The Way We Live Now - 11

pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as
the wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was
absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes."

"How shocking!" said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands.

"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be
quite friends."

"Will the bishop like to meet him?"

"Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all
about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't
hurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull."

"I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury," said Henrietta.

"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here,"
said Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what
guests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to
come down on Saturday, with the intention of returning on Monday, and
Lady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between
Caversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full
advantage of his closeness to Marie Melmotte.

"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday," said Roger.

"They are down here then?"

"I think they arrived yesterday. There is always a flustering breeze
in the air and a perturbation generally through the county when they
come or go, and I think I perceived the effects about four in the
afternoon. They won't come, I dare say."

"Why not?"

"They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and they
know that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us
on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."

"I know they are to have guests," said Lady Carbury.

"What guests?"

"The Melmottes are coming to them." Lady Carbury, as she made the
announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession
were failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she
would any matter that was indifferent to her.

"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at
Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been
brought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might
have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte in the country.

"Oh yes,--Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate."

"Mr. Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!"

"Why not?"

"I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have been
induced to ask them here."

"I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary
assistance."

"And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no
difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't
as they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all
for the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that
such a man as Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr.
Melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room." Henrietta became redder
than ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger
Carbury knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's
ball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken,
and then tried to make some half apology. "I don't approve of them
in London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the
country."

Then there was a movement. The ladies were shown into their rooms,
and Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he
understood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in order
that she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in this
which he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of him
that she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have been
brought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her
presence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, even
while he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with
the object of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object
would be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon,
though he could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been
gratified. But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used
in order that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each
other might be furthered!

As he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in
the garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself
pretty, as she well knew how to do. And now she dressed her face in
her sweetest smiles. Her mind, also, was full of the Melmottes, and
she wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good
that might come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. "I
can understand, Roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should
not like those people."

"What people?"

"The Melmottes."

"I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw?
I dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the
reputation of being rich."

"Meaning me."

"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well,
though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people.
I was thinking of the Longestaffes then."

"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own
gratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I find
pleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here for
any good that they will do me?"

"I would not follow them at all."

"I will go back if you bid me, but I must first explain what I mean.
You know my son's condition,--better, I fear, than he does himself."
Roger nodded assent to this, but said nothing. "What is he to do? The
only chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a
girl with money. He is good-looking; you can't deny that."

"Nature has done enough for him."

"We must take him as he is. He was put into the army very young, and
was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune.
He might have done better; but how many young men placed in such
temptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left."

"I fear not."

"And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with
money?"

"I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury."

"Oh, Roger, how hard you are!"

"A man must be hard or soft,--which is best?"

"With women I think that a little softness has the most effect. I
want to make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to
reason that the girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him."

"But does he love her?"

"Why should he not? Is a girl to be debarred from being loved because
she has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should she
not have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathize with my
anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name
and to the family?"

"We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury."

"But I think so much about it."

"You will never get me to say that I think the family will be
benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr. Melmotte. I look
upon him as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all
his money, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a
question of marriage people at any rate should know something of each
other. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is
his daughter?"

"He would give her her fortune when she married."

"Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurer
and a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman.
There is a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses
his money not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks,--as does a card
sharper. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much
less to our tables, on the score of his own merits. But because he
has learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but
settle upon his carcase as so many birds of prey."

"Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they love
each other?"

He shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love on
the part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only as
regarded him, but also his mother. He could not quite declare this,
and yet he desired that she should understand that he thought so.
"I have nothing more to say about it," he continued. "Had it gone on
in London I should have said nothing. It is no affair of mine. When
I am told that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house as
Caversham, and that Felix is coming here in order that he may be near
to his prey, and when I am asked to be a party to the thing, I can
only say what I think. Your son would be welcome to my house, because
he is your son and my cousin, little as I approve his mode of life;
but I could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the
work that he has on hand."

"If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it
hard to explain to Hetta;--but we will go."

"No; I certainly do not wish that."

"But you have said such hard things! How are we to stay? You speak
of Felix as though he were all bad." She looked at him hoping to get
from him some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly
word; but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. She
could bear much. She was not delicate as to censure implied, or even
expressed. She had endured rough usage before, and was prepared to
endure more. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she
would have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,--would
have forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have
been deserved. But for her son she was prepared to fight. If she did
not defend him, who would? "I am grieved, Roger, that we should have
troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You
are very harsh, and it crushes me."

"I have not meant to be harsh."

"You say that Felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to be
brought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that?
At any rate, you should remember that I am his mother."


[Illustration: "You should remember that I am his mother."]


She expressed her sense of injury very well. Roger began to be
ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. And
yet he did not know how to recall them. "If I have hurt you, I regret
it much."

"Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard
the world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and
there has come a storm at once."

"You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You
cannot think that I meant to offend you." They walked on in silence
till they had reached the door leading from the garden into the
house, and here he stopped her. "If I have been over hot with you,
let me beg your pardon." She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not
one of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house.
"Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury."

"I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly
stand."

