CHAPTER XXI.

EVERYBODY GOES TO THEM.

When the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very desolate.

The task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the

return to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have

been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this

was so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed

without anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill

the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also

impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which

her mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she

thought, would not dare to propose it. On each of these days,--three

or four times daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but

without avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed

till he had received some particular letter, and would not even

listen to the suggestion of a day. "I suppose we can go at any rate

on Tuesday," Georgiana said on the Friday evening. "I don't know why

you should suppose anything of the kind," the father replied. Poor

Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day;

but Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her

younger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion.

On the Sunday morning before they went to church there was a great

discussion up-stairs. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach

at Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their

best London bonnets. They were in their mother's room, having just

completed the arrangements of their church-going toilet. It was

supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had

certainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet

vouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than

ordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so Sophia asserted,--more

disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen especially in

reference to their bonnets. "You might as well wear them," said Lady

Pomona, "for I am sure you will not be in London again this year."

"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.

"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into

his pocket. I know what his face means so well."

"It is not possible," said Sophia. "He promised, and he got us to

have those horrid people because he promised."

"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose

we must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he

meant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could."

"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on the

part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had

bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own

camp!

"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.

"Do!" Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. "Make him

understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do

something, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like

that I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be

who it may."

"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."

"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us,--not the

least,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much

about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a

slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here." The

younger Miss Longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before

her.

"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that," pleaded her

sister.

"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable."

"I haven't got George Whitstable."

"Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he

pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no

difference to you, mamma, where you are."

"You are very unjust," said Lady Pomona, wailing, "and you say horrid

things."

"I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the

same as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody

down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his

word."

Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall.

"Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the

carriage waiting all day?" Of course they were all going to church.

They always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and would

more especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of

the bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage,

Lady Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her

father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not

a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During

the service Mr. Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and

repeated the responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he

had been an example to the parish all his life. The three ladies

knelt on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during

the sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of

attention. They did not collect the meaning of any one combination of

sentences. It was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not

a meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop

preached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would

not have complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled

Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the

proper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the

fair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But

to be kept at Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a

bishop preach for ever! After the service they came back to lunch,

and that meal also was eaten in silence. When it was over the head

of the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently

meaning to be left alone there. In that case he would have meditated

upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got

through the afternoon with comfort. But this was denied to him. The

two daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed;

and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room,

returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her.

Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out"

with her father, and Sophia had of course remained in the room

in obedience to her sister's behest. When the last tray had been

taken out, Georgiana began. "Papa, don't you think you could settle

now when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know

about engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on

Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago."

"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your

engagement."

"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning."

"You can't do anything of the kind."

"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady

Pomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state

of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time,

as a compromise.

"Then you can't have a day fixed," said Mr. Longestaffe.

"How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?" said Sophia, in

a low constrained voice.

"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home,

and this is where you may make up your minds to live."

"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by in

silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time.

"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr. Longestaffe,

turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands.

"Do you mean that that is settled?" said Lady Pomona.

"I mean to say that that is settled," said Mr. Longestaffe.

Was there ever treachery like this! The indignation in Georgiana's

mind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's

falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise.

She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but

for that promise. And now she was told that the promise was to be

absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get

back to London,--even to the house of the hated Primeros,--without

absolutely running away from her father's residence! "Then, papa,"

she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and with

premeditation broken your word to us."

"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"

"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own

mistress,--by law."

"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father,

that I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you

shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house."

"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and

entertain these people?"

"I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are.

If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It

should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have

to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be

sullen where I shan't see you." Georgiana looked round on her mother

and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still

meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her

father's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into

the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting

with anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils.

[Illustration: She marched majestically out of the room.]

"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said.

"What can we do, my dear?"

"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and

have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved

well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about

them." This was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some

little trouble of that kind. "I have never got myself talked about

with any body. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have

written his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you were

ill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two

at the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my

bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us

back to London! Did he not promise, mamma?"

"I understood so, my dear."

"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the

blame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of

the family, and then be treated in that way."

"You do that for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.

"It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake," said

Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair,--to an ancient flirtation,

in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a

futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private

fortune was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the

affair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness.

"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia. "It's easy

enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and

nobody cares for a person."

"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.

"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana. "Does he expect

me to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is

not much; but there is nobody else at all."

"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a chuck of her

head.

"Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come

to that quite yet."

"You were talking of running away with somebody."

"I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that.

I'll tell you what I shall do,--I will write papa a letter. I suppose

he'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself,

he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the

whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the

Melmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but

to have them here was terrible!"

