 CHAPTER 11 Lady Carberry at Home During the last six weeks, Lady Carberry had lived a life of very mixed depression and elevation. Her great work had come out, the criminal queens, and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had been by no means all pleasure, in as much as many very hard words had been said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr. Alph, one of Mr. Alph's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must have had all history at his finger ends, as in pointing out the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented as being familiar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment's notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the coal cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was always there at the command of Mr. Elf, and his cruelty. The greatness of Mr. Elf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr. Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr. Elf's, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama. There is the review intended to sell a book, which comes out immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it. The review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and which comes a little later. The review which snuffs a book out quietly, the review which is to raise or lower the author a single peg or two pegs as the case may be, the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberant Jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush a man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he has accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the most popular, as being the most readable. When the rumor goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed, been positively driven over by an entire juggernaut's car of criticism, till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass, then a real success has been achieved, and the elf of the day has done a great thing. But even the crushing of a poor Lady Carberry, if it be absolute, is effective. Such a review will not make all the world call for the evening pulpit, but it will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their elf to add a little power to the crushing department. Lady Carberry had been crushed by the evening pulpit. We may fancy that it was easy work, and that Mr. Elf's historical Mr. Jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface, and the whole scheme of the work with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime was reprobated in Mr. Jones's very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly crushed and reduced to little more than a literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to her publishers and was closeted for half an hour with the senior partner, Mr. Lettum. I've got it all in black and white, she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the biography universe, so I'll write to Mr. Elf myself a letter to be published, you know. Pray, don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carberry. I can prove that I'm right, and they can prove that you're wrong. I've got all the facts and the figures. Mr. Lettum did not care a straw for facts or figures, had no opinion of his own, whether the lady or the reviewer were right, but he knew very well that the evening pulpit would surely get the better of any mere author in such a contention. Never fight the newspapers, Lady Carberry. Whoever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing. It's their business, and you are not used to it. And Mr. Elf, my particular friend, it does seem so hard, said Lady Carberry, wiping hot tears from her cheeks. It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carberry. It'll stop the sale. Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. The breakfast table gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the pulpit myself. Like it, said Lady Carberry, still suffering in every fiber of her self-love from the soreness produced by those juggernaut's car wheels. Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carberry. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very good advertisement. But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history after working is I have worked. That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carberry. You think the book has done pretty well? Pretty well, just about what we hoped, you know. There'll be something coming to me, Mr. Lethem? Mr. Lethem sent for a ledger and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures and then scratched his head. There would be something. But Lady Carberry was not to imagine that it could be very much. It did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. Nevertheless, Lady Carberry, when she left the publisher's shop, did carry a check with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very well and had smiled on Mr. Lethem. Mr. Lethem, too, was no more than man and had written a small check. Mr. Elf certainly had behaved badly to her, but both Mr. Brown of the breakfast table and Mr. Booker of the literary chronicle had been true to her interests. Lady Carberry had, as she promised, done Mr. Booker's new tale of a tub in the breakfast table. That is, she had been allowed as a reward for looking into Mr. Brown's eyes and laying her soft hand on Mr. Brown's sleeve and suggesting to Mr. Brown that no one understood her so well as he did to be dogged Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the breakfast table had been very distasteful to poor Mr. Booker. It grieved his intercontemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him. But in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had, unfortunately, become accustomed. So Mr. Booker himself wrote the article on the criminal queens in the literary chronicle, knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. No vivacity, power of delineating character, excellent choice of subject, considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods. The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carberry again. The composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr. Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled by the exigencies of his position to descend so low in literature. But it did not occur to him to reflect that, in fact, he was not compelled and that he was quite at liberty to break stones or to starve honestly if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. If I didn't, somebody else would, he said to himself. But the review in the morning breakfast table was the making of Lady Carberry's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr. Brown saw the lady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of this tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fully performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carberry's criminal queens. It was a very book that had been wanted for years. It was a work of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. There had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. At that last meeting Lady Carberry had been very soft, very handsome, and very winning. Mr. Brown had given the order with good will, and it had been obeyed in the same feeling. Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also been some elation, and as a net result Lady Carberry was disposed to think that her literary career might yet be a success. Mr. Lettum's check had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the way to something better. People at any rate were talking about her, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full. But her literary life and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr. Brown, her business with Mr. Booker, and her crushing by Mr. Alph's, Mr. Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life of hers of which the absorbing interest was her son. And with regard to him, too, she was partly depressed and partly elated, allowing her hopes, however, to dominate her fears. There was very much to frighten her. Even the moderate reform in the young man's expenses which had been effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Though he never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew, too, that he had a horse up in town. She never saw him but once in the day when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware that he was always at his clubs throughout the night. She knew that he was gambling and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes the most dangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for his immediate purposes and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted with the peculiar power of annoying their debtors had ceased to trouble her in Wellbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. But her elation sprang from a higher source than this. From all that she could hear she thought it likely that Felix would carry off the great prize, and then, should he do that, what a blessed son would he have been to her. How constantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment of herself. As she thought of it, the bliss seemed to be too great for the possibility of realization. She was taught to understand the ten thousand pounds a year to begin with would be the least of it, and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make her Felix Carberry the richest commoner in England. In her very heart of hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather than for herself. Then her mind ran away of baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had already nearly engulfed her in his own ruin. And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much, though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She had discovered that her son had become a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known, she certainly did know, that Felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from the world in which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. A ruined baronet of five and twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice and folly, whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable of knowing what principle is, of what service could he be that he should be made a director. But Lady Carberry, though she knew that he could be of no service, was not at all shocked. She was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to Roger Carberry. And her son sat at the same board with Mr. Melmot. What an indication was this of coming triumphs. Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the morning of Saturday, 19 April, leaving Sir Felix at the club at about seven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to see him. She found him asleep in his room at noon, and again at two, and when she saw him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caught him. I hope, she said, you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening. Hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening parties by his presence. All your people are coming. You know, Mother, it is such an awful bore. Madam Melmot and her daughter will be here. One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own house. And he sees that it has been contrived, and it is such a pokey, stuffy little place. Then Lady Carberry spoke out her mind, Felix, I think you must be a fool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anything to please me. I sacrifice everything for you, and I do not even hope for a return. But when I am doing everything to advance your own interests, when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, I think you might at any rate help a little. Not for me, of course, but for yourself. I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't want you to work day and night. There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of this girl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they are going out of town at Whitsentide, and that she is to meet Lord Nitterdale down in the country. She can't endure Nitterdale, she says so herself. She will do as she is told, unless she can be made to be downright in love with someone like yourself. Why not ask her at once on Tuesday? If I am going to do it at all, I must do it after my own fashion. I am not going to be driven. Of course, if you will not take the trouble to be here, to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you really love her. Love her? What a bother there is about loving. Well, I will look in. What time do the animals come to feed? There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruel that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own way and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about ten. I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here to receive her, not later than ten. If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come. When the Tuesday came, the overdriven young man did contrive to get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten. Madame Melmont and her daughter were already there, and many others of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among them Mr. Elf was in the room, and was, at this very moment, discussing Lady Carberry's book with Mr. Booker. He had been quite graciously received, as though he had not authorized the crushing. Lady Carberry had given him her hand with that energy of affection with which she was want to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face, as though asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. I cannot stand this kind of thing, said Mr. Elf to Mr. Booker. The regular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down. If you're strong enough, said Mr. Booker, well, I think I am. I'm strong enough at any rate to show that I'm not afraid to lead the way. I have the greatest possible regard for our friend here, but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half a dozen works of established reputation, and pilfering from which she