.


Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side, and I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his. At any rate do not think of it any more. Ah, there. I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion.


He doesn't owe a shilling, and he is really a fine gentleman.


But if she doesn't like him?


Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love.


A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense.


Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the ground like this Mr. Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight since we all thought him the greatest man in London.


DEAREST HETTA, I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before I had ever seen you, and that I have certainly never wavered in my determination since I saw you. I can with safety refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so determined, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.


I wonder whether it's true. He has an appointment to meet me and my governor at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep his appointment, you know, if he's in prison.


You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that,


I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. He had no more right than you have to give up the property. Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to speak to him since he cut up so rough the other night.


Yes;--I left him in the House half an hour ago.


People are saying that he has been arrested.


I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when I left the House. I suppose you were about right the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understand what it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us.


Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me. I think you're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel. Suppose we have a rubber of whist. By George, I should like to have seen that!


I am very glad I was not there,


I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it.


You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't earn the money.


I suppose you were drinking last night,


Not particular. The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that.


I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne. Well;--what have you got to say about all this?


What have you got to say?


You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it.


I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own that. I suppose the whole thing is over?


I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own money. What the devil does that matter? You're not going to marry the man himself.


I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now.


And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?


I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else. At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery.


I can't see what that has to do with you.


I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money.


Then you may just go to the devil. They tell me, that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money.


A Jewess,


What difference does that make?


Oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. Have you heard any sum named, sir? There are two sisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each.


They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year.


It's only for her life, sir.


She could insure her life. D----me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?


I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it. You see, sir, I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It 'd save a deal of trouble.


If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away,


I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street,


You'd better go and see. Go and see Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid over.


He knows that already. Is there anything the matter?


Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship.


They've taken him to prison! What is it then? He can't be dead. Mr. Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him myself. How did he die?


Mr. Melmotte is--dead. This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he--died?


It was--poison. There has been a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there he was,--poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us.


What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are.


Don't you go and make a fool of yourself. This is just one of those times when a man may ruin himself by being soft-hearted.


He may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his advantage that which I do not think he has a right to exact from me.


I thought you would come when I sent for you.


Of course I came.


I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. You won't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more of all those things which he was planning? You know what has happened?


Your servant told us.


What are we to do? Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poor papa! Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered I wish that I could be dead too.


Has your mother been told?


Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment. It was better that it should be so;--better at last. But we have no friends who would be considerate enough to try to save us from sorrow. But I think it was better. Mamma is very bad. She is always nervous and timid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What ought we to do? It is Mr. Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it to-morrow.


He will not mind that now.


Where must we go? We can't go back to that big place in Grosvenor Square. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and the policemen?


I will do that.


But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should I ask you to do anything?


Because we are friends.


No, no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I have been an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a person like you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor papa;--poor papa!


I wish I knew what might comfort you,


How can there be any comfort? There never can be comfort again! As for comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one trouble after another,--one fear after another! And now we are friendless and homeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have.


Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?


I think he had ever so many,--but I do not know who they were. His own clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left him yesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; but now that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the name of one of them. Mr. Miles Grendall used to be with him.


I do not think that he could be of much service.


Nor Lord Alfred? Lord Alfred was always with him till very lately. I suppose not. They only came because papa had a big house. Oh, what a life it has been! And now,--now it's over. Who are they?


Don't we wish we may get it? I knew I'd got a coat just like that, and I never could make out what my fellow had done with it.


was no more. Dead!


Dead!


Dead! Who's dead?


It's about what I expected,


Are you in the house here?


She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebody to tell her something. I must go up to her again now.


Had you seen him before?


No indeed. I only came down when I heard your voices. I fear it will be rather bad for you;--won't it?


He was regularly smashed, I suppose?


I know nothing myself. He talked to me about his affairs once, but he was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything. I believed him then. How it will go, I can't say.


That other thing is all over of course,


They had come to see him. There was some appointment. He had told them to be all here at this hour.


They didn't know, then?


Nothing,--till the man told them.


And did you go in?


Yes; we all went into the room. I think the best thing I can do, is to go to Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom he chiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, because he has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find out Croll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyer to arrange everything for you.


And where had we better go to?


Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?


Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfort would be the best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? And couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr. Longestaffe's house? And now, my lord, I suppose that I never shall see you again,


I don't know why you should say that.


Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be trouble enough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't think it has been my fault.


Nothing has ever been your fault.


Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindest people I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for different reasons, but I do not want you to come back.


Good-bye, Marie. I shall always remember you.


And dere vas a leetle ting he lay himself open by de oder day, dat vas nasty,--very nasty. My lor, de money of de yong lady is all her own. Nobody can toch it, not if he vas in debt millions.


I am very glad to hear it for her sake,


She's a coomin; she's a coomin,


I am delighted to hear it. She has made it up with her grandfather?


Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me. Know'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd she would.


Has she written to you, then?


Well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn't the way they does it. But it's all as one.


She is a lady, who do be living with Mrs. Pipkin; and she is a lady as is a lady. True, squoire! I ha' nae a doubt it's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was to blame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into him when I first heard as he was arter her. It's that as girls like. So, squoire, I'm just going again to Lon'on right away.


You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin to yourself?


Not in the least, Mr. Crumb.


That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and Ruby's once spliced, I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first day as he'll come to Bungay. Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire,


MY DEAR ROGER,-- Though I know that you have cast me off from you I cannot write to you in any other way, as any other way would be untrue. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to you in the name of justice. You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself. She had accepted me, and therefore I am justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me. But she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right. Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose it was Felix, and that he had learned it from those people at Islington. But she has been told that which is untrue. Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. She supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months, although during that very time I have asked for and have received the assurance of her love. Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs. Hurtle,--as to which nothing at present need be said,--it is certainly the truth that her coming to England was not only not desired by me, but was felt by me to be the greatest possible misfortune. But after all that had passed I certainly owed it to her not to neglect her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one. I went down to Lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place to her as one known to myself, and because I could not refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and you know also, as no one else does, that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been constrained to show her. I appeal to you to let Hetta know that this is true. She had made me understand that not only her mother and brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the story of my acquaintance with Mrs. Hurtle. Neither Lady Carbury nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it. You, and you only, have known the truth. And now, though at the present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell Hetta the truth as you know it. You will understand me when I say that I feel that I am being destroyed by a false representation. I think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of setting me right, at any rate as far as the truth can do so. I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that. Yours always. PAUL MONTAGUE.


I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I do not know that I have any that I wish to tell in your favour, or that I could so tell if I did wish. I think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, and which you say no one else can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect. You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole!


By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?


They say that the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them,


By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all done without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties.


Mr. Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely necessary, but he will of course see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible.


I have suffered great wrongs, but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience.


Of course there's a difference between me and you. In our affairs, we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money.


Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard.


I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely.


I suppose so.


It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of our house. The long and the short of it is that I shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds.


That's a large sum of money.


Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you.


It was so,


No doubt;


Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would maintain a second house when we should be married.


It was impossible,


It would have been quite possible as things were when that proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe.


There were other reasons,


There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not the slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason.


Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert; why mention this now? The subject is painful.


Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman. I am sure, that I behaved like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself.


Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended.


I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend.


The Emperor has left Europe at last. Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interest to-day.


I am so tired,


I hope I am not adding to your fatigue,


Oh dear no. It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have been working, oh, with such diligence!


Oh,--a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?


You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I have done my part of the work. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Alf?


I? Oh dear no; I never write anything.


I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most. One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! One loves the loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion those who are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's own sagacity and knowledge.


How very nice!


But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the coin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. The heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found to-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so cheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument, to-day I feel it to be only too heavy for a gravestone!


One's judgment about one's-self always does vacillate,


And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly of one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics.


Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carbury,--at least not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. I think that when I gave up the 'Evening Pulpit,' I left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business.


You given up the 'Pulpit'?


Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course that I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again.


And you are no longer an editor?


I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while I was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from.


Where did it come from?


Where should it come from but the 'Breakfast Table'? Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know he is the most jealous.


That is so little,


It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in Parliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capable as an editor.


No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you.


The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. I almost regret it.


I dare say you do. I suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?


Some pecuniary interest;--nothing more.


Oh, Mr. Alf,--you could do me such a favour!


Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will.


Will you? I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it right, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained. Did I?


Certainly not.