It was late in the afternoon,--about six,--and according to his daily
custom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as
they came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on
the spot where Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the
lawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet. Could it
really be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her
daughter with her? Was it thus that he was to part with the one human
being in the world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of
the duties of hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was
bound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more
gracious than the world required elsewhere. And of all guests those
of his own name were the best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury.
He held the place in trust for the use of others. But if there were
one among all others to whom the house should be a house of refuge
from care, not an abode of trouble, on whose behalf were it possible
he would make the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their
wont, to whom he would declare, were such words possible to his
tongue, that of him and of his house, and of all things there she was
the mistress, whether she would condescend to love him or no,--that
one was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told by his guest that
he had been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to
London!

And he could not acquit himself. He knew that he had been rough.
He had said very hard words. It was true that he could not have
expressed his meaning without hard words, nor have repressed his
meaning without self-reproach. But in his present mood he could not
comfort himself by justifying himself. She had told him that he ought
to have remembered that Felix was her son; and as she spoke she had
acted well the part of an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that
though he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he
utterly condemned himself. Look where he would there was no comfort.
When he had sat half-an-hour upon the bridge he turned towards the
house to dress for dinner,--and to prepare himself for an apology, if
any apology might be accepted. At the door, standing in the doorway
as though waiting for him, he met his cousin Hetta. She had on her
bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he
thought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness towards him
than he had ever seen there before.

"Mr. Carbury," she said, "mamma is so unhappy!"

"I fear that I have offended her."

"It is not that, but that you should be so,--so angry about Felix."

"I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,--more vexed than I can
tell you."

"She knows how good you are."

"No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me
that she talked of going back to London." He paused for her to speak,
but Hetta had no words ready for the moment. "I should be wretched
indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger."

"I do not think she will do that."

"And you?"

"I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only
wish that Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be
bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is
something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks
that the work will be of service to him." Roger could express no
hope in this direction or even look as though he approved of the
directorship. "I don't see why he should not try at any rate."

"Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you."

"Girls are so different, you know."

It was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he made
his apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at last
it was accepted. "I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix,"
he said,--"and I beg your pardon."

"You were energetic, that was all."

"A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never
be rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me." She answered
him by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel
was over.

Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was
enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now
come down to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and
prosecute his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further
objection. And Felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed.
Roger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy by the
former severity of his language. Such points as these Lady Carbury
never missed. He understood it too, and though he was soft and
gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant
as he could to his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out
of his undoubted right to disapprove of all connection with the
Melmottes. In the course of the evening there came a note,--or rather
a bundle of notes,--from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was
in the form of a letter. Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the
Longestaffe party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining
at Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests.
Lady Pomona hoped that Mr. Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady
Pomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes
the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday
following, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That was the purport
of Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury. Then there were cards of
invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix.

Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady
Carbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The
tone of his voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was
something in it of his former harshness. But she knew how to use her
triumph. "I should like to go," she said.

"I certainly shall not go," he replied; "but there will be no
difficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once,
because their servant is waiting."

"Monday will be best," she said; "--that is, if nobody is coming
here."

"There will be nobody here."

"I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,--and Felix will accept
their invitation."

"I can make no suggestion," said Roger, thinking how delightful it
would be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was
that Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the Melmottes.
Poor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to
meet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousin
Roger.

"That will be best," said Lady Carbury after a moment's thought. "It
is very good of you to let us go, and to send us."

"Of course you will do here just as you please," he replied. But
there was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A
quarter of an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home
with two letters,--the one from Roger expressing his regret that he
could not accept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the other from Lady
Carbury declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great
pleasure in dining at Caversham on the Monday.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST.


The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house had
been very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury
had suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended
to suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he
had been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to
London, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad
feminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had
done so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of
meeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for
speaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm,
immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could
have the waggonnette when they pleased. "I'm afraid you'll find it
tiresome driving about our lanes," he said. Lady Carbury assured him
that she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was
starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought
to Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his
way. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit
till Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to
remain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to
dine at Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose
and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and
honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so
dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such
cousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side
against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest
guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover
whom she did not love?

"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," said
Lady Carbury.

"Why so, mamma?"

"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world,
and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the
gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a
comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"

"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice
people."

"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta,
don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from
the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I
beg that you will not copy him."

"Mamma, I think that is unkind."

"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse
people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word
from you might undo all that we are doing."

"What word?"

"What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you
should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is
willing enough. She did refer him to her father."

"Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?"

"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger
could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place,
and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't
think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte."

"How could he do that, mamma?"

"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your
brother would be his heir."

"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."

"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think
of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what
I say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix
Carbury of Carbury."

"But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?"

"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."

"I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know
I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal
older get married every day."

"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that
kind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will
change him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an
old misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented.
You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate
I do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the
property and title and name of the place will all go together. It
will be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?"

"Who is to say it?"

"Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one
cannot get him to speak rationally."

"Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to
go to--Felix, when he--is dead!"

"It would not kill him a day sooner."

"You would not dare to do it, mamma."

"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.

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 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.

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