has almost always managed to misapprehend her facts and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I could. Mr. Elf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker was aware of the extent of Mr. Elf's knowledge. What you say is all very right, said Mr. Booker, only you want a different kind of world to live in. Just so, and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our friend Brown felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the criminal queen was the greatest historical work of modern days. I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, as far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want to break a butterfly on the wheel, especially a friendly butterfly. As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea, said Mr. Elf, moving away. I'll never forget what you've done for me. Never, said Lady Carberry, holding Mr. Brown's hand for a moment as she whispered to him. Nothing more than my duty, said he, smiling. I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful, she replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of enduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable, but at this moment she did feel that Mr. Brown had done much for her and that she would willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. She was, at any rate, too much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it was otherwise with Mr. Brown. He could not quite make up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love with him, or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulge her, and if so, in what manner. Then as he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr. Brown knew of himself that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how impossible it was that such a one as Lady Carberry should turn him from his resolution. I am so glad that you have come tonight, Mr. Alff, Lady Carberry said to the high-minded editor of the Evening Pulpit. Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carberry? You are very good, but I feared, feared what, Lady Carberry, that you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to welcome you after, well, after the compliments of last Thursday. I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see, Lady Carberry, I don't write all these things myself. No, indeed, what a bitter creature you would be if you did, to tell the truth I never write any of them. Of course we endeavor to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, I can only lament the accident and trust that my friend may have speared enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alff who has the misfortune to enter the newspaper. It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you, said Lady Carberry, with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word that Mr. Alff had said to her. She thought and thought rightly that Mr. Alff's Mr. Jones had taken direct orders from his editor as to his treatment of the criminal queens, but she remembered that she intended to write another book and that she might perhaps conquer even Mr. Alff by spirit and courage under her present inflection. It was Lady Carberry's duty on the occasion to say pretty things to everybody, and she did her duty, but in the midst of it all she was ever thinking of her son and Maria Melmont, and she did at last venture to separate the girl from her mother. Marie herself was not unwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, had never seemed to scorn her, and then he was so beautiful. She poor girl bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the life to which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonition from her father, who would again fitfully leave her unnoticed for a week at a time, with no trust in her pseudo-mother, for poor Marie had in truth been born before her father had been a married man, and had never known what was her own mother's fate. With no enjoyment in her present life had come solely to this conclusion that it would be well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. Many a varied phase of life had already come in her way. She could just remember the dirty street in the German portion of New York in which she had been born and had lived for the first four years of her life, and could remember, too, the poor, hardly treated woman who had been her mother. She could remember being at sea and her sickness, but could not quite remember whether that woman had been with her. Then she had run about the streets of Hamburg and had sometimes been very hungry, sometimes in rags, and she had a dim memory of some trouble into which her father had fallen, and that he was away from her for a time. She had up to the present splendid moment her own convictions about that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a human being. Then her father had married her present mother in Frankfurt, that she could remember distinctly as also the rooms in which she was then taken to live, and the fact that she was told that from henceforth she was to be a Jewess. But there had soon come another change. They went from Frankfurt to Paris, and there they were all Christians. Every time they had lived in various apartments in the French capital, but had always lived well. Sometimes there had been a carriage, sometimes there had been none, and then there came a time in which she was grown woman enough to understand that her father was being much talked about. Her father to her had always been alternately capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel, but just at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife, and Madame Melmoit would weep at times and declare that they were all ruined. Then at a moment they burst out into sudden splendor at Paris. There was an hotel with carriages and horses almost unnumbered, and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark, swarthy, greasy men who were entertained sumptuously, but there were few women. At this time Marie was hardly nineteen, and young enough in manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen. Every again she was told that she was to be taken to London, and the migration had been effected with magnificence. She was first taken to Brighton, where the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been brought to Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown into the matrimonial market. No part of her life had been more disagreeable to her, more frightful than the first months in which she had been trafficked for by the knitterdales and grass-lows. She had been too frightened, too much of a coward to object to anything proposed to her, but still had been conscious of a desire to have some hand in her own future destiny. Luckily for her the first attempts at trafficking with the knitterdales and grass-lows had come to nothing, and at length she was picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that it might be possible to prevent a disposition of herself which did not suit her own tastes. She was also beginning to think that there might be a disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes. Felix Carberry was standing, leaning against a wall, and she was seated on a chair close to him. I love you better than anyone in the world, he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhaps indifferent as to the hearing of others. Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that. You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be my wife. How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything. May I go to Papa? You may, if you like, she replied in a very low whisper. It was thus that the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any day, if people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny. CHAPTER XII Sir Felix in his mother's house When all her friends were gone, Lady Carberry looked about for her son, not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his nightly attendance at the Bear Garden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of his fortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the cool effrontery with which Felix had spoken, for without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking, and had seen the girl's timid face and eyes turn to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a woman understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner. But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmott would accept in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, how glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference? I heard him leave the house before the Melmots went, said Henrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom. He might have stayed tonight. Do you think he asked her? How can I say, Mama? I should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. I feel sure he did, and that she accepted him. If so, I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her. Why shouldn't he love her as well as anyone else? A girl need not be odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about her. No, nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especially attractive. Who is? I don't see anybody especially attractive. It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix. Do not say that, Mama. Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up. I wouldn't let him do that, Mama. It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with 20,000 pounds a year. If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be happy. You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles. Then Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carberry absolutely sat up the whole night waiting for her son in order that she might hear his tidings. She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing gown. As she sat opposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garnisher of false hair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. She could hide the unwelcome approach by art, hide it more completely than can most women of her age. But there it was, stealing on her with short gray hairs over her ears and around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes, easily concealed by objectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion of herself which practice had made always possible to her in company, though it now so frequently deserted her when she was alone. But she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing old. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future, never reached but always coming. She, however, had not looked for happiness to love and loveliness and need not therefore be disappointed on that score. She had never really determined what it was that might make her happy, having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame in which was ever co-mingled solicitude respecting money. But at the present moment her great fears and her great hopes were centered on her son. She would not care how gray might be her hair or how savage might be Mr. Alph if her feelings were to marry this heiress. On the other hand, nothing that pearl powder or the morning breakfast table could do would avail anything unless he could be extricated from the ruin that now surrounded him. So she went down into the dining room that she might be sure to hear the key in the door, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand. Unfortunate woman, she might have gone to bed and have been duly called about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full staring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him to the door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become again comfortable. She could not keep her mind to her book, and while she was awake the time seemed to be everlasting. And then it was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these. Why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? Fool to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be so indispensable to his great project, for the chance of winning something which, in comparison with Marie Melmont's money, must be despicable. But at last he came. She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining room door. She had studied her part for the occasion. She would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavored to meet him with a smile. Mother, he said, you up at this hour? His face was flushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait. She had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her if such should be his condition. I could not go to bed till I had seen you. Why not? Why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by and by. Is anything the matter, Felix? Matter? What should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among the fellows of the club, that's all. I had to tell Grasslow a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should. There's not going to be any fighting, Felix. What, dueling? Oh, no, nothing so exciting as that. Whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up. What did Marie Melmont say to you? Nothing particular. And he stood with his hand on the door as he answered her. And what did you say to her? Nothing particular. Good heavens mother, do you think that a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in the morning when he has been up all night? If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf, you would speak a word to me, she said imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had been drinking. She could smell it in his breath. I must go to the old fellow, of course. She told you to go to her father? As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means to settle it as he likes. I should say that it's tend to one against me. Pulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother's hold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs. Then the heiress herself had accepted her son. If so, surely the thing might be done. Lady