The Way We Live Now (22 page)

In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carbury was expected, he wandered about the place thinking of all this. How infinitely better it
would be that he should have an heir of his own! How wonderfully beautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin would consent to be his wife! How wearily insipid must it be if no such consent could be obtained from her! And then he thought much of her welfare too. In very truth he did not like Lady Carbury. He saw through her character, judging her with almost absolute accuracy. The woman was affectionate, seeking good things for others rather than for herself; but she was essentially worldly, believing that good could come out of evil, that falsehood might in certain conditions be better than truth, that shams and pretences might do the work of true service, that a strong house might be built upon the sand! It was lamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to this teaching, and live in an atmosphere so burdened with falsehood. Would not the touch of pitch at last defile her? In his heart of hearts he believed that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he was beginning to fear evil. What but a sham could be a man who consented to pretend to sit as one of a board of directors to manage an enormous enterprise with such colleagues as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury, under the absolute control of such a one as Mr Augustus Melmotte? Was not this building a house upon the sand with a vengeance? What a life would it be for Henrietta Carbury were she to marry a man striving to become rich without labour and without capital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar – a City adventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most dishonest? He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but such was the life which he feared the young man was preparing for himself.

Then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms which the two ladies were to occupy. As their host, a host without a wife or mother or sister, it was his duty to see that things were comfortable, but it may be doubted whether he would have been so careful had the mother been coming alone. In the smaller room of the two the hangings were all white, and the room was sweet with May flowers; and he brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass on the dressing table. Surely she would know who put it there.

Then he stood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantly for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before the front door. During that half hour he resolved that he would try again as though there had as yet been no repulse.

‘This is so kind of you,' said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's hand as she got out of the carriage.

‘The kindness is on your part,' said Roger.

‘I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And – and –'

‘Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull.'

‘Oh no,' said Hetta smiling. ‘You ought to remember that I am never dull in the country.'

‘The bishop and Mrs Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow – and the Hepworths.'

‘I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more,' said Lady Carbury.

‘I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen.'

‘A new neighbour?'

‘Yes – a new neighbour; – Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles as priest He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in this parish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to know something of his family.'

‘He is a gentleman then?'

‘Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they 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.'