The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (page 8)

‘What man, Miss Carbury?’

‘Mr Melmotte himself. It’s all horrid from beginning to end.’

‘But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to b the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr Melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage.’

‘Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr Melmotte.’

‘I know he has,’ said Paul.

‘And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don’t you think so, Mr Montague?’ Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. ‘Of course I will never go against mamma,’ continued Hetta, ‘but I always feel that my cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him.’

‘No one has more reason to praise him than I have.’

‘I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I’ll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it;–or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn’t think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he’d got it to spend; but other people are not like that.’

‘You’re thinking of Melmotte.’

‘I’m thinking of everybody, Mr Montague;–of everybody except Roger.’

‘Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do.’

‘I didn’t say he was the only person;–or I didn’t mean to say so. But all my friends–‘

‘Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?’

‘Yes;–I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend,–because you are his friend.’

‘Look here, Hetta,’ he said. ‘It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury,–as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say,–and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself.’

‘Oh, Mr Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that.’

‘I love him better than any man,–as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,–I will leave England at once, and never return to it.’

‘There’s mamma,’ said Henrietta;–for at that moment there was a double knock at the door.

CHAPTER XXXIX – ‘I DO LOVE HIM’

So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother’s absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,–no reason why Paul should not have been there,–but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul’s presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide.

Lady Carbury was the first to speak. ‘This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr Montague.’ Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.

‘Yes,’ he said making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made,–‘I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would come up and see you.’ Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury’s absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.

‘I thought you were at Liverpool,’ said Roger.

‘I came back to-day,–to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?’

‘A little business,’ said Roger.

Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother’s mind, and the way in which her mother’s thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. ‘Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?’

‘Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?’ said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.

‘Indeed, no,’ said Hetta, attempting to laugh, ‘I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?’

‘I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it.’

‘I was very glad indeed to meet Dr Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn’t that a grand idea, Roger?’

‘A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to.’

‘Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour.’

‘But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden.’

‘Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this;–if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world.’

This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. ‘What brought him here?’

‘He brought himself, mamma.’

‘Don’t answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent.’

‘Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up.’

‘You did not know that he was to come?’

‘Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming.’

‘Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?’

‘No;–I am not.’

‘Has he asked you to marry him?’

Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. ‘I do not think he ever has.’

‘You do not think?’

‘I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife.’

‘What has he said? When did he say it?’

Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. ‘Just before you came in, he said–; I don’t know what he said; but it meant that.’

‘You told me he had been here but a minute.’

‘It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it.’

‘He had come prepared to say it.’

‘How could he,–expecting to find you?’

‘Psha! He expected nothing of the kind.’

‘I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was–an accident.’

‘An accident!’

‘It was not intended,–not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;– and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together.’

‘And you;–what did you say?’

‘Nothing. You came.’

‘I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?’ Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. ‘How do you intend to answer him?’ demanded Lady Carbury.

‘I do not know that he will ask again.’

‘That is prevaricating.’

‘No, mamma;–I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else.’

‘He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces.’

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. ‘If so,’ said she, ‘Mr Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte.’

‘It makes me ill to hear you talk,–as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!’ Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.

‘I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them.’

‘Why will you not marry your cousin?’

‘I am not good enough for him.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma,’ she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. ‘Do be kind to me; and pray,–pray,–do believe me.’ Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger’s hotel he said not a word as to Paul’s presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury’s absence to have been accidental,– and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury’s journey to London. ‘I do not wish it to be talked of,’ said Roger after a pause,–‘and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?’

‘You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb.’

‘Just so,–but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her.’

‘Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?’

‘No;–she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,–well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him.’

‘That would be very bad.’

‘He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he’ll be perfect.’

‘He knows nothing about her coming to town?’

‘He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her.’

‘You still believed him?’

‘No;–he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money.’

After that Paul told all his own story,–the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. ‘I never believed in the thing, you know.’

‘Nor did I. But what could I do?’

‘I’m not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognizes. You have to bind your character to another man’s character; and that other man’s character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr Ramsbottom’s character is sufficiently good;–but then you must do exactly what he tells you.’

But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs Hurtle had come to London and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this great difficulty in the matter, too,–that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;–had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all,–the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.