Carberry recalled to mind her old conviction that her daughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent in a contention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. But then the girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover. In this case, however, there was as yet no reason for supposing that the great man would object. As far as outward signs went, the great man had shown some partiality for her son. No doubt it was Mr. Melmont who had made Sir Felix the director of the Great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received in Groverner Square, and then Sir Felix was Sir Felix, a real baronet. Mr. Melmont had no doubt endeavored to catch this and that Lord, but failing a Lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet? Lady Carberry thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him an acceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as Mr. Melmont. Not money in the funds, not a real fortune, not so many thousands a year that could be settled, the man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary. But such a one as Mr. Melmont would not like outward palpable signs of immediate poverty. There should be means enough for present sleekness and present luxury. He must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the means of making presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, most fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if he went on gambling, Chance would certainly take it all away again, for ought that the poor mother knew Chance might have done so already. And then again it was indispensable that he should abandon the habit of play, at any rate for the present, while his prospects depended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmont. Of course, such a one as Mr. Melmont could not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the city. Why, was such a preceptor to help him? Should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the exchange or among the brokers or in the purleuse of the bank? Lady Calvary would at any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as director of the Great Mexican Railway, which position ought to be the beginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own account. But what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes be over with Mr. Melmont? Should he ever learn that his daughter's lover reached home and tumbled upstairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning? She watched for his appearance on the following day and began at once on the subject. Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for wits and tide. To Calvary Manor, said he, as he ate some deviled kidneys, which the cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast, I thought she found it so dull that she didn't mean to go there anymore. I never said so, Felix, and now I have a great object. What will Heather do? Go to, why shouldn't she? Oh, I don't know, I thought that perhaps she might not like it. I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't give way to her. Has Roger asked you? No, but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we should all go. Not me, mother. Yes, you especially. Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at Calvary Manor? Madam Melmont told me last night that they were all going down to Cavisham to stay three or four days with the long staffs. She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend. Oh, that explains it all. Explains what, Felix, said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly Longstaff and was not without some fear that this projected visit to Cavisham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that delightful young heir. They say at the club that Melmont has taken up old Longstaff's affairs, it means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Cavisham, and they say that Melmont is to have that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmonts are going to Cavisham. Madam Melmont told me so, and the Longstaffs are the proudest people in England. Of course, we ought to be at Calvary Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsentide, and why shouldn't we run down to the family place? All very natural if you can manage it, mother. And you'll come? If Marie Melmont goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and night, said Felix. His mother thought that for him, the promise had been graciously made. End of chapter 12. Chapter 13 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 13, The Longstaffs. Mr. Adolphus Longstaff, the squire of Cavisham and Suffolk and of Pickering Park in Sussex was closeted on a certain morning for the best part of an hour with Mr. Melmont in Abchurch Lane. Had there discussed all his private affairs and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. There are men and old men too who ought to know the world, who think that if they can only find the proper medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and new and unembarrassed. These great conjurers are generally sought for in the city and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though the result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenessence. No greater medea than Mr. Melmont had ever been potent in money matters and Mr. Longstaff had been taught to believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But the necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any cauldron. He, Mr. Melmont, could put Mr. Longstaff in the way of realizing property without delay of changing it from one shape into another or could find out the real market value of the property in question but he could create nothing. You have only a life interest, Mr. Longstaff. No, only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmont. Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you and then you could sell either one estate or the other. There is no question of selling Cavisham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there. Your son will not join you in selling the other place? I have not directly asked him but he never does do anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my life. I think not, Mr. Longstaff. My wife would not like the uncertainty. Then Mr. Longstaff took his leave with the feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much for him and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to Cavisham and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter. He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange and this had been effected simply on the security of the lease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this and the absence of that delay which generally took place between the expression of his desire for money and the acquisition of it and this had gratified him but he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification. At the present moment too, Mr. Melmont was odious to him for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr. Melmont