But now that you have left it yourself,--if you would have the 'Wheel of Fortune' done for me,--really well done! The 'Wheel of Fortune'! That is the name of my novel. Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but know how I want such assistance!


I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carbury.


Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it.


Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits.


Don't say that, Mr. Alf. The 'Evening Pulpit' is like,--oh, it is like,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore. The paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives.


I do not think that it has ever been done by the 'Evening Pulpit.'


I have seen books praised.


Of course you have.


I think I saw a novel spoken highly of.


Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the 'Pulpit' to cry down novels?


I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful;--so grateful.


My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue.


Oh, no,


The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor.


I shall never know your successor.


But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister. Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogised as a mark of friendship.


No, I shan't. I don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don't know how they manage it, but they do. Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the 'New Cleopatra' is a very handsome woman.


At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude, and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be any such lady and any such book,--had never seen her!


Will it be safe there?


Quite safe,--quite safe,


It seemed to be,--put down there,--under the counter!


That's quite right, Lady Carbury. They're left there till they're packed.


Packed!


There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's down in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack.


Do they go by post, Mr. Leadham?


Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the winter.


So he has given up the paper?


Well, yes;--nominally.


Is that all?


I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody likes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now?


He was here yesterday.


And full of triumph, I suppose?


He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new book,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper.


He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say.


That was just it. Of course I did not believe him.


Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see,--what is the name?


The Wheel of Fortune.


Let them send it early,--a day or two before it's out, if they can. I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you.


MADAM,--


That letter was from Mr. Montague?


How can you know that?


I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come frequent.


It was from him. And why not?


Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of his life, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs. Hurtle?


It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over, and there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on Saturday week.


Oh, Mrs. Hurtle!


I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came over here for a certain purpose, and that has--gone by. Now I may just go back again.


I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has.


I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin.


I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind out free. I know it would me if I'd been served in that way.


If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to the gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never speak of it again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you.


Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't only my feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings only, as their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a godsend you've been to me this summer;--have I? I've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're going away!


I suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go,


She don't deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a word about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being better than Mrs. Buggins's children. That's all.


She'll be all right when he has once got her home.


And I shall be all alone by myself,


DEAR MISS CARBURY,-- If you could make it convenient to yourself to call here either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and four, I shall be very happy to see you. Yours sincerely, WINIFRID HURTLE.


Hetta,


why don't you speak to me?


Hetta, why don't you speak to me?


Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy.


What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?


None other at all,


What folly it is,--I will not say only to speak like that, but to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!


How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I had owned to you that I loved a man,--after I had owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself,--I could have myself separated from him, and then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me.


You are ignorant of the world, Hetta,


I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate.


Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? In what little you see around you do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts? Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague.


Marie Melmotte!


She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat dry bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she thinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has a fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none she must allow herself to be chosen.


Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?


She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin Roger, you know--


Mamma, you may as well believe me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart.


How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost contumely?


I know nothing of any contumely. What reason have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that I have any right whatever to be angry with Mr. Paul Montague.


Oh laws,--Miss Carbury! Yes;--sure enough she must be Felix's sister.


Miss Carbury. I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing you. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?


And so you have come to see me. Sit down so that I may look at you. I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury.


I am glad at any rate that you are not angry.


Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me I should have declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to see you. It is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were an American I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is an Englishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do, or what can I say?


He told me that you could tell me the truth.


What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarrelled with him too. Is it not so?


Certainly I have quarrelled with him.


I am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such caution with you. What is it, Miss Carbury?


I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife. Because,--oh, because--. Surely he ought, if it is true that he had once promised to marry you.


That certainly is true.


That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle interfering with him. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?


And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me ask you. I have not been unjust.


I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. To me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide. Because I asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not to have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I followed him here to England--because I loved him. I came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He had told me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country,--I will not say a broken-hearted woman, for I will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him,--or I would; or a bullet,--or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice.


You have been very kind,


It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself have declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me.


Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, do not say that of me!


But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman,--and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the touch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery. so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifrid Hurtle. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help.


Hetta, wherever have you been? Mamma,


Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind,


Yes, mamma. I have been unjust, and I must do so.


It will be asking him to come back to you.


Yes, mamma:--that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be friends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me my love?


You have sent him back his brooch,


He shall give it me again. Hear what I have done. I have seen that American lady.


