IN GROSVENOR SQUARE.
Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received
from Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of French
eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house
if either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie
told her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. "Well,
perhaps not Madame," said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to
be dismissed; "but Monsieur!" Marie declared that by no possibility
could Monsieur know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told
anything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against
whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing
guns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for
a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew
how he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of
course his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her
without money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew
himself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl,
and then bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him.
His daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the
father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose
without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's
aid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had
whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of
his money, he himself might be made a baronet. "But if they should
say that I'm not an Englishman?" suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had
explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in
England, or even that he should have an English name. No questions
would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend
a little money on the proper side,--by which Lord Alfred meant the
Conservative side,--and be munificent in his entertainments, and the
baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no
knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by
money scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmotte
would speak of his money and power of making money as though they
were unlimited,--and Lord Alfred believed him.
Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her
father as "cutting up very rough." To her who had known her father
all her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of
love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through
Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving,
and she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to
accept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this
she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the
marvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she
ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became
conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced
in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing
familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She
was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of
any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge
herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting
away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it
was now when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have
loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and
who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace
into his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He,
finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she, child
though she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London
had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in
love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties
there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would
run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its
worship. But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood,
and not of wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as
she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not
know Didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust
his raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and
having no such fear, she could write warmly.
--, Grosvenor Square.
Early Monday Morning.
DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,
I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa
would talk about money because he never thinks of anything
else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't
care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got
plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once
married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of
everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so
than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always
get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But
I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that
on my word and honour I will never marry any one except
you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll
bear it,--for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I
know.
You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if
you would call some day and give her something, it would
help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me
that you love me. I love you better than anything in the
world, and I will never,--never give you up. I suppose you
can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall
not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I
can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out
yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't
seen him since you were here. I never see him before
he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going
down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss
Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so
at Caversham?
Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,
And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,
MARIE.
Sir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of
the Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if
there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on
with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure.
"What an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he crumpled the
letter up.
Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little
present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was
the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when
she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of
the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her
own room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she
had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to
those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London
season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to
the companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very
much apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often.
Madame Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to
understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.
But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances
were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear
friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex,
and whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid
preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time
of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent
to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped
her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been
very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble.
Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms
were people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! She
would do anything rather than lose the Monograms. But it was of no
use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even
answered her note. "She never really cared for anybody but herself,"
Georgiana said in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found
that Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed.
She was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient
accuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and
Nidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must
marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke
when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She could see it
in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park,--especially
in the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a
certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All that
was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet
but a few days old she understood that others understood that she had
degraded herself. "What's all this about?" Lord Grasslough had said
to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had
simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.
"Impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight
ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.
A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of
commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must
have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such
uncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after
noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He
declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame
Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He
was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him.
"What's all this about?"
She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. "What brings you here, I
wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment."
"My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much
harm. Why are you staying with these people?"
"Ask papa."
"I don't suppose he sent you here?"
"That's just what he did do."
"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because
they are none of them coming up?"
"Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for
guessing!"
"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"
"No;--not a bit."
"Then I feel ashamed for you."
"Everybody comes here."
"No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing.
Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard
of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of
yourself."
"I think as much of myself as ever I did," said Georgiana, hardly
able to restrain her tears.
"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain
here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me."
"What did he say, Dolly?"
"He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And
of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people
yourself is what I can't understand!"
"I don't like them,--I hate them."
"Then why do you come and live with them?"
"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so
different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like.
And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you
can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like
to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?"
"I shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor."
"You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you.
What is to become of me?"
"You mean about marrying?"
"I mean altogether," said the poor girl, unable to be quite as
explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and
mother, and sister. "Of course I have to think of myself."
"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the
short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere,
but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to
the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better."
"Don't write to papa, Dolly!"
"Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil
without saying a word. Good-bye."
As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was
open,--not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden
hours,--and actually did write a letter to his father.
MY DEAR FATHER,
I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte's house. She
ought not to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but
everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family
I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that
Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this
time of the year.
Your affectionate son,
ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.
This letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a
thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have
been instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad
indeed,--worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not
have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered
him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his
family back to town. This had come from his son, who had refused to
do anything to help him in his difficulties.