‘It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas and to Oregon,’ said Roger.

‘But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her,’ said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. ‘And what would she do, remaining here?’ continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. ‘I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can.’

‘You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or–any other way.’

‘Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;–before we knew as much as we do now?’

‘I did,–and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,–and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;–not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go and see her if you like it.’

But Paul would not submit to this. He felt he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,–how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,–whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,–that he would never make Mrs Hurtle his wife. ‘I wish it were over, old fellow,’ said Roger.

‘So do I,’ said Paul, as he took his leave.

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be as well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one’s last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realized something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;–nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall– whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the Street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,–so that he might, as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden;–twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;–and an iron-grated door, with the landlady’s name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,–giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,–pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs Hurtle.

‘Mrs Hurtle is out for the day,’ said the girl who opened the door. ‘Leastways, she went out yesterday and won’t be back till to-night.’ Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. ‘Oh laws, Mr Montague, is that you?’ Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognized him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix,–for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury’s intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs Hurtle.

‘Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home.’

‘I’m all right, Mr Montague;–I am. Mrs Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother’s brother’s widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She’s quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There’s a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They’ll be back this evening, and I’ve the children to mind, with the servant girl. I’m quite respectable here, Mr Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me.’

‘Mrs Hurtle has gone down to Southend?’

‘Yes, Mr Montague; she wasn’t quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn’t like she should go alone, as Mrs Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs Hurtle said as she didn’t mind paying for two, and so they’ve gone, and the baby with them. Mrs Pipkin said as the baby shouldn’t be no trouble. And Mrs Hurtle,–she’s most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs Hurtle, sir?’

‘Yes; she’s a friend of mine.’

‘Oh; I didn’t know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn’t come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?’

Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs Hurtle. ‘I’m afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles.’

‘Then they’ve got to be unhappy; that’s all about it, Mr Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can’t live with him, nor yet I won’t try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,–that careful that no one won’t do it again;–did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, ’cause he was that mean he wouldn’t have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn’t nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won’t see me again at Sheep’s Acre, Mr Montague;–nor yet won’t the Squire.’

‘But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home.’

‘John Crumb! Oh yes, there’s John Crumb. There’s plenty of people to give me a home, Mr Montague.’

‘You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought.’

‘Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr Montague. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. Grandfather made me say I’d have him,– but I never cared that for him.’

‘I’m afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won’t find a better man up here in London.’

‘I didn’t come here to look for a man, Mr Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look at me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain’t fit to touch.’ That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger’s fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb’s fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. ‘But there’s Betsy a-crying upstairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute.’

‘I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles.’

‘What does the Squire want o’ me? I ain’t nothing to the Squire,– except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr Montague, of course. I’m a coming, my darling.’

Paul made his way into Mrs Hurtle’s sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. ‘Mr Montague,’ she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped clown the stairs, ‘I don’t see why you need be saying anything about me, you know.’

‘Mr Carbury is up in town looking after you.’

‘What am I to Mr Carbury?’

‘Your grandfather is very anxious about you.’

‘Not a bit of it, Mr Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn’t want me back, and I ain’t a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don’t bother myself about him.’

‘He’s afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy.’

‘I can mind myself very well, Mr Montague.’

‘Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you’ve been in town?’ Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. ‘You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my friend, Mr Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you’ll not tell, I’ll be ever so much obliged.’

‘But I must tell Mr Carbury.’

‘Then I ain’t obliged to you one bit,’ said Ruby, shutting the door.

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby’s reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;–he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs Hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

In regard to Mrs Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;–but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs Hurtle.

CHAPTER XL – ‘UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS’

That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a note from Mr Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city,–who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though Montague lived at the club.

‘DEAR SIR,’ said the letter,

If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.

Yours truly,

AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.

PAUL MONTAGUE, Esq.,
The Beargarden.

Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed,–abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings, he found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs Hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. ‘I am sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H.’ The period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.

On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the Board-room,–especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr Melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.

He had been in Melmotte’s house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hail he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr Melmotte would come to him. Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. ‘My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man, I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain’t always. Brehgert,–from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,–has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it.’ Montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. ‘And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room downstairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the by, Montague, if you’d like to come to the dinner, I’ve got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they’re run after.’ Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from Mr Melmotte’s hands.

