"I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself." Henrietta would fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as that proposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. There was no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to despise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.

"I would dare anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand how much it might help us without in any way hurting himself."
Henrietta was silent; but she thought that her cousin was too honest to take part in any such scheme. She was beginning to understand the tortuous manuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.


In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles that she might telegraph to her son. "You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there." Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might too probably understand who was the "She," who was spoken of as being at Caversham, and might understand also the project, and speak of it publicly. But then it was essential that Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday,--and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes and their dinner-party. Again if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carbury's desire to get him down for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighbourhood. Then she returned, and shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the "Breakfast Table." Nobody should ever accuse her justly of idleness. And afterwards, as she walked by herself round and round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere. If the Carburys were unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers. Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But she was thinking of him during every minute of the day,--how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand! Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for her. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? She came to think of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she would not tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him,--because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.

In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles to telegraph to her son. "You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there."
Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might understand who the "She" was, and might also understand the project, and speak of it publicly. But it was essential that Felix should know how great was the opportunity given him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday - and, unless warned, would probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes' dinner-party. But if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. Lady Carbury desired to get him down for as long as possible.
On her return, she shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two on an article for the Breakfast Table. Nobody should ever accuse her of idleness. Afterwards, as she walked by herself round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere.
Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till dinner. But she was thinking of him every minute - how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at least kindness from her! Could it be true that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? She thought of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, yet she would not tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him, because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.


In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs. Yeld, and the Hepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. The party consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,--especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to the master. In this case Mr. Hepworth faced the giver of the feast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and then to his cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the mother of his children.

In the evening the bishop came, and Mrs. Yeld his wife, and the Hepworths, and Father John Barham, the priest. Mr. Hepworth sat facing Roger at the table, the bishop and the priest were opposite each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger turned such matters over much in his mind. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him to the others. Henrietta, watching him, told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had never watched him as she now watched him, since her mother had said that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife.


The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and something of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for clerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortune outside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was very popular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such clergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theology either on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a model bishop. By the very high and the very low,--by those rather who regarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish,--he was looked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea in either of those boats. He was an unselfish man, who loved his neighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed,--or even to hold one, if it be necessary that a man should understand and define his creed before he can hold it. Whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by, any inward misgivings, who shall say? If there were such he never whispered a word of them even to the wife of his bosom. From the tone of his voice and the look of his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by that agony which doubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. And yet it was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith, or entered into arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it. He was diligent in preaching,--moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfare of his clergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. The edifice of every church in his diocese was a care to him. He laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese than the Bishop of Elmham.

The bishop was a tall man of sixty, healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and a double chin. He was a man of fortune; and, as he had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country - where he was very popular. Among the poor he was idolized, and by such clergy as were not enthusiastic about their theology, he was regarded as a model bishop. By those of the very high and the very low church, he was looked upon as a time-server.
An unselfish man, he loved his neighbour and forgave all trespasses, thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed sincerely to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed which he could neither understand nor define. Whether he had any inward misgivings, who shall say? He never spoke of his faith.
He was diligent in preaching - moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. His house was open to his fellow-clergymen; he laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare that the human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese than the Bishop of Elmham.


A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the lately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be impossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, so meagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, he was taken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair, which was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but which he so constantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, it seemed to be wild and uncombed. In his younger days, when long locks straggled over his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talking energetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had not since dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a high, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeks very thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin. He was utterly without worldly means, except those which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to find him food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent to such matters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger son of an English country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to Oxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had drawn a sister with him. When banished from the house he had still striven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care. But of this he never complained. It was a part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. Had he been able to change his creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and poverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable and satisfactory as it was. He considered that his father, as a Protestant,--and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all the same,--had been right to quarrel with him. But he loved his father, and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications, that his father might see the truth and be as he was.

A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the new Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be impossible to conceive; and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was thin, meagre and wasted in appearance. His thick brown hair was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but he so constantly ruffled it with his hands that it seemed to be wild and uncombed. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a high forehead, enormous blue eyes, a long nose, hollow cheeks, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin.
He was utterly without income, except that which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which was not enough for food and clothing; but he was indifferent to such matters. The younger son of an English country gentleman, he had been sent to Oxford to be ordained, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he converted a sister. When banished from the house he had still striven to convert the other sisters by his letters, and was now an alien from his father's heart. But it was part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. If he had not suffered persecution and poverty, his own conversion would not have seemed to him as satisfactory as it was.


To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,--that he should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others, and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faith being sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whose belief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct would certainly be added. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham a real religion; and he would teach them in season and out of season, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving their truth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his perseverance would create. He had but one duty before him,--to do his part towards bringing over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one; that he should but half convert one; that he should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. He would sow the seed if it might be so; but if it were not given to him to do that, he would at any rate plough the ground.

