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.
“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 anybody. 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