But he was very anxious to know why Mr Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. ‘Ah, indeed,’ said Melmotte. ‘There are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You’d be astonished at the persons who have asked. We’ve had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on the other for the Bishop of–; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Tibet. But I’ve got the ticket, if you’ll have it.’ This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. ‘You’re the only man in London, then,’ said Melmotte, somewhat offended. ‘But at any rate you’ll come in the evening, and I’ll have one of Madame Melmotte’s tickets sent to you.’ Paul not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. ‘I am particularly anxious,’ continued he, ‘to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,–next to my own.’

Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. But that was impossible. ‘Have you anything special to say about the Railway?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters.’

‘I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter,’ said Paul.

Melmotte affected to laugh. ‘Well, well; I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for.’

‘He may easily do that.’

‘Well, well. Perhaps you don’t know quite as well as I do.’ The scowl began to appear on Mr Melmotte’s brow. Hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. ‘What I wanted to say to you was this. We didn’t quite agree at the last meeting.’

‘No; we did not.’

‘I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do–everything.’ Mr Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands over his head. ‘Without unanimity we can do–nothing.’ And the two hands fell. ‘Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr Montague.’

‘But suppose the directors are not unanimous.’

‘They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don’t want to see the thing fall to pieces!’

‘Not if it can be carried on honestly.’

‘Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?’ Again the brow became very heavy. ‘Look here, Mr Montague. If you and I quarrel in the Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility on my shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn’t ruin widows and children, Mr Montague. We mustn’t let those shares run down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I’ve known a fine property blasted, Mr Montague, sent straight to the dogs,–annihilated, sir;–so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,–just because one director sat in another director’s chair. I did, by G–! What do you think of that, Mr Montague? Gentlemen who don’t know the nature of credit, how strong it is,–as the air,–to buoy you up; how slight it is,–as a mere vapour,– when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don’t in the least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr Montague?’

‘What do I want?’ Melmotte’s description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. ‘I only want justice.’

‘But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of it.’

‘For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself.’

‘You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter,’ and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details,–‘you had about £6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still.’

‘I don’t know what I’ve got.’

‘I can tell you then. You have that, and you’ve drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That’s not bad interest on your money.’

‘There was back interest due to me.’

‘If so, it’s due still. I’ve nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you’re an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you’d go at the Company’s expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away;–or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,–which it won’t, for the thing is as sound as anything I know,–of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That’s what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip;–but if you don’t like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;–and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven’t the time for it. But,–if it is to be that way,–do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;–the very soul, Mr Montague.’

‘But if I can’t be unanimous?’

‘Well;–if you can’t, and if you won’t take my advice about going out;– which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;–then I can only suggest that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,–some time before the end of the year.’

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. ‘And now, good-bye,’ said Mr Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. ‘I’m afraid that I’m keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting downstairs.’

CHAPTER XLI – ALL PREPARED

During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover’s prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father’s money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June. ‘You may buy what you like, mamma,’ she said; ‘and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they’ll do. But they’ll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn’t have him.’ Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And, ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. ‘Nobody shall manage this matter for me,’ said Marie. ‘I know what I’m about now, and I won’t marry anybody just because it will suit papa.’ ‘Que nous étions encore à Frankfort, ou New-York,’ said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Frankfort or New York; for Paris or for London;–but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.

While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,–though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned,–Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close alongside of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover’s letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,–having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,–was of course ready with a lie. ‘It was the only thing to do, Marie;–it was indeed.’

‘But you said you had accepted some offer.’

‘You don’t suppose I wrote the letter?’

‘It was your handwriting, Felix.’

‘Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He’d have sent you clean away where I couldn’t have got near you if I hadn’t written it.’

‘And you have accepted nothing?’

‘Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven’t got anything from him yet.’ Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200.

‘Nobody ever does who gives papa money,’ said the observant daughter.

‘Don’t they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel.’

‘I wouldn’t have written it, if it had been ever so.’