He held that a man should believe and obey - that he should abandon his own reason, and allow himself to be guided by authority. Faith being all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham a real religion; and he had but one duty before him: to bring over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one person, or only half convert one; or do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. If he could not sow the seed, he would at any rate plough the ground.


He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out that he was a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found out also that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the hand. The young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should be delighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in want of a dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparent frankness of the man about himself had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winter evening in the parlour at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host. "I have the most thorough respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would not suit me." The priest had gone on with his logic; if he could not sow the seed he might plough the ground. This had been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest, and such earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such teaching. Then it occurred to him one day that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth,--except when in the pulpit,--a single word of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the very fact of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger Carbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.

When he came to Beccles, Roger Carbury had learned that he was a gentleman by birth and education, and also very poor, and had consequently taken him in hand. The young priest had accepted his neighbour's hospitality, laughingly saying that he was much in want of a dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. This frankness had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, one winter evening at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host.
"I have the greatest respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would not suit me." The priest repeated his attempt two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man's earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such preaching. It occurred to him that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth - except when in the pulpit - a single word of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.


Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one looking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was sore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to him of her soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of her error, and she never repeated it. To Mr. Alf she commonly talked of her mind; to Mr. Broune of her heart; to Mr. Booker of her body--and its wants. She was quite ready to talk of her soul on a proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subject even on a bishop. Now she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood. "Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "I think Suffolk is a very nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for Norfolk too. 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'"

Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles. No one would think that her heart was sore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She was too wise to talk to the bishop of her soul; so she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood.
"Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "Suffolk is a very nice county; and Norfolk too."


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

"I like a county which has something left of county feeling," said Lady Carbury. "Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost local distinctions."


"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "Silly Suffolk!"


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

"I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no industry and no beautiful scenery. No rivers great for fishing, like Scotland - no hunting grounds, like the shires."


"Partridges!" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.


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

"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and herring. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us."


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


"The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury."


"Oh, yes," said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to her voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine arrangement. "The world must be peopled; but for myself I like the country better than the town."

"For myself I like the country better than the town."


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

"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, and not so radical as elsewhere. The poor people touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There is something left among us of old English habits."


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


Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and was in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. She was, perhaps, a little stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though she was willing to admit that Mr. Barham might not have ceased to be a gentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quite sure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to do with him. Mr. Carbury had not taken them unawares. Notice had been given that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declared that he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs. Yeld had had her misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after the bishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right, and wrong wrong,--and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and therefore ought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were no priests there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr. Barham was, no doubt, a man of good family, which did make a difference.

Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and was in truth somewhat afraid of him. She had an idea that Roman Catholics were wrong, and ought to be suppressed. Mr. Barham was, no doubt, a gentleman of good family, which did make a difference.


Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was in exact proportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy. Mrs. Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civil words, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almost overcame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poor of Beccles, being very careful to allude only to their material position. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money to buy those wonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr. Barham was very meek, and agreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a plan ready formed for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly within her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it about on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "our people," that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation by observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.

Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. He started with quiet humility, and advanced to talkative enthusiasm. When Mrs. Yeld said a few civil words, he replied with a shame-faced modesty that she approved of. She spoke of the poor of Beccles: there was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money for those wonderful Sunday bonnets?
Mr. Barham agreed meekly to everything. No doubt he already had a plan for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly in her husband's palace, but he did not attempt it on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "our people," that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation, observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.


When the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the way of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the morality of Beccles. It was evidently Mr. Barham's opinion that "his people" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer. "But the Irish always drink," said Mr. Hepworth.

When the ladies were gone the bishop began to talk to the priest, and asked about the morality of Beccles. It was Mr. Barham's opinion that "his people" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer.
"But the Irish always drink," said Mr. Hepworth.


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

"Not so much as the English, I think," said the priest. "And we are not all Irish. Most of my flock are English."


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

"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said the bishop. "Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of Catholics round about us. But I could not name any Catholic families."


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


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


"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr. Hepworth.


"They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our Saviour," said the priest.

"They were chiefly the poor who first put their faith in our Saviour," said the priest.


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

"I think the analogy is hardly correct," said the bishop, with a curious smile. "We are speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is natural. But that the poor should keep to an old faith abandoned by the rich is not so easy to understand."


[Illustration: The bishop thinks that the priest's analogy is not correct.]


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


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


"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the priest.


"That begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his host, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A----s and the B----s, and the C----s and the D----s. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.

"That begs the question," said the bishop, turning to Roger Carbury, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace sties.
Father Barham continued his argument with Mr. Hepworth. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. The wealthier families of his faith - whom he named - would some day restore England to her pristine condition.


"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."

"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and no doubt an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."


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

"I like him because he is doing the best he can, without any reference to his own worldly welfare."