Mrs. Hurtle!


Yes;--I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman.


And she has told you wonderful lies.


Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favour.


I can well believe that. What can any one say in his favour?


But she told me that which has assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will show you the letter.


Any letter to him, I will tear,


Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself.


This is a terrible business,


He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way.


He was utterly ruined.


He wouldn't have been ruined,--and couldn't have thought so if he'd known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd have understood how to play it.


We don't think much of the South Central here now,


Ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of course, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit.


There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself.


I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!


I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco,


Bu'st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu'st up? D'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?


He took poison.


Or p'ison either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'm going to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm sorry for him because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done 'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?


And now what about Winifrid Hurtle?


What makes you ask? She's in London.


Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing that he'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars.


He's not dead then?


Dead!--no, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet.


But she divorced him.


She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood.


I'm not thinking of marrying her,--if you mean that.


There was a talk about it in Frisco;--that's all. And I have heard Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days.


I should just go, because I'd taken a salary from the d---- Company, but when there I wouldn't say a word.


I used to sign a paper every quarter,


You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself.


And can that be done over in California?


Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it, if you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte.


And what's that?


After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour.


I hate swells,


Do you now?


Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they say,--and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London.


Oh, don't I?


I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?


I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place.


Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?


Mr. Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?


But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know. I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know,


Dear Mr. Fisker,--I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale.


Upon my word, it's astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?


It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker,


Nor anybody else's either. Of course it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at.


I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum.


Won't he rob you, old fellow?


Of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. One has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along.


You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part with them; and nobody 'll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world talking about it.


I shall do whatever he tells me. I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this country.


I'm willing to go. I don't want to stay in London.


I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?


I don't know anything about that. A man may be very well without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you think Fisker'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he! He ain't slow enough for that.


I think he's a very nice young man,


Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you,


I could not write an answer, and so I came.


You always do the kindest thing that can be done.


I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now,--kind or unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been all the world to me.


Do not reproach me,


No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach any one.


I love you so much for saying that.


Let it be as you wish it,--if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it. And still you will be all the world to me. As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter.


I will be your sister, Roger.


My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child. I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life.


Have you seen him?


Seen whom?


Mr. Montague.


No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am here.


But you will be his friend?


Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly as such things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had seen you. I have come up, to signify my adhesion to this marriage. I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so.


Why should you say so?


Pray, pray, mamma--,


I do not know that it need be so at all. I think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes.


I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague,


Not at all,


Yes; mamma,--yes. It is so. I am engaged to him.


I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent,--nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself.


Mamma!


Paul Montague! The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that.


There has been a quarrel,


Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?


I wrote to him,--and he has not answered me,


The marriage is on every account objectionable. His means are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without my sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no notice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his resentment may be continued.


I think I had better see him. If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage of such an accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his. I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again.


I don't know what letter you mean,


You wrote to her?


Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with Mrs. Hurtle.


She did answer your letter.


I have not had a line from her;--not a word!


What did she say to me?


Nay,--you must ask her that.


But if she will not see me?


She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you this also;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see.


Is that true?


I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly come on such a mission if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of her mother.


She is stronger than her mother,


I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say.


Of course,


You know what my feelings have been, and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be--


I have never quarrelled with you,


If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together.


I do,


And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent to make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, too well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present. By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper.


all one mash of gore,


few sich taps as them.


It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through,


That's out of the question,


I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my own,


She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles,


No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with Mrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give 'em a breakfast.


She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles.


I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat,


You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it,


Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John? It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?


You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?


What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone.


Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why. Ain't she bootiful now?


He is such a fool!


Thou'rt come back then, Ruby,


I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather,


So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?


Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that's my name.


I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that.


Grandfather, that ain't true. Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say, how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?


But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased.


You mean John Crumb.


Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby.


There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all.


Oh Ruby, Ruby. I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain.


What's the odds? Drat it,--you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round? Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners.


I, John,--take thee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;


Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness,


It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet.


He's a good 'un; is he.


Oh, I dare say.


You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby.


A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet.


And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own. He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child.


That's a downright story,


And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs. Crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb.


Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it,


Oh, John,--what nonsense!


It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed.


Georgey, don't you think Mr. Brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any more delay?