‘It’s no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we’d best do now?’ Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. ‘I wonder whether you’re right about that money which you say is settled.’

‘I’m quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,–just when we were coming away,–that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won’t,–if I should have a husband of my own.’ Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trousers pockets. He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would be no ‘cropper’ which a man could ‘come’ so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie’s as to the settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. But then there was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. ‘What are you thinking of, Felix?’ she asked.

‘It’s d—- difficult to know what to do.’

‘But you do love me?’

‘Of course I do. If I didn’t love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August.’

‘Some day in August. But that’s all nonsense, you know. They can’t take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won’t marry him. He don’t care a bit for me, and never did. I don’t think you care much, Felix.’

‘Yes, I do. A fellow can’t go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough.’

‘I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be.’

‘Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet.’

‘You’re not going to give it up!’

‘Oh no;–not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn’t know what to do.’

‘You’ve heard of young Mr Goldsheiner, haven’t you?’ suggested Marie.

‘He’s one of those city chaps.’

‘And Lady Julia Start?’

‘She’s old Lady Catchboy’s daughter. Yes; I’ve heard of them. They got spliced last winter.’

‘Yes;–somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they’ve got a house close to Albert Gate.’

‘How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t suppose he’s half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier.’

‘Oh;–ah. Didon knows all about it.’

‘That she does.’

‘But she’d lose her place.’

‘There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she’d arrange it all.’

‘And would you come to Folkstone?’

‘I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn’t mind going to–New York. And then, perhaps, we might–get–married, you know, on board. That’s what Didon thinks.’

‘And would Didon go too?’

‘That’s what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I’d call myself by her name,–any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn’t go together, but we’d get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn’t–marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly.’

‘That’s Didon’s plan?’

‘That’s what she thinks best,–and she’ll do it, if you’ll give her £50 for herself, you know. The “Adriatic,”–that’s a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There’s an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month,–and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it.’

Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers’ ends,–even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show;–no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then,–this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte’s daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.

‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.’

Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. ‘It’s deuced important,’ he said at last with a groan.

‘It’s not more important for you than me,’ said Marie.

‘If you’re wrong about the money, and he shouldn’t come round, where should we be then?’

‘Nothing venture, nothing have,’ said the heiress.

‘That’s all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all.’

‘You’d get me,’ said Marie with a pout.

‘Yes;–and I’m awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But–‘

‘Very well then;–if that’s your love, said Marie turning back from him.

Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. ‘I’ll venture it.’

‘Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!’

‘There’s a great deal to do, you know. I don’t know whether it can be Thursday week.’ He was putting in the coward’s plea for a reprieve.

‘I shall be afraid of Didon if it’s delayed long.’

‘There’s the money to get, and all that.’

‘I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house.’

‘How much?’ asked the baronet eagerly.

‘A hundred pounds, perhaps;–perhaps two hundred.

‘That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won’t that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!’

It was decided that they were to go to New York on a Thursday,–on Thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a day or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get them sent out of the house. Didon was to have £50 before she went on board; and as one of the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks smuggled out of the house, he was to have £10. All had been settled beforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything. ‘And now,’ said Marie, ‘there’s Didon. Nobody’s looking and she can open that gate for you. When we’re gone, do you creep out. The gate can be left, you know. Then we’ll get out on the other side.’ Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.

CHAPTER XLII – ‘CAN YOU BE READY IN TEN MINUTES?’

After leaving Melmotte’s house, on Sunday morning Paul Montague, went to Roger Carbury’s hotel and found his friend just returning from church. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made up his mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would dine early and be with Mrs Hurtle about seven o’clock. But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. ‘It’s not so bad as you thought,’ said he, ‘as she is living with her aunt.’

‘I never heard of such an aunt.’

‘She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn’t want her back again.’

‘Does she see Felix Carbury?’

‘I think she does,’ said Paul.

‘Then it doesn’t matter whether the woman’s her aunt or not. I’ll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay.’

‘Why not send for John Crumb?’

Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, ‘He’d give Felix such a thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as well as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why I should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don’t suppose the girl is all bad,–if she could see the truth.’

‘I don’t think she’s bad at all.’