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


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

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


"I don't think it answers," said Mrs. Yeld to her husband as they went home. "Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics."

Mrs. Yeld said to her husband as they went home,


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


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


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

"Of course I don't mean to oppose you, my dear; but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again."


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


No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On the Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps because no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

No parliamentary election in a borough as large as Westminster had yet happened in England since the secret ballot had been established. Men who previously had known how elections would go, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days ago, the odds had been in Melmotte's favour; but on Monday his name had gone down in the betting. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, but by late afternoon the news from the City had spread. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. However, no one dared suggest it to him. On Monday evening the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

Chapter 63: Mr. Melmotte on the Day of the Election


But Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their Committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the "Pulpit" of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and mentioned no details. Mr. Alf explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been connected with the election.

But Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. Their Committee had consulted about what should be done as to these charges against Melmotte. The Pulpit of that evening alluded to the affair, but gave no name and mentioned no details.


One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most of it. "It's no more than we've all believed all along," said the old gentleman, "and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?" He was of opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible,--so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be effected. But the Committee generally was averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud,--or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud,--then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of the rumours by Mr. Alf's Committee. In regard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were busy enough. The dinner to the Emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City. At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr. Alf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr. Alf.

The Committee was averse to fighting the election by making the rumours public. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud - or, as was more probable, should not be convicted of fraud - then it would be said that the accusation had been invented for electioneering purposes.
However, the dinner to the Emperor was ridiculed in the newspaper, and the electors were asked whether they felt they should elect a gentleman to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining royalty. At midnight, when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was in favour of Mr. Alf.


On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte had used since he had been in Mr. Longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had been made, Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were close friends. Terms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr. Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter that room. The servants were to regard Mr. Longestaffe quite as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr. Longestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official word reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On rising he at once went into the back-parlour which Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte often used for the work he did at home early in the morning, and late at night.
There were two heavy desks in the room: one of these Mr. Longstaffe had kept locked for his own purposes. When the house had first been let to Melmotte, everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr. Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. The ladies would never enter that room. If Mr. Longestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of the desks. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.


Mr. Melmotte, on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle of letters and another of small documents. From these, with very little examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits,--holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr. Longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to hand. The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the "Pulpit," and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was no one to see him now,--but he was acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,--not even when the policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him,--would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from his heart. He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.

Mr. Melmotte, on entering the room, bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own desk, took certain papers out of the drawers: a bundle of letters and another of documents. From these he took three or four. He tore them into very small fragments and burned the bits over a gas-burner, letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it.
When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to Mr. Longestaffe's desk and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened. Without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above, into which the bolt of the lock ran. He again closed the drawer, unlocked the study door, and rang the bell. The servant found him writing letters at his desk, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day.
He soon found the paragraph about himself in the Pulpit, and read it without a quiver in his face. There was no one to see him, but he had resolved that at no moment would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle. Whatever happened, he would go through it without any sign of shrinking.


At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall Place. He thought that he would face the world better by walking than if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him if he was not there. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. Of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. Even after the man had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He would take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,--as long as the police would allow him. He probably was not aware how very different was the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the India Office.

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall Place. He thought that he would face the world better walking than in his carriage. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. He was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He would still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince - as long as the police would allow him.


At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was informed that everything was going on regularly. The electors were balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the understrappers,--there never was any excitement. The men looked half-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. They certainly had not expected to see him there. "Has Lord Alfred been here?" Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to the empty grate. No,--Lord Alfred had not been there. "Nor Mr. Grendall?" The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for "his Secretary," and not for Mr. Grendall, but for the rumours. It is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding Charybdis. Mr. Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody had been there. "In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out again on foot.

At the committee-room he only found a few underlings. The ballot was under way; but with the ballot - so said these men - there never was any excitement. They looked half-frightened; they had not expected to see him there.
"Has Lord Alfred been here?" Melmotte asked. "Or Mr. Grendall?" No, nobody had been there.
"There is nothing more to be done, I suppose?" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior underling thought that there was nothing more to be done, and Melmotte strolled out again on foot.


He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested election, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the "Pulpit" to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that nothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here or elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the electors of Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to regard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter of course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his back to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return. But things had been said, and published, which the excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The place seemed to him to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everything, and he went up to the booth. Here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. He remained for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him.
He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday; but he spoke freely of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that he was proud of his position, and that the law would protect him from such unfair aspersions. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to bother about the attacks which were made on candidates at elections; particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return. But things had been said, and published, which an election could not justify, and as to these things he must go to law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by saying that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.


It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the "Breakfast Table" who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness, that he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. It was while in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him.

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever made; and it was certainly successful. A reporter for the Breakfast Table, who was on duty at the place, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved.