What have you got to do with anybody's watch? The watch wasn't given to you.


I think it ought to go back. When papa finds that it has been kept I'm sure he'll be very angry.


It's no business of yours whether he's angry or not.


If it isn't sent George will tell Dolly. You know what would happen then.


I never will speak to George Whitstable again the longest day that ever I live,


My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that,


I do say it. What has George Whitstable to do with me? A miserably stupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over the whole family.


I think Mr. Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back,


Certainly he ought. Georgiana, it must be sent back. It really must,--or I shall tell your papa.


Mamma. I wonder whether papa has any intention at all about me.


In what sort of way, my dear?


In any way. Does he mean me to live here for ever and ever?


I don't think he intends to have a house in town again.


And what am I to do?


I suppose we shall stay here at Caversham.


And I'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent,--only that the nun does it by her own consent and I don't! Mamma, I won't stand it. I won't indeed.


I think, my dear, that that is nonsense. You see company here, just as other people do in the country;--and as for not standing it, I don't know what you mean. As long as you are one of your papa's family of course you must live where he lives.


Oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!--It is horrible--horrible! As if you didn't know! As if you couldn't understand! Sometimes I almost doubt whether papa does know, and then I think that if he did he would not be so cruel. But you understand it all as well as I do myself. What is to become of me? Is it not enough to drive me mad to be going about here by myself, without any prospect of anything? Should you have liked at my age to have felt that you had no chance of having a house of your own to live in? Why didn't you, among you, let me marry Mr. Brehgert?


You know, my dear, that your papa wouldn't hear of it.


I know that if you would have helped me I would have done it in spite of papa. What right has he to domineer over me in that way? Why shouldn't I have married the man if I chose? I am old enough to know surely. You talk now of shutting up girls in convents as being a thing quite impossible. This is much worse. Papa won't do anything to help me. Why shouldn't he let me do something for myself?


You can't regret Mr. Brehgert!


Why can't I regret him? I do regret him. I'd have him to-morrow if he came. Bad as it might be, it couldn't be so bad as Caversham.


You couldn't have loved him, Georgiana.


Loved him! Who thinks about love nowadays? I don't know any one who loves any one else. You won't tell me that Sophy is going to marry that idiot because she loves him! Did Julia Triplex love that man with the large fortune? When you wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte you never thought of his loving her. I had got the better of all that kind of thing before I was twenty.


I think a young woman should love her husband.


It makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way. It does indeed. When one has been going on for a dozen years trying to do something,--and I have never had any secrets from you,--then that you should turn round upon me and talk about love! Mamma, if you would help me I think I could still manage with Mr. Brehgert. You have not got to marry him.


It is too horrid.


Who would have to put up with it? Not you, or papa, or Dolly. I should have a house of my own at least, and I should know what I had to expect for the rest of my life. If I stay here I shall go mad,--or die.


It is impossible.


If you will stand to me, mamma, I am sure it may be done. I would write to him, and say that you would see him.


Georgiana, I will never see him.


Why not?


He is a Jew!


What abominable prejudice;--what wicked prejudice! As if you didn't know that all that is changed now! What possible difference can it make about a man's religion? Of course I know that he is vulgar, and old, and has a lot of children. But if I can put up with that, I don't think that you and papa have a right to interfere. As to his religion it cannot signify.


Georgiana, you make me very unhappy. I am wretched to see you so discontented. If I could do anything for you, I would. But I will not meddle about Mr. Brehgert. I shouldn't dare to do so. I don't think you know how angry your papa can be.


I'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me. What can he do? I don't suppose he'll beat me. And I'd rather he would than shut me up here. As for you, mamma, I don't think you care for me a bit. Because Sophy is going to be married to that oaf, you are become so proud of her that you haven't half a thought for anybody else.


That's very unjust, Georgiana.


I know what's unjust,--and I know who's ill-treated. I tell you fairly, mamma, that I shall write to Mr. Brehgert and tell him that I am quite ready to marry him. I don't know why he should be afraid of papa. I don't mean to be afraid of him any more, and you may tell him just what I say.


Mr. Batherbolt!


She is walking with Mr. Batherbolt almost every day.


But he is so very strict.


It is true, mamma.