‘At any rate I’ll go and see her,’ said Roger. ‘Perhaps I shall see your widow at the same time.’ Paul sighed, but said nothing more about his widow at that moment. ‘I’ll walk up to Welbeck Street now,’ said Roger, taking his hat. ‘Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow.’ Paul felt that he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend.

He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that journey to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposal that had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had said already more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and though he was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought that what he had said had been well received. At the moment they had been disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course he would take care that she should know that he had gone in the performance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs Hurtle, and would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him. It was possible that Mrs Hurtle should offer to go with him,–an arrangement which would not at all suit him.

That at any rate must be avoided. But then how could he do this without a belief in the railway generally? And how was it possible that he should have such belief? Mr Ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did Roger Carbury. He himself did not in the least believe in Fisker, and Fisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not be best that he should take the Chairman’s offer as to his own money? If he could get his £6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would certainly think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he could put implicit trust in Melmotte’s personal guarantee for the amount. This at any rate was clear to him,–that Melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.

Now he was again at Mrs Pipkin’s door, and again it was opened by Ruby Ruggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he had to say. ‘The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?’

‘Oh yes, sir, and Mrs Hurtle is expecting you all the day.’ Then she put in a whisper on her own account. ‘You didn’t tell him as you’d seen me, Mr Montague?’

‘Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles.’

‘Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been ill-natured,–that’s all,’ said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs Hurtle’s room.

Mrs Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,–and her smile could be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like most witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm. ‘Only fancy,’ she said, ‘that you should have come the only day I have been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when you took me to the play. I was so sorry.’

‘Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again.’

‘Because I don’t like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn’t well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs Pipkin took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to go herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise.’

‘A cockney Paradise.’

‘Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and fancy that that is the sea?’

‘I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,–so that you know more about it than I do.’

‘How very English it is,–a little yellow river,–and you call it the sea! Ah;–you never were at Newport!’

‘But I’ve been at San Francisco.’

‘Yes; you’ve been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling. Well; that’s better than Southend.’

‘I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It’s generally supposed we’re an island.’

‘Of course;–but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west of Ireland, I suppose you’d find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered.’ Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, but said nothing;–thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregon or the west of Ireland. ‘But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs Pipkin and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid that the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the best of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings. People are just as poor with us;–and other people who happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humble to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as well as you do, but it doesn’t make so much difference.’

‘He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as agreeable as he can to him who can give.’

‘But Mrs Pipkin was so humble. However, we got back all right yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here,–at last.’

‘You knew that I had to go to Liverpool.’

‘I’m not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?’

‘Yes;–one generally gets something done, but never anything very satisfactorily. Of course it’s about this railway.’

‘I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man that I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate little peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank in the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the largest railway. It would be better even than being President of a Republic, because one would have more of one’s own way. What is it that you do in it, Paul?’

‘They want me now to go out to Mexico about it,’ said he slowly.

‘Shall you go?’ said she, throwing herself forward and asking the question with manifest anxiety.

‘I think not.’

‘Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not go? It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will never come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico and have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do anything. Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!’

‘Think what it would be to find one’s self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that one might be out of the way’

‘I would make the means of doing something.’

‘Means are money. How can I make that?’

‘There is money going. There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money with which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fisker get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where does Melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world? Why should not you get it as well as the others?’

‘If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it.’

‘Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your way, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make people there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money.’

He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he should have to discuss before he left her,–or rather the statement which he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which he allowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him farther away from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should not be made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she might be one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied an understanding that his former abnegation of the engagement had been withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a sideway fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship either for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its own basis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the introduction of it infinitely more difficult.

‘You are not in a hurry?’ she said.

‘Oh no.’

‘You’re going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I’ll ask them to let us have tea.’ She rang the bell and Ruby came in, and the tea was ordered. ‘That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers.’

‘I’ve known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday.’

‘There’s some lover, isn’t there;–some would-be husband whom she does not like?’

‘And some won’t-be husband, I fear, whom she does like.’

‘That’s quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn’t the girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,–just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,–is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love without having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. She can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an end. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an end.’

‘If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day.’

‘Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. It isn’t to be done in a day of course, nor yet in a century,–nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that.’

Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions of women’s difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. But having got on to these rocks,–having, as the reader may perceive, been taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,–he did not know how to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his own subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat’s claws, and the possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freely on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in former years. ‘Thanks,’ he said, changing his cup. ‘How well you remember!’

‘Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?’

She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak. ‘Of course I do. Black is your colour;–black and grey; or white,–and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green.’

‘I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things,–as you have, Paul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forebodes, an effete civilization.’

‘I am sorry that mine should be effete,’ he said smiling.

‘You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals. Civilization was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the time of the great painters; but Savonarola and Galileo were individuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexico gives you the chance.’

‘Are the Mexicans a new people?’

‘They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say have bad taste in gowns,–and so the vain ones and rich ones send to Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally good. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine workmen;–but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul.’ He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his life in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up to cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! And yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,–even though he were willing to devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,–could he immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! It was the unfitness that deterred him and not the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, through it all, he was sure,–nearly sure,–that she was playing her game, and playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. Would it not be better that he should go away and write another letter? In a letter he could at any rate say what he had to say;–and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere to it.

‘What makes you so uneasy?’ she asked; still speaking in her most winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. ‘Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?’

‘Winifred,’ he said, ‘I came here with a purpose, and I had better carry it out.’

‘What purpose?’ She still leaned forward, but now supported her face on her two hands, with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him intently. But one would have said that there was only love in her eyes;–love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the occasion. ‘Stop, my dear,’ she said. ‘Must the purpose be told to-night?’

‘Why not to-night?’

‘Paul, I am not well;–I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs Pipkin is not very charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past,–then carry out your purpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;–then drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort.’

Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. ‘I will not harass you, if you are ill,’ he said.

‘I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,–what Mrs Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?’ Paul suggested Brighton. ‘That is full of people; is it not?–a fashionable place?’

‘Not at this time of the year.’

‘But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;–not that any place can be very far from here.’ Paul, in his John Bull displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four hours. ‘Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima Thule;–not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place except Southend?’

‘There is Cromer in Norfolk,–perhaps ten hours.’

‘Is Cromer by the sea?’

‘Yes;–what we call the sea.’

‘I mean really the sea, Paul?’

‘If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn’t do perhaps.’

‘Ah,–now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?’

‘Well, yes;–I think it is. I was there once, but I don’t remember much. There’s Ramsgate.’

‘Mrs Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don’t think I should like Ramsgate.’

‘There’s the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty.’

‘That’s the Queen’s place. There would not be room for her and me too.’

‘Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance.’

‘And sea?’

‘Sea enough for anything. If you can’t see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, I don’t see why a hundred miles isn’t as good as a thousand.’

‘A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend it isn’t a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;–would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?’

‘A small little place.’

‘Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for me.’

‘They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small.’

‘Paul,’ said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, ‘if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft.’ Then she rose up and came to him, and took his arm. ‘You will take me down, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself.’ She had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. ‘You will do that for old acquaintance sake?’ For a moment or two he made no answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was endeavouring to think;–but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way through it. ‘I don’t think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that,’ she said.

‘No;’ he replied. ‘I will take you down. When will you go?’ He had cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.

‘When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs Pipkin’s baby. Can you be ready in ten minutes?–because I could.’ Paul shook his head and laughed. ‘I’ve named a time and that doesn’t suit. Now, sir, you name another, and I’ll promise it shall suit.’ Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs Hurtle. Should she meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and fetch her.

Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds it utterly impossible that he should be prudent,–as to which, when he thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for prudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.

CHAPTER XLIII – THE CITY ROAD

The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs Pipkin was quite true. Ruby’s father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died leaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep’s Acre farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,–or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge of Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle’s widow at Islington. When therefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with herself in going to her aunt’s house. Mrs Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. ‘I’m all right,’ said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her? This was Mrs Pipkin’s suggestion. Mrs Pipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided ‘That’s as it may be, by-and-by,’ said Ruby.