It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City,--to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

It was then noon, and he had to decide what to do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. An idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City, to his offices in Abchurch Lane, although he would not be expected today. Whatever perils there might be, he would face them.
He got a cab and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.


The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. "Mr. Grendall has not been here?" he asked. No; Mr. Grendall had not been there; but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had so been raised. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so.

The clerks there were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday.
"Mr. Grendall has not been here?" he asked. No; but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but by no means all. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased and mortgaged. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase. Melmotte felt that he could not speak to Cohenlupe without danger. They might have to stand in a dock together. But the clerks would talk if he were to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his room, and called to Cohenlupe.


"Ve didn't expect you here to-day," said the member for Staines.


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

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


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

"Uncommon. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?"


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

"Because he's an ass and a cur," said Mr. Melmotte, with assumed indignation. "Alf and his people had got hold of him. I say it was an insult to the City. I shall be even with him one of these days."


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


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


"There's ever so much been said," whispered Cohenlupe.


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

"Said; yes," ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. "You're not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear."


"There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know," said Cohenlupe.

"There's no knowing vat anybody knows," said Cohenlupe.


"Look you here, Cohenlupe,"--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper,--"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us."

"Look here, Cohenlupe," - and Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper - "go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right.


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

Any paper with my name to it will come right.


"That's nothing;--nothing at all," said Cohenlupe.


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


"You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now." Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great man to the City.

"Hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now." Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after Melmotte's visit.


Mr. Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and one for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened,--or as nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw that it was so;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to "put it down."

Mr. Melmotte walked to the bank where he kept his domestic account rather than his business accounts. He walked straight through to the back room in which sat the manager and the manager's clerk, and stood before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened.
The manager did not behave nearly as well, and the clerks betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw it; but he had expected it, and had come on purpose to "put it down."


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

"We hardly expected to see you in the City today, Mr. Melmotte."


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

"And I didn't expect to see myself here. But they're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; and as I can't vote for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech."


"And the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager.


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

"Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet." This was a brilliant flash of imagination. "For a dining companion, I should prefer somebody with a little more to say for himself. But then, perhaps, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves; eh? We had one disappointment.


"The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was somehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him." Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. "You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know." He had been in the habit of over-drawing on his private account,--making arrangements with the manager. But now, in the manager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the 250 which he had received from Mr. Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix had taken from Marie.

The Lord Mayor didn't come. But the dinner went on without him."
Then Melmotte referred to the purpose of his call. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. "You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing." He drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the 250 which he had received from Mr. Broune.


"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when Melmotte had left the room.

"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when Melmotte had left.


"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. But the feeling of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte would not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.

"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. They inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte would not have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.


In another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was a lady whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's friends had done for Ruby. Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the early days of August was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with Mr. George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, a day which in Suffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined energies of the houses of Caversham and Toodlam were being devoted to that happy event. Poor Georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but its misery was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals. It was but the other day that she had looked down from a very great height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of Toodlam. And at that time, still so recent, this contempt from her had been accepted as being almost reasonable. Sophia had hardly ventured to rebel against it, and Mr. Whitstable himself had been always afraid to encounter the shafts of irony with which his fashionable future sister-in-law attacked him. But all that was now changed. Sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable, petted in the house with those sweetmeats which are always showered on embryo bridegrooms, absolutely gave himself airs. At this time Mr. Longestaffe was never at home. Having assured himself that there was no longer any danger of the Brehgert alliance he had remained in London, thinking his presence to be necessary for the winding up of Melmotte's affairs, and leaving poor Lady Pomona to bear her daughter's ill-humour. The family at Caversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and was enlivened by daily visits from Toodlam. It will be owned that in this state of things there was very little consolation for Georgiana.

In another part of Suffolk, not far from Bungay, Miss Georgiana Longestaffe was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with Mr. George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, and poor Georgey's misery was greatly increased by the triumph of that coming wedding. It was only the other day that she had looked down from a great height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of Toodlam. But now Sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable absolutely gave himself airs.
At this time Mr. Longestaffe was never at home. He had remained in London for the winding up of Melmotte's affairs, leaving poor Lady Pomona to bear her daughter's ill-humour. The family at Caversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and was enlivened by daily visits from Toodlam.


It was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her sister,--to the point of absolutely refusing to act as bridesmaid. The reader may remember that there had been a watch and chain, and that two of the ladies of the family had expressed an opinion that these trinkets should be returned to Mr. Brehgert who had bestowed them. But Georgiana had not sent them back when a week had elapsed since the receipt of Mr. Brehgert's last letter. The matter had perhaps escaped Lady Pomona's memory, but Sophia was happily alive to the honour of her family. "Georgey," she said one morning in their mother's presence, "don't you think Mr. Brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any more delay?"