And he's five years younger than she! And he's got nothing but his curacy! And he's a celibate! I heard the bishop laughing at him because he called himself a celibate.


It doesn't signify, mamma. I know she is with him constantly. Wilson has seen them,--and I know it. Perhaps papa could get him a living. Dolly has a living of his own that came to him with his property.


Dolly would be sure to sell the presentation,


Perhaps the bishop would do something, when he found that the man wasn't a celibate. Anything, mamma, would be better than the Jew. Of course it is a come-down to marry a curate,--but a clergyman is always considered to be decent.


I have spoken to Squercum, and Squercum won't hear of it. Squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the club very shaky. That's all very well for you, Grasslough; but if you knew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight without preaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise Squercum. I've tried to go alone and I find that does not answer. Squercum's my coach, and I mean to stick pretty close to him.


It is such a pity, because there never has been anything like it.


Smoke all over the house!


No horrid nonsense about closing, and no infernal old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing.


Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That's what I liked,


It's an old story, that if you put a man into Paradise he'll make it too hot to hold him. That's what you've done here.


What we ought to do, is to get some fellow like Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his regular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really think that might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt.


By George, here's Carbury!


Thought you were out of town. Haven't seen you for the last ever so long.


I have been out of town, down in Suffolk. But I'm back now. How are things going on here?


They're not going at all;--they're gone,


Everything is smashed. We shall all have to pay, I don't know how much.


Wasn't Vossner ever caught?


Caught! No;--but he has caught us. I don't know that there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We close altogether next Monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for. Flatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. Indeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece. He's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the cellar.


That don't matter, as Vossner took care that there shouldn't be any wine.


He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we have as a favour.


I suppose one can get a dinner here?


Yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow.


Isn't there any playing?


I haven't seen a card this fortnight. There hasn't been anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been the affair of Melmotte, you know;--though, I suppose, you do know all about that.


Of course I know he poisoned himself.


Of course that had effect. Though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow like that takes poison, I can't understand. Last year the only day I managed to get down in February, the hounds didn't come because some old cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I call that rot.


Melmotte's death was rather awful,


Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. And now they say the girl is going to be married to Fisker. I don't know how you and Nidderdale like that. I never went in for her myself. Squercum never seemed to see it.


Poor dear! She's welcome for me, and I dare say she couldn't do better with herself. I was very fond of her;--I'll be shot if I wasn't.


And Carbury too, I suppose,


No; I wasn't. If I'd really been fond of her I suppose it would have come off. I should have had her safe enough to America, if I'd cared about it.


Come into the smoking-room, Dolly. I can stand most things, and I try to stand everything; but, by George, that fellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him. You and I are bad enough,--but I don't think we're so heartless as Carbury.


I don't think I'm heartless at all. I'm good-natured to everybody that is good-natured to me,--and to a great many people who ain't. I'm going all the way down to Caversham next week to see my sister married, though I hate the place and hate marriages, and if I was to be hung for it I couldn't say a word to the fellow who is going to be my brother-in-law. But I do agree about Carbury. It's very hard to be good-natured to him.


Well;--yes. I've got a travelling companion;--a very pleasant fellow, who knows a lot, and will be able to coach me up in things. There's a deal to be learned by going abroad, you know.


A sort of a tutor. A parson, I suppose,


Well;--he is a clergyman. Who told you?


It's only my inventive genius. Well;--yes; I should say that would be nice,--travelling about Europe with a clergyman. I shouldn't get enough advantage out of it to make it pay, but I fancy it will just suit you.


It's an expensive sort of thing;--isn't it? Well;--it does cost something. But I've got so sick of this kind of life;--and then that railway Board coming to an end, and the club smashing up, and--


Marie Melmotte marrying Fisker,


That too, if you will. But I want a change, and a change I mean to have. I've seen this side of things, and now I'll have a look at the other.


We heard something about it, but we never got the right story.


Yes, a fellow attacked me in the street, coming behind me when I had a girl with me. He didn't get much the best of it though.


Oh;--didn't he? I think, upon the whole, you know, you're right about going abroad.


What business is it of yours?


Well;--as the club is being broken up, I don't know that it is very much the business of any of us.


I was speaking to my friends, Lord Nidderdale and Mr. Longestaffe, and not to you.


I quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction, and am sorry for Lord Nidderdale and Mr. Longestaffe.


What do you mean by that?


Don't let's have a quarrel here,


If we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness,


Of course, if there is to be a fight, I'm good to go out with anybody. When there's any beastly thing to be done, I've always got to do it. But don't you think that kind of thing is a little slow?


Who began it?


There's one comfort, you know,


Yes; it does, and I'm not going to be fool enough to be one of them.


Oh, yes, I meant it fast enough. What's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?


Of course he's a bad fellow. Most fellows are bad fellows in one way or another.


But he's bad all round,


And so this is to be the end of the Beargarden,


If Solomon, Solon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were rolled into one, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom,


Live and learn. I don't think anybody has liked the Beargarden so much as I have, but I shall never try this kind of thing again. I shall begin reading blue books to-morrow, and shall dine at the Carlton. Next session I shan't miss a day in the House, and I'll bet anybody a fiver that I make a speech before Easter. I shall take to claret at 20s. a dozen, and shall go about London on the top of an omnibus.


How about getting married?


Oh;--that must be as it comes. That's the governor's affair. None of you fellows will believe me, but, upon my word, I liked that girl; and I'd 've stuck to her at last,--only that there are some things a fellow can't do. He was such a thundering scoundrel!


We can make up a rubber;--can't we?


I should say not,


I shall not play,


There isn't a pack of cards in the house,


I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall. He hasn't paid me a shilling yet of the money he owes me. And I don't suppose he ever will. He is the biggest scoundrel I ever met,


I know one as big,


I never felt so much like crying in my life. Good-night, old fellows; good-bye. I'm going down to Caversham, and I shouldn't wonder if I didn't drown myself.


So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now? To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague.


There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin.


And that's true, too, Mrs. Hurtle.


Mr. Montague is a gentleman.


I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle.


And Mr. Fisker is--an American citizen.


Indeed now!


Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him. I must go some day, you know.


I suppose you must. I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always. I wish I could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been. There hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most ladylike,--most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your pocket.


Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. But I hear that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as well join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer company just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first of September. By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to call to-morrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes.


Mr. Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle,--of course. I'll see to it myself.


I thought you would come and see me once again before I went. Sit there opposite, so that we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble to you.


Of course I came when you left word for me to do so.


I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own.


I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know that.


I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel as to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she forgiven your sins?


We are friends,--if you mean that.


Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell her that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was. She was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you. Perhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I was sufficient to serve the turn.


Did you say a good word for me?


Well; no; I will not boast that I did. I do not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good of you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite as serviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour without ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behaved to me. I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had thrown me to the winds.


It was not so, my friend.


What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you know! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies. I could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your love for me by English propriety even before you had seen her beautiful eyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all my disgrace,--anxious as I was to be of service. Besides, as I put it, she was sure to be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly you had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!


Winifrid, that is untrue.


That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr. Roger Carbury, who I own is poison to me--


You do not know him.


Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir. I say that he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had become the one stumbling block on your path to happiness.


He never said a word to her of our being there.


Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and how heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return of friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands. Perhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been arranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me.


You do not believe that.


You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve some thanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her that your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. I confessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed to avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on your behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot wheels. And now you have not a word of thanks to give me!


Every word you say is a dagger.


You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as I make. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed bones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you I have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into your heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny, spiritless English girl? But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not because they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that comfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for a moment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking that you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and then will you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round her waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of my words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prick will last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happiness and joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only on retrospects?


I wish I could say a word to comfort you.


You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that you have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfort again. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you all that I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify your treatment of me. He is not dead.


You mean Mr. Hurtle.


Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce which was declared between us was no divorce. Mr. Fisker came here to me with tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I know that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to San Francisco.


I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's daughter.


So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see why we should not suit each other.


They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte.


Why should I object to that? I shall not be jealous of Mr. Fisker's attentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one to whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I may have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of some friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I have travelled half across the ocean with them.


I hope they will be kind to you,


No;--but I will be kind to them. I have conquered others by being kind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should smell of lavender instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair, feminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die rather than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my dreams should come true. I ought to have known that it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all the truth. I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me. Well;--I suppose you had better say good-bye to me. What is the good of putting it off?


God bless you, Winifrid!