Then she told all the story of John Crumb;–how she hated John Crumb, how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. Mrs Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get them;–but bound to live. She gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was ‘dead-set’ against John Crumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as a decent house over her head,–and victuals. ‘What’s all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can’t do for you?’ Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn’t going to be put off it. Mrs Pipkin’s morals were good wearing morals, but she was not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover she must. Mrs Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs Pipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre once and again,–by herself as far as Mrs Pipkin knew, but probably in company with her lover,–and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a girl,–but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs Pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was right. Sir Felix’s name had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,–not altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather’s landlord. The Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr Mixet,–and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, ‘the fat would be in the fire.’

‘Who do you think was at our place yesterday?’ said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,–half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, ‘incognito,’ with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby. He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,–when they had any. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world? But yet, as she sat sipping her lover’s brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,–oh, so beautiful!– was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon–marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her. Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even Mrs Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. ‘Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?’

Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him to New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. ‘Who was it, Ruby?’

‘A friend of the Squire’s, a Mr Montague. I used to see him about in Bungay and Beccles.’

‘Paul Montague!’

‘Do you know him, Felix?’

‘Well;–rather. He’s a member of our club, and I see him constantly in the city–and I know him at home.’

‘Is he nice?’

‘Well;–that depends on what you call nice. He’s a prig of a fellow.’

‘He’s got a lady friend where I live.’

‘The devil he has!’ Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury’s suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference for Paul Montague. ‘Who is she, Ruby?’

‘Well;–she’s a Mrs Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she’s an American. She’s got lots of money.’

‘Is Montague going to marry her?’

‘Oh dear yes. It’s all arranged. Mr Montague comes quite regular to see her;–not so regular as be ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed as they’re to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it’ll be the same with you?’

‘Wasn’t John Crumb regular, Ruby?’

‘Bother John Crumb! That wasn’t none of my doings. Oh, he’d been regular enough, if I’d let him; he’d been like clockwork,–only the slowest clock out. But Mr Montague has been and told the Squire as he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire’s coming about John Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?’

‘Tell him to mind his own business. He can’t do anything to you.’

‘No;–he can’t do nothing. I ain’t done nothing wrong, and he can’t send for the police to have me took back to Sheep’s Acre. But he can talk,–and he can look. I ain’t one of those, Felix, as don’t mind about their characters,–so don’t you think it. Shall I tell him as I’m with you?’

‘Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?’

‘I didn’t know. I must say something.’

‘Tell him you’re nothing to him.’

‘But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o’nights; I know she will. And who am I with? He’ll be asking that.’

‘Your aunt does not know?’

‘No;–I’ve told nobody yet. But it won’t do to go on like that, you know,–will it? You don’t want it to go on always like that;–do you?’

‘It’s very jolly, I think.’

‘It ain’t jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That’s jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. And that’s not the worst of it.’

‘What is the worst of it?’

‘I’m pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am.’ And now Ruby burst out into tears. ‘Because I wouldn’t have John Crumb, I didn’t mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won’t. But what’ll I do, if everybody turns against me? Aunt won’t go on for ever in this way. She said last night that–‘

‘Bother what she says!’ Felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.

‘She’s right too. Of course she knows there’s somebody. She ain’t such a fool as to think that I’m out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. There;–that’s what she says. And she’s right. A girl has to mind herself, though she’s ever so fond of a young man.’

Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped, for the waiter and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making any direct reply to Ruby’s importunities. He was going to New York very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. She was an ‘awfully jolly girl,’ and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better, perhaps, than the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn’t going to give himself any ‘d—d trouble.’ The idea of John Crumb coming up to London in his wrath had never occurred to him,–or he would probably have hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he was doing now. ‘Let’s go in, and have a dance,’ he said.

Ruby was very fond of dancing,–perhaps liked it better than anything in the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room with her lover’s arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than that;–and such moments were too precious to be lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that night.

‘And now I must go,’ she said at last. ‘You’ll see me as far as the Angel, won’t you?’ Of course he was ready to see her as far as the Angel. ‘What am I to say to the Squire?’

‘Say nothing.’

‘And what am I to say to aunt?’

‘Say to her? Just say what you have said all along.’

‘I’ve said nothing all along,–just to oblige you, Felix. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?’

He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. ‘If you bother me I shall cut it, you know.’

‘Cut it!’