It was not long before Georgiana quarrelled altogether with her sister, to the point of refusing to act as bridesmaid. The reader may remember that there had been a watch and chain, which two of the ladies of the family had said should be returned to Mr. Brehgert. But a week later Georgiana had not sent them back, as Sophia was happy to point out.
"Georgey," she said one morning in their mother's presence, "don't you think Mr. Brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any more delay?"


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

"What have you got to do with it? The watch wasn't given to you."


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

"I think it ought to go back, or I'm sure papa will be very angry."


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


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

"If it isn't sent George will tell Dolly."


This was unbearable! That George Whitstable should interfere in her affairs,--that he should talk about her watch and chain. "I never will speak to George Whitstable again the longest day that ever I live," she said, getting up from her chair.

This was unbearable! That George Whitstable should interfere in her affairs! "I never will speak to George Whitstable again," she said, getting up from her chair.


"My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that," exclaimed the unhappy mother.


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

"I do say it. George Whitstable is a miserably stupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over the whole family."


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


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

"Certainly he ought," said Lady Pomona. "Georgiana, it must be sent back, or I shall tell your papa."


Subsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and chain to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them, and explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa as soon as he should have returned to Caversham. Lady Pomona was now empowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to the hands of the odious George Whitstable, who about this time made a journey to London in reference to certain garments which he required. But Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with her sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak to George Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the day of the marriage.

So Georgiana brought the watch and chain to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them. They were confided to the hands of the odious George Whitstable, who was going to a tailor in London. But Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with her sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak to George Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the wedding day.


She did think herself to be very hardly used. What was there left in the world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? And what did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriage had ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition of things to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure the idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting till some fitting suitor might find her out. She had struggled and struggled,--struggling still in vain,--till every effort of her mind, every thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that as she grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more intense. The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of his skill and confident in his strength, can make his way through the water with the full command of all his powers. But when he begins to feel that the shore is receding from him, that his strength is going, that the footing for which he pants is still far beneath his feet,--that there is peril where before he had contemplated no danger,--then he begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and to waste in anxious gaspings the breath on which his very life must depend. So it was with poor Georgey Longestaffe. Something must be done at once, or it would be of no avail. Twelve years had been passed by her since first she plunged into the stream,--the twelve years of her youth,--and she was as far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if she believed her eyes. She too must strike out with rapid efforts, unless, indeed, she would abandon herself and let the waters close over her head. But immersed as she was here at Caversham, how could she strike at all? Even now the waters were closing upon her. The sound of them was in her ears. The ripple of the wave was already round her lips; robbing her of breath. Ah!--might not there be some last great convulsive effort which might dash her on shore, even if it were upon a rock!

She did think herself to be very badly treated. What did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriage had always been so clearly placed before her eyes as a position to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure the idea of waiting in her father's house till some fitting suitor might find her. She had struggled and struggled, till every thought of her daily life was pervaded by a conviction that as she grew older the struggle would be more intense.
The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water is confident in his strength. But when he begins to feel that the shore is receding, that his strength is going, then he begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and to waste his breath in anxious gaspings. So it was with poor Georgey Longestaffe. Something must be done at once, or it would be of no avail. Twelve years had passed since first she plunged into the stream; and she was as far as ever from the bank - nay, farther. She must strike out with rapid efforts, unless she would let the waters close over her head.
But immersed as she was here at Caversham, the waters were even now closing upon her. The sound of them was in her ears. The ripple of the wave was already robbing her of breath.


That ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same as drowning she never for a moment doubted. It had never occurred to her to consider with equanimity the prospect of living as an old maid. It was beyond the scope of her mind to contemplate the chances of a life in which marriage might be well if it came, but in which unmarried tranquillity might also be well should that be her lot. Nor could she understand that others should contemplate it for her. No doubt the battle had been carried on for many years so much under the auspices of her father and mother as to justify her in thinking that their theory of life was the same as her own. Lady Pomona had been very open in her teaching, and Mr. Longestaffe had always given a silent adherence to the idea that the house in London was to be kept open in order that husbands might be caught. And now when they deserted her in her real difficulty,--when they first told her to live at Caversham all the summer, and then sent her up to the Melmottes, and after that forbade her marriage with Mr. Brehgert,--it seemed to her that they were unnatural parents who gave her a stone when she wanted bread, a serpent when she asked for a fish. She had no friend left. There was no one living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not. She took to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many things with a grim earnestness which had not hitherto belonged to her character.

She never doubted that failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same as drowning. It had never occurred to her to consider the prospect of living as a tranquil old maid. Nor could she understand that others should contemplate it for her. The battle had been carried on for so many years under the auspices of her parents that she assumed their theory of life was the same as her own.
And now when they deserted her in her real difficulty - when they first told her to live at Caversham all the summer, and then sent her up to the Melmottes, and after that forbade her marriage with Mr. Brehgert - it seemed to her that they were unnatural parents who gave her a stone when she wanted bread, a serpent when she asked for a fish. She had no friend left. There was no one living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not. She took to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many things with grim earnestness.