During that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passed

between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities

of life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father,

and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almost

reconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a

fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable

at a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a

difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which

was always an excuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr. Longestaffe

went to sleep. Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart,

and on the next morning the head of the family found the following

letter on his dressing-table;--

MY DEAR PAPA,--

I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel

that our going up to town is so very important to us. If

we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can

never see anybody, and of course you know what that must

mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not

signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not

of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It

isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so

very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down

here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once.

If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for

two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in

the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad,

and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And

there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very

cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to

run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham

must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within

twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.

You certainly did say that if we would come down here with

those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you

cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we

are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes

me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see

other girls having such chances when I have none, that

sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.

This was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to

that threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with

somebody.

I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take

us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but I

hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It

would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to

stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and

I should not in the least object to reminding her, only

it should be done at once. Their house in Queen's Gate is

very large, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and

I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else,

as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides

with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at

once, papa.

Your affectionate daughter,

GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.

Mr. Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. He, though he

had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to

some extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his

authority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the

less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He

thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. If

not, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly

hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not

read much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating

and drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. To

stand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which

he belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what

he liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite

willing to give this up for the good of his family. He would be

contented to drag through long listless days at Caversham, and

endeavour to nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it.

By assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether

unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's

heads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving,

the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into

debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that

this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son

from his wife's mother,--some £2,000 or £3,000 a year, magnified by

the world into double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had

for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family

estates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would have

consented to sell the Sussex property in order that the Suffolk

property might be relieved. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and

though in other respects the most careless of men, was always on his

guard in any dealings with his father. He would not consent to the

sale of the Sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at

once handed to himself. The father could not bring himself to consent

to this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world

very hard upon him. Melmotte had done something for him,--but in

doing this Melmotte was very hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, when at

Caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly

that with such an establishment in the country he was not entitled

to keep a house in town. Mr. Longestaffe had then said something

about his daughters,--something especially about Georgiana,--and Mr.

Melmotte had made a suggestion.

Mr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for

her, in spite of his anger. But if there was one man he hated more

than another, it was his neighbour Mr. Primero; and if one woman, it

was Mrs. Primero. Primero, whom Mr. Longestaffe regarded as quite

an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He

paid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham

without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction.

He had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and

borough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan

district. He was a radical, of course, or, according to Mr.

Longestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the

radical side because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting

on the other. And now there had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr.

Primero was to have a peerage. To others the rumour was incredible,

but Mr. Longestaffe believed it, and to Mr. Longestaffe that belief

was an agony. A Baron Bundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron

Bundlesham, would be more than Mr. Longestaffe could endure. It was

quite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in London by

the Primeros.

But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been

laid on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following

morning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by

letter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed

her a note to read. "Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course

you must judge for yourself." This was the note;--

MY DEAR MR. LONGESTAFFE,

As you seem determined not to return to London this

season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to

come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss

Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give

Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.

Yours truly,

AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.

Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note

paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date.

It was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her

father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very

hard. Both her father and mother had heard her speak of these

Melmottes, and knew what she thought of them. There was an insolence

in the very suggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of

that. "Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?" she asked.

"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially."

"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but

they are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful."

"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana."

"It is that,--or staying here?"

"I think so, my dear."

"If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfully

disagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!"

"She seemed to be very quiet."

"Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us.

She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that

if I'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully

vulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did

you not see it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was

so ashamed of herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be

something quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything

so dreadful to look at as he is?"

"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona. "The Duchess of Stevenage

has been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie.

Everybody goes to their house."

"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma,--to have to

sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that

woman!"

"Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs."

"But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her!

Only think of it!"

"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear."

"Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, oh

dear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure.

If papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think

of it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I

shall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose

it, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so

much of being with the right set."

"Things are changed, Georgiana," said the anxious mother.

"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like

that. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman

compared with Mr. Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with

Madame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such

people it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self

after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would

propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be

surprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange.

Papa has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter

mine."

Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona

informed Mr. Longestaffe that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be

accepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, and

Georgiana would go up on the Friday following. "I hope she'll like

it," said Mr. Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. It

was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor

Lady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like to

live in a house with Mr. and Madame Melmotte!

On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two

sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station,

which was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head as

usual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her

even in the presence of her sister. "Sophy, I do so envy you staying

here."

"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."

"Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself

settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not

going to disgrace yourself."

"There's no disgrace in it, Georgey."

"Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and

I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their

pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and

housemaids would be much better."

"Then don't go, Georgey."

"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain

down here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going

to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place,

but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of

fellow."

"Is he, now?"

"Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at

home. But he is a gentleman."

"That he certainly is."

"As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first

man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take

him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always

say it has been papa's doing."

And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the

Melmottes.