‘Yes;–cut it. Can’t you wait till I am ready to say something?’

‘Waiting will be the ruin o’ me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs Pipkin won’t have me no more?’

‘I’ll find a place for you.’

‘You find a place! No; that won’t do. I’ve told you all that before. I’d sooner go into service, or–‘

‘Go back to John Crumb.’

‘John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He’d make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy.’

‘I didn’t tell you to come away from him,’ said Sir Felix.

‘Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;–didn’t you? And you told me you loved me;– didn’t you? And that if I wanted anything you’d get it done for me;– didn’t you?’

‘So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that’s what it is.’

‘No it isn’t;–and I won’t have your money. I’d sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!’

As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought, didn’t believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn’t the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation ‘confounded impudence’ on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. ‘Marry, Ruby! No, I don’t ever mean to marry. It’s the greatest bore out. I know a trick worth two of that.’

She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to go after any young woman? ‘And what do you mean that I’m to do, Sir Felix?’ she said.

‘Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother.’

‘Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I’m to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don’t mean to marry, never at all! Never?’

‘Don’t you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?’

‘Of course I does. There’s the Squire. But he don’t come asking girls to keep him company.’

‘That’s more than you know, Ruby.’

‘If he did he’d marry her out of hand,–because he’s a gentleman. That’s what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,–not to do her any harm, I’m sure,’ and Ruby began to, cry. ‘You mustn’t come no further now, and I’ll never see you again–never! I think you’re the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as don’t keep their words. Things turn up, and they can’t. Or they gets to like others better; or there ain’t nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won’t. You go your way, and I’ll go mine.’ In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt’s door. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover’s easy promise, in order that the present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt’s house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of her.

On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs Pipkin to attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs Pipkin had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her mind that Ruby’s present condition of independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,–when she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth as a baronet’s bride,–now in her solitude she almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never see him again;–that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet,–that he should have said never;–that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cure her misery.

Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was comfortably settled with her aunt. ‘We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going.’

‘Grandfather’d been that cruel to me that I couldn’t tell him.’

‘He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours.’

‘To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn’t the way to make a girl keep her word;–was it, Mr Carbury? That’s what he did, then;–and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I’ve been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn’t have treated me like that. No girl’d like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed.’

The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard a few words from Mrs Pipkin as to Ruby’s late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also was quite familiar with John Crumb’s state of mind. John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and ‘see the matter out,’ as he would say himself, if she did not go back. ‘As you found yourself obliged to run away,’ said Roger, ‘I’m glad that you should be here; but you don’t mean to stay here always?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby.

‘You must think of your future life. You don’t want to be always your aunt’s maid.’

‘Oh dear, no.’

‘It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr Crumb.’

‘Oh, Mr Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr Crumb. I don’t like Mr Crumb, and I never will like him.’

‘Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr Crumb, unless you please.’

‘Nobody can’t, of course, sir.’

‘But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won’t marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you.’

‘Nobody won’t ruin me,’ said Ruby. ‘A girl has to look to herself, and I mean to look to myself.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost.’

‘I ain’t a going to the devil,’ said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.

‘But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He’s as bad as bad can be. He’s my own cousin, and yet I’m obliged to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I’m almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;–none.’ Ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in one corner of the room. ‘That’s what Sir Felix Carbury is,’ said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. ‘And if I understand it rightly,’ he continued, ‘it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat.’

‘I don’t care about any man’s coat,’ said Ruby; ‘but John hasn’t ever a word to say, was it ever so.’

‘Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace.’ Ruby struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of speech at the moment. ‘He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any disgrace?’

‘There ain’t no disgrace, Mr Carbury.’

‘No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If you are not unfit to be an honest man’s wife, go back and beg that man’s pardon.’

‘John Crumb’s pardon! No!’

‘Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little.’

Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. But she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, and he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,–and also a dumb nobility.

‘I’ll tell you what will take place,’ continued Roger. ‘Mr Crumb won’t put up with this you know.’

‘He can’t do nothing to me, sir.’

‘That’s true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he’d injure you if he could? You don’t know what a man’s love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?’

‘John’s mortial strong, Mr Carbury.’