"Mamma," she said one morning when all the care of the household was being devoted to the future comforts,--chiefly in regard to linen,--of Mrs. George Whitstable, "I wonder whether papa has any intention at all about me."

"Mamma," she said one morning, "I wonder whether papa has any intention at all about me."


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

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


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


"I suppose we shall stay here at Caversham."


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

"And I'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent! Mamma, I won't stand it."


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

"My dear, that is nonsense. You see company here; and as for not standing it, I don't know what you mean. As long as you are one of your papa's family of course you must live where he lives."


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

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


"You know, my dear," said Lady Pomona, "that your papa wouldn't hear of it."


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

"If you would have helped me I would have done it in spite of papa. What right has he to domineer over me in that way? Why shouldn't I have married the man if I chose? I am old enough, surely. Papa won't do anything to help me. Why shouldn't he let me do something for myself?"


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

"Why not? I do regret him. I'd have him tomorrow if he came. It couldn't be so bad as Caversham."


"You couldn't have loved him, Georgiana."


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

"Loved him! Who thinks about love nowadays? You won't tell me that Sophy is going to marry that idiot because she loves him! When you wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte you never thought of his loving her. I had got over all that kind of thing before I was twenty."


"I think a young woman should love her husband."


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

"It makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way. When one has been going on for a dozen years trying to do something - and then you turn round upon me and talk about love! Mamma, if you would help me I think I could still manage with Mr. Brehgert." Lady Pomona shuddered. "You have not got to marry him."


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

"I should have a house of my own at least. If I stay here I shall go mad - or die."


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

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


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


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


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

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


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

"I know what's unjust. I tell you, mamma, that I shall write to Mr. Brehgert and say that I am quite ready to marry him. You may tell papa just what I say."


All this made Lady Pomona very miserable. She did not communicate her daughter's threat to Mr. Longestaffe, but she did discuss it with Sophia. Sophia was of opinion that Georgiana did not mean it, and gave two or three reasons for thinking so. In the first place had she intended it she would have written her letter without saying a word about it to Lady Pomona. And she certainly would not have declared her purpose of writing such letter after Lady Pomona had refused her assistance. And moreover,--Lady Pomona had received no former hint of the information which was now conveyed to her,--Georgiana was in the habit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in the park.

All this made Lady Pomona very miserable. She did not tell Mr. Longestaffe, but she did discuss her daughter's threat with Sophia. Sophia thought that Georgiana did not mean it, because - amongst other reasons - she was in the habit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in the park.


"Mr. Batherbolt!" exclaimed Lady Pomona.


"She is walking with Mr. Batherbolt almost every day."


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

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


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

"It doesn't signify, mamma. I know she is with him constantly. Wilson has seen them, and I know it. Perhaps papa could get him a living.


"Dolly would be sure to sell the presentation," said Lady Pomona.


"Perhaps the bishop would do something," said the anxious sister, "when he found that the man wasn't a celibate. Anything, mamma, would be better than the Jew." To this latter proposition Lady Pomona gave a cordial assent. "Of course it is a come-down to marry a curate,--but a clergyman is always considered to be decent."

Or perhaps the bishop would do something. Anything, mamma, would be better than the Jew."
To this, Lady Pomona agreed. "Of course it is a come-down to marry a curate; but a clergyman is always considered to be decent."


The preparations for the Whitstable marriage went on without any apparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between Mr. Batherbolt and Georgiana. There was no room to apprehend anything wrong on that side. Mr. Batherbolt was so excellent a young man, and so exclusively given to religion, that, even should Sophy's suspicion be correct, he might be trusted to walk about the park with Georgiana. Should he at any time come forward and ask to be allowed to make the lady his wife, there would be no disgrace in the matter. He was a clergyman and a gentleman,--and the poverty would be Georgiana's own affair.

They did not apprehend anything wrong on Mr. Batherbolt's part. He was so excellent a young man, and so exclusively given to religion, that, even should Sophy's suspicion be correct, he might be trusted to walk about the park with Georgiana. Should he at any time ask if he could make the lady his wife, there would be no disgrace in it. He was a clergyman and a gentleman, and the poverty would be Georgiana's affair.


