The Way We Live Now (25 page)

‘They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our Saviour,' said the priest.

‘I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn,' said the bishop, with a curious smile. ‘We were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible.'

‘The Roman population still believed,' said Carbury, ‘when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears.'

‘The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also.'

‘The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord,' said the priest.

‘That begs the whole question,' said the bishop, turning to his host, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A—s and the B—s, and the C—s and the D—s. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.

‘Your priest is a very zealous man,' said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, ‘and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet.'

‘I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare.'

‘That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company.'

‘I am sure he would repeat nothing.'

‘Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me.'

‘I don't think it answers,' said Mrs Yeld to her husband as they went home. ‘Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics.'

‘You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't have them decline to meet each other.'

‘It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion.'

‘It ought to be,' said the bishop.

‘Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear, but I don't know that I want to meet Mr Barham again.'

‘I don't know that I do, either,' said the bishop; ‘but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly.'

On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix. He was to be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and Roger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to the station for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was still another train by which he might come so as to be just in time for dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carbury with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage had to be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at Carbury. The squire kept a waggonette and a pair of horses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the carriage once on this day – and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he did it with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was Sir Felix, the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position and rank – because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the day. To Roger Carbury Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonette was sent. But the waggonette again came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta, in very much gloom.

About four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of the baronet Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, he had
contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himself deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carbury. Roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and Lady Carbury also left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been a very fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a very different opinion, and spoke little or nothing. ‘Oh, Felix,' said the mother, ‘you have so terrified us!'

‘I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to come fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who could hardly get up a trot.'

‘But why didn't you come by the train you named?'

‘I couldn't get out of the City,' said the baronet with a ready lie.

‘I suppose you were at the board?' To this Felix made no direct answer. Roger knew that there had been no board. Mr Melmotte was in the country and there could be no board, nor could Sir Felix have had business in the City. It was sheer impudence – sheer indifference, and, into the bargain, a downright lie. The young man, who was of himself so unwelcome, who had come there on a project which he, Roger, utterly disapproved – who had now knocked him and his household up at four o'clock in the morning – had uttered no word of apology. ‘Miserable cub!' Roger muttered between his teeth. Then he spoke aloud, ‘You had better not keep your mother standing here. I will show you your room.'

‘All right, old fellow,' said Sir Felix. ‘I am awfully sorry to disturb you all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy and soda before I go to bed, though.' This was another blow to Roger.

‘I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have, I don't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you will come with me.' He pronounced the word ‘brandy' in a tone which implied that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. It was a wretched work to Roger. He was forced to go up-stairs and fetch a key in order that he might wait upon this cub – this cur! He did it, however, and the cub drank his brandy and water, not in the least disturbed by his host's ill-humour. As he went to bed he suggested the probability of his not showing himself till lunch on the following day, and expressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. ‘He is born to be hung,' said Roger to himself as he went to his room – ‘and he'll deserve it.'

On the following morning, being Sunday, they all went to church – except Felix. Lady Carbury always went to church when she was in the country, never when she was at home in London. It was one of those moral habits, like early dinners and long walks, which suited country life. And she fancied that were she not to do so, the bishop would be
sure to know it and would be displeased. She liked the bishop. She liked bishops generally; and was aware that it was a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for society. As to the purpose for which people go to church, it had probably never in her life occurred to Lady Carbury to think of it. On their return they found Sir Felix smoking a cigar on the gravel path, close in front of the open drawing-room window.

‘Felix,' said his cousin, ‘take your cigar a little farther. You are filling the house with tobacco.'

‘Oh heavens – what a prejudice!' said the baronet.

‘Let it be so, but still do as I ask you.' Sir Felix chucked the cigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up to the spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the first greeting of the day between the two men.

After lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating him to go over at once to Caversham. ‘How the deuce am I to get there?'

‘Your cousin will lend you a horse.'

‘He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than I am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with insolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard and ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course.'

‘Roger has not a great establishment.'

‘I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. I don't want anything grand.'

‘He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday.'

‘I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him for a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, he may lump it.' About half an hour after this he found his cousin. ‘Can I have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?' he said.

‘Our horses never go out on Sunday,' said Roger. Then he added, after a pause, ‘You can have it. I'll give the order.' Sir Felix would be gone on Tuesday, and it should be his own fault if that odious cousin ever found his way into Carbury House again! So he declared to himself as Felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how probable it was that Felix himself would be the owner of Carbury. And should it ever come to pass – as still was possible – that Henrietta should be the mistress of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive her brother. He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as he cantered away upon the road, listening to the horse's feet The young man was
offensive in every possible way. Who does not know that ladies only are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon roads? A gentleman trots his horse, and his friend's horse. Roger Carbury had but one saddle horse – a favourite old hunter that he loved as a friend. And now this dear old friend, whose legs probably were not quite so good as they once were, was being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub! ‘Soda and brandy?' Roger exclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the discomfiture of that early morning. ‘He'll die some day of delirium tremens in a hospital!'

Before the Longestaffes left London to receive their new friends the Melmottes at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr Longe-staffe, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded daughter. The daughter on her side undertook that the guests should be treated with feminine courtesy. This might be called the most-favoured-nation
¹
clause. The Melmottes were to be treated exactly as though old Melmotte had been a gentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return for this the Longestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town. But here again the father had carried another clause. The prolonged sojourn in town was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July the Longestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder of the year. When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the father became absolutely violent in his refusal. ‘In God's name where do you expect the money is to come from?' When Georgiana urged that other people had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time was coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over her head. This, however, she took as having been said with poetical licence, the same threat having been made more than once before. The treaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to carry it out with fair honesty. The Melmottes were being treated with decent courtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled.

The idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned. Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course either by his father or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie Melmotte. Therefore when the Longestaffes heard that Sir Felix was coming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining him at Caversham. He had been lately talked of in London as the favourite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of her own against Lord
Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix's prospects. Soon after the Melmottes' arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting Sir Felix. ‘There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, Miss Melmotte.' Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. ‘I think you know Sir Felix Carbury,' continued Georgiana.

‘Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.'

‘He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like.'

‘I don't think he is coming because of me,' said Marie blushing. She had once told him that he might go to her father, which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her power of acceptance went. Since that she had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to Mr Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind that she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on constancy. But she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.

‘We had heard,' said Georgiana, ‘that he was a particular friend of yours.' And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame Melmotte certainly could not have surpassed.