Mr. Longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest daughter's marriage, and with him came Dolly. Great trouble had been taken to teach him that duty absolutely required his presence at his sister's marriage, and he had at last consented to be there. It is not generally considered a hardship by a young man that he should have to go into a good partridge country on the 1st of September, and Dolly was an acknowledged sportsman. Nevertheless, he considered that he had made a great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by Lady Pomona as though he were a bright example to other sons. He found the house not in a very comfortable position, for Georgiana still persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to Mr. Whitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at Caversham, gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money affairs had been comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to squabble with his father. It was a great thing that one of the girls should be married, and Dolly had brought down an enormous china dog, about five feet high, as a wedding present, which added materially to the happiness of the meeting. Lady Pomona had determined that she would tell her husband of those walks in the park, and of other signs of growing intimacy which had reached her ears;--but this she would postpone until after the Whitstable marriage.

Mr. Longestaffe returned home on the eve of Sophia's marriage, and with him came Dolly. Dolly considered this a great sacrifice to his family. He found the house not very comfortable, for Georgiana still persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to Mr. Whitstable; but still his presence, which was rare at Caversham, gave some assistance. He had brought down an enormous china dog, about five feet high, as a wedding present, which added to the happiness of the meeting. Lady Pomona had determined to tell her husband of those walks in the park with Mr. Batherbolt; but not until after the Whitstable marriage.


But at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage, they were all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away with Mr. Batherbolt. She had been up before six. He had met her at the park gate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at Stowmarket. Then it appeared, too, that by degrees various articles of her property had been conveyed to Mr. Batherbolt's lodgings in the adjacent village, so that Lady Pomona's fear that Georgiana would not have a thing to wear, was needless. When the fact was first known it was almost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the Whitstable marriage must be postponed. But Sophia had a word to say to her mother on that head, and she said it. The marriage was not postponed. At first Dolly talked of going after his younger sister, and the father did dispatch various telegrams. But the fugitives could not be brought back, and with some little delay,--which made the marriage perhaps uncanonical but not illegal,--Mr. George Whitstable was made a happy man.

But at nine o'clock on the morning of the wedding, they were all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away with Mr. Batherbolt. She had been up before six. He had met her at the park gate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at Stowmarket.
When the fact was first known it was almost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the Whitstable marriage must be postponed. But Sophia said a word to her mother on that head, and the marriage was not postponed. At first Dolly talked of going after his younger sister, and the father did dispatch various telegrams. But the fugitives could not be brought back, and with some little delay, Mr. George Whitstable was made a happy man.


It need only be added that in about a month's time Georgiana returned to Caversham as Mrs. Batherbolt, and that she resided there with her husband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. At the end of that time they removed to a small living, for the purchase of which Mr. Longestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money.

It need only be added that in about a month's time Georgiana returned to Caversham as Mrs. Batherbolt, and that she resided there with her husband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. After that they removed to a small living, for which Mr. Longestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money.


Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for a fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had not much improved. Her brother had troubled her no further, and her family at Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any notice of Dolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold, dull letter from her mother,--such letters as she had been accustomed to receive when away from home; and these she had answered, always endeavouring to fill her sheet with some customary description of fashionable doings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have repeated for her mother's amusement,--and her own delectation in the telling of it,--had there been nothing painful in the nature of her sojourn in London. Of the Melmottes she hardly spoke. She did not say that she was taken to the houses in which it was her ambition to be seen. She would have lied directly in saying so. But she did not announce her own disappointment. She had chosen to come up to the Melmottes in preference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare her own failure. "I hope they are kind to you," Lady Pomona always said. But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the Melmottes were kind or unkind.

Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for a fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had not much improved. Her father had, apparently, taken no notice of Dolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold, dull letter from her mother; and she had answered with descriptions of fashionable doings, and bits of scandal, as if there was nothing painful in the nature of her stay in London. Of the Melmottes she hardly spoke. She had not been taken to those houses where she wished to be seen; but she did not announce her disappointment. She had chosen to come here rather than remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare her own failure.


In truth, her "season" was a very unpleasant season. Her mode of living was altogether different to anything she had already known. The house in Bruton Street had never been very bright, but the appendages of life there had been of a sort which was not known in the gorgeous mansion in Grosvenor Square. It had been full of books and little toys and those thousand trifling household gods which are accumulated in years, and which in their accumulation suit themselves to the taste of their owners. In Grosvenor Square there were no Lares;--no toys, no books, nothing but gold and grandeur, pomatum, powder and pride. The Longestaffe life had not been an easy, natural, or intellectual life; but the Melmotte life was hardly endurable even by a Longestaffe. She had, however, come prepared to suffer much, and was endowed with considerable power of endurance in pursuit of her own objects. Having willed to come, even to the Melmottes, in preference to remaining at Caversham, she fortified herself to suffer much. Could she have ridden in the park at mid-day in desirable company, and found herself in proper houses at midnight, she would have borne the rest, bad as it might have been. But it was not so. She had her horse, but could with difficulty get any proper companion. She had been in the habit of riding with one of the Primero girls,--and old Primero would accompany them, or perhaps a brother Primero, or occasionally her own father. And then, when once out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young men,--and though there was but little in it, a walking round and round the same bit of ground with the same companions and with the smallest attempt at conversation, still it had been the proper thing and had satisfied her. Now it was with difficulty that she could get any cavalier such as the laws of society demand. Even Penelope Primero snubbed her,--whom she, Georgiana Longestaffe, had hitherto endured and snubbed. She was just allowed to join them when old Primero rode, and was obliged even to ask for that assistance.

In truth, her "season" was very unpleasant. Her way of life was altogether different to anything she had known. The house in Bruton Street had never been very bright, but at least it had been full of books and little toys and those thousand trifling household gods which are accumulated over years. In Grosvenor Square there were no toys, no books, nothing but gold and grandeur, powder and pride. The Longestaffe life had not been an easy or intellectual life; but the Melmotte life was hardly endurable.
She had, however, come prepared to suffer much. If she could have ridden in the park, and visited proper houses, she would have borne the rest. But it was not so. She had her horse, but could hardly get any proper companion. She had been in the habit of riding with one of the Primero girls, accompanied by their father or a brother; and when out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young men. Even though they had been walking round and round the same bit of ground with the same companions and conversation, still it had satisfied her. Now even Penelope Primero snubbed her.


But the nights were still worse. She could only go where Madame Melmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive people at home than to go out. And the people she did receive were antipathetic to Miss Longestaffe. She did not even know who they were, whence they came, or what was their nature. They seemed to be as little akin to her as would have been the shopkeepers in the small town near Caversham. She would sit through long evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of the vulgarity of her associates. Occasionally she was taken out, and was then, probably, taken to very grand houses. The two duchesses and the Marchioness of Auld Reekie received Madame Melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were open to her. And some of the most elaborate ftes of the season,--which indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travelling potentate,--were attained. On these occasions Miss Longestaffe was fully aware of the struggle that was always made for invitations, often unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. Even the bargains, conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty sister, were not altogether hidden from her. The Emperor of China was to be in London and it was thought proper that some private person, some untitled individual, should give the Emperor a dinner, so that the Emperor might see how an English merchant lives. Mr. Melmotte was chosen on condition that he would spend 10,000 on the banquet;--and, as a part of his payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted with his family, to a grand entertainment given to the Emperor at Windsor Park. Of these good things Georgiana Longestaffe would receive her share. But she went to them as a Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe,--and when amidst these gaieties, though she could see her old friends, she was not with them. She was ever behind Madame Melmotte, till she hated the make of that lady's garments and the shape of that lady's back.

But the evenings were still worse. She could only go where Madame Melmotte went, and Madame Melmotte preferred to receive people at home rather than going out. And the people she received were antipathetic to Miss Longestaffe. She did not know who they were, or whence they came. They were no more akin to her than the shopkeepers of Caversham. She would sit through long evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of their vulgarity. Occasionally she was taken out to very grand houses, to the garden parties of royalty, and some of the most elaborate ftes of the season, held on behalf of travelling potentates.
Miss Longestaffe was fully aware of the struggle that was made for invitations. The Emperor of China was to be in London; and it was thought proper that some private person should give a dinner, so that the Emperor might see how an English merchant lives. Mr. Melmotte was chosen on condition that he would spend 10,000 on the banquet; and in return his family would be admitted to a grand entertainment for the Emperor at Windsor Park. Of these good things Georgiana would receive her share. But she went to them as a Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe.


She had told both her father and mother very plainly that it behoved her to be in London at this time of the year that she might--look for a husband. She had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and that purpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appeared to them to be unreasonable. She wanted to be settled in life. She had meant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;--but lords are scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very highly gifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune. She had long made up her mind that she could do without a lord, but that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must be a man with a place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually to London. He must be a gentleman,--and, probably, in parliament. And above all things he must be in the right set. She would rather go on for ever struggling than take some country Whitstable as her sister was about to do. But now the men of the right sort never came near her. The one object for which she had subjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have vanished altogether in the distance. When by chance she danced or exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs whom she used to know, they spoke to her with a want of respect which she felt and tasted but could hardly analyse. Even Miles Grendall, who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted to patronise her in a manner that bewildered her. All this nearly broke her heart.

She had told her parents very plainly that she needed to be in London at this time of year to look for a husband. She wanted to be settled in life, and had meant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord; but lords are scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very gifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune. She had long made up her mind that she could do without a lord, but that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must be a man with a place in the country and sufficient means to come yearly to London. He must be a gentleman, and, probably, in parliament. And above all, he must be in the right set; she would not take some country Whitstable as her sister was about to do.
But now the men of the right sort never came near her. The one object for which she had subjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have vanished in the distance. When by chance she exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs, they spoke to her with a lack of respect. Even Miles Grendall tried to patronise her. All this nearly broke her heart.