to make him a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway and he, Adolphus Longstaff of Cavisham, had had his request refused. Mr. Longstaff had condescended very low. You have made Lord Alfred Grendel one, he had said in a complaining tone. Then Mr. Melmont explained that Lord Alfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for the position. I'm sure I could do anything that he does, said Mr. Longstaff. Upon this, Mr. Melmont, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness, replied that the number of directors required was completed. Since he had had two duchesses at his house, Mr. Melmont was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board. Mr. Longstaff was a tall, heavy man, about 50, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, so they always seemed to fit him too tightly and who thought very much of his personal appearance. It was not that he considered himself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He entertained an idea that all who understood the matter would perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the first water and a man of fashion. He was intensely proud of his position in life, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the English gentleman of gentlemen was he who had land and family title deeds and an old family place and family portraits and family embarrassments and a family absence of any usual employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords. And having stood and been beaten three or four times for his county, he was of opinion that a seat in the house was rather a mark of bad breeding. He was a silly man who had no fixed idea that it behoved him to be of use to anyone, but yet he had compassed a certain nobility of feeling. There was very little that his position called upon him to do, but there was much that it forbade him to do. It was not allowed to him to be close in money matters. He could leave his tradesman's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous, but he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not make inquiry as to the consumption of his wines in the servants hall. He had no pity for his tenants in regard to game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had his theory of life and endeavored to live up to it, but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family. At the present moment it was the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. The debt had not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. It would also serve his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own, which he had already managed to burden with debt. The father could not bear to be refused, and he feared that his son would decline. But Adolphus wants money as much as anyone, Lady Pomona had said. He had shaken his head and pissed and shawed. Women never could understand anything about money. Now he walked down sadly from Mr. Melmont's office and was taken in his room to his lawyer's chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Even for the accommodation of those few thousand pounds, he was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr. Longstaff felt that the world in general was very hard on him. What on earth are we to do with them, said Sophia, the eldest Miss Longstaff to her mother. I do think it's a shame of papa, said Georgiana, the second daughter. I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them. Of course she will leave them all on my hands, said Lady Pomona, wearily. But what's the use of having them, urged Sophia? I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them and need not know them afterwards. As to the girl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her. It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her, said Lady Pomona. Dolly will never marry anybody, said Georgiana. The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him. Besides, he won't come down to cavers him. Cart ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to be the game, Mama, it is quite hopeless. Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that? Asked Sophia. Because everybody wants money, said Lady Pomona. I'm sure I don't know what your papaz to do or how it is that there never is any money for anything. I don't spend it. I don't think that we do anything out of the way, said Sophia. I haven't the slightest idea what papaz income is. But if we're to live it all, I don't know how we are to make a change. It's always been like this ever since I can remember, said Georgiana. And I don't mean to worry about it anymore. I suppose it's just the same with other people. Only one doesn't know it. But my dear is when we are obliged to have such people as these Melmots. As for that, if we didn't have them, somebody else would, I shan't trouble myself about them. I suppose it will only be for two days. My dear, they're coming for a week. Then papa must take them about the country. That's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down there? He is wonderfully rich, said Lady Pomona. But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money, continued Georgiana. Of course, I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Bochamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in Florence. It was there that Clara Bochamp met young Lord Lifhy. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Cavisham. No one knows who they are or where they came from or what they'll turn to. So spoke Georgiana, who, among the longstaffs, was supposed to have the strongest head and certainly the sharpest tongue. This conversation took place in the drawing room of the longstaff's family townhouse in Bruton Street. It was not by any means a charming house, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which have been added of late years to newly built London residences. It was gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. But it was the old family townhouse having been inhabited by three or four generations of longstaffs and did not savor of that radical newness which prevails and which was peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Longstaff. Queen's Gate and the quarters around were, according to Mr. Longstaff, devoted to opulent tradesmen. Even Belgrave Square, though its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt of the mortar. Many of those living there and thereabouts had never possessed in their families real family townhouses. The old streets lying between Piccadilly and Oxford Street, one or two well-known localities to the south and north of these boundaries, were the proper sites for these habitations. When Lady Pomona, instigated by some friend of high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longstaff had at once snubbed his wife. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls, then they might remain at Cavisham. The threat of remaining at Cavisham had been often made for Mr. Longstaff, proud as he was of his townhouse, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration. The girls' dresses and the girls' horses, his wife's carriage and his own broom, his dull London dinner parties and the one ball which was always necessary that Lady Pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of July with more dread than to any other period. It was then that he began to know what that year's season would cost him, but he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. The girls, who as yet knew nothing of the continent beyond Paris, had signified their willingness to be taken about Germany and Italy for 12 months, but had shown by every means in their power that they would mutiny against any intention on their father's part to keep them at Cavisham during the London season. Georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the Melmots when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not often show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wrote to him notes without end, notes every day pressing invitations of all sorts upon him. Would he come and dine? Would he take them to the theater? Would he go to this ball? Would he go to that evening party? These Dolly barely read and never answered. He would open them, thrust them into some pocket and then forget them. Consequently, his mother worshiped him, and even his sisters, who were at any rate superior to him in intellect, treated him with a certain deference. He could do as he liked, and they felt themselves to be slaves bound down by the dullness of the long-staff regime. His freedom was grand to their eyes and very enviable, although they were aware that he had already so used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of his wealth. My dear Adolphus, said the mother, this is so nice of you. I think it is rather nice, said Dolly, submitting himself to be kissed. Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you, said Sophia. Give him some tea, said his mother. Lady Pomona was always having tea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner. I'd sooner have soda and brandy, said Dolly. My darling boy. I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it. Indeed, I don't want it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor? They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be something going on more than they had dreamed of when Dolly asked to see his father. Papa went out in the room immediately after lunch, said Sophia gravely. I'll wait a little for him, said Dolly, taking out his watch. Do stay and dine with us, said Lady Pomona. I could not do that because I've got to go and dine with some fellow. Some fellow? I believe you don't know where you're going, said Georgiana. My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't. Adolphus, began Lady Pomona very seriously. I've got a plan and I want you to help me. I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother. We're all going to Cavisham just for wits and tide and we particularly want you to come. By George, no, I couldn't do that. You haven't heard half. Madam Melmont and her daughter are coming. The devil they are, ejaculated Dolly. Dolly, said Sophia, do remember where you are. Yes, I will, and I'll remember to where I won't be. I won't go to Cavisham to meet old mother Melmont. My dear boy, continued the mother, do you know that Miss Melmont will have 20,000 a year the day she marries and that in all probability her husband will someday be the richest man in Europe? Half the fellows in London are after her, said Dolly. Why shouldn't you be one of them? She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London, suggested Georgiana. If you have a mind to try it, you'll have a chance which nobody else can have just at present. But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me, oh dear, it isn't at all in my way, mother. I knew he wouldn't, said Georgiana. It would put everything so straight, said Lady Pomona. They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them straight. There's the governor, I heard his voice. Now for a row. Then Mr. Longstaff entered the room. My dear, said Lady Pomona, here's Adolphus, come to see us. The father nodded his head at his son, but said nothing. We want him to stay in Dine, but he's engaged. Though he doesn't know where, said Sophia. My fellow knows, he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever so long from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and see you about selling something, so I've come. It's an awful bore because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't anything to be sold. If so, I can go away again, you know. You'd better come with me into the study, said the father. We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business. Then the squire led the way out of the room and Dolly followed, making a woeful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea for about half an hour, waiting, not the result of the conference, for with that they did not suppose that they would be made acquainted. But whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the manner and appearance of the squire when he should return to them. Dolly they did not expect to see again, probably for a month. He and the squire never did come together without quarreling, and careless as was the young man in every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to his own rights in any dealings which he had with his father. At the end of the half hour, Mr. Longstaff returned to the drawing room and at once pronounced the doom of the family. My dear, he said, we shall not return from Cavisham to London this year. He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquility as he spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion. Papa, screamed Sophia. My dear, you don't mean it, said Lady Pomona. Of course Papa doesn't mean it, said Georgiana, rising to her feet. I mean it accurately and certainly, said Mr. Longstaff. We go to Cavisham in about 10 days and we shall not return from Cavisham to London this year. Our ball is fixed, said Lady Pomona. Then it must be unfixed. So saying, the master of the house left the drawing room and descended to his study. The three ladies when left to deplore their fate expressed their opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly, but the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother. He can't really mean it, said Sophia. He does, said Lady Pomona with tears in her eyes. He must un-mean it again. That's all, said Georgiana. Dolly has said something to him very rough and he resents it upon us. Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun? I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus. Dolly can take care of himself, said Georgiana, and always does do so. Dolly does not care for us. Not a bit, said Sophia. I'll tell you what you must do, Mama. You mustn't stir from this at all. You must give up going to Cavisham altogether unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir unless he has me carried out of the house. My dear, I couldn't say that to him. Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us, but the rusty old Bishop and Mr. Carberry, who is rustier still, I won't stand it. There are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. If you go down, I shall stay up with the primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me, I know. It wouldn't be nice, of course. I don't like the primeros. I hate the primeros. Oh, yes, it's quite true. I know that as well as you, Sophia. They are vulgar, but not half so vulgar, Mama, as your friend, Madam Melmont. That's ill nature, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine. That you're going to have her down at Cavisham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Cavisham just now, knowing as you do how hard Pappat is to manage. Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsentide, my dear. No, Mama, everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. The primeros aren't going down. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect us to become of us? If he wants to save money, why doesn't he shut Cavisham up altogether and go abroad? Cavisham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house I think in all England. The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's company. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. The two girls were quite silent and would not speak to their father. And when he addressed them, they answered simply by monosyllables. Lady Pomona was ill and sat in a corner of a sofa wiping her eyes. To her had been imparted upstairs the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would be desirable in order that the Cavisham property might be freed from debt, which Cavisham property would eventually be his, he replied that he also had in the state of his own, which was a little mortgaged and would be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold. And as a consequence of that, Mr. Longstaff had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year. The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head as was their custom. There was very little show of affection in the kiss. You had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week, he said. They heard the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without daining to notice them. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 14, Carberry Manor. I don't think it quite nice, Momab, that's all. Of course, if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you. What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your own cousin's house? You know what I mean, Mama. It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at all in what you say. This little conversation arose from Lady Carberry's announcement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting the hospitality of Carberry Manor for the Whitson Week. It was very grievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with her, even though he was her cousin. But she had no escape. She could not remain in town by herself, nor could she even allude to her grievance to anyone but her mother. Lady Carberry, in order that she might be quite safe from opposition, had posted the following letter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter. Wellbeck Street, 24th April, 18-something. My dear Roger. We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what I am going to propose doesn't suit, you'll say so at once. I have been working very hard, too hard indeed, and I feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a part of Whitson Week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday, if you would keep us. Felix says he would run down, though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying. I am sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that great American Railway Board as a director. It opens a new sphere of life to him and will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a great confidence to place in one so young. Of course, you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes with any of your plans, but you have been so very kind to us that I have no scruple in making it. Henrietta joins with me in kind love, your affectionate cousin, Matilda Carberry. There was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed Roger Carberry. In the first place, he felt that Henrietta should not be brought to his house. Much as he loved her, dear as her presence to him always was, he hardly wished to have her at Carberry unless she would come with a resolution to be its future mistress. In one respect, he did Lady Carberry in injustice. He knew that she was anxious to forward his suit and he thought that Henrietta was being brought to his house with that object. He had not heard that the great heiress was coming into his neighborhood and therefore knew nothing of Lady Carberry's scheme in that direction. He was, too, disgusted by the old-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position as a director. Roger Carberry did not believe in the railway. He did not believe in Fisker nor in Melmont and certainly not in the board generally. Paul Montague had acted in opposition to his advice in yielding to the seductions of Fisker. The whole thing was, to his mind, false, fraudulent, and ruinous of what nature could be a company which should have itself directed by such men as Lord Alfred Grendel and Sir Felix Carberry. And then, as to their great chairman, did not everybody know, in spite of all the duchesses, that Mr. Melmont was a gigantic swindler? Although there was more than one immediate cause for bitterness between them, Roger loved Paul Montague well and could not bear with patience the appearance of his friend's name on such a list. And now he was asked for warm congratulations because Sir Felix Carberry was one of the board. He did not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for belonging to such a board or the board for having such a director. He knew sphere of life, he said to himself. The only proper sphere for them all would be Newgate. And there was another trouble. He had asked Paul Montague to come to Carberry for this special week and Paul had accepted the invitation. With a constancy, which was perhaps his strongest characteristic, he clung to his old affection for the man. He could not bear the idea of a permanent quarrel though he knew that there must be a quarrel if the man interfered with his dearest hopes. He had asked him down to Carberry intending that the name of Henrietta Carberry should not be mentioned between them. And now it was proposed to him that Henrietta Carberry should be at the manor house at the very time of Paul's visit. He made up his mind at once that he must tell Paul not to come. He wrote his two letters at once. That to Lady Carberry was very short. He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta at the time named and would be very glad should it suit Felix to come also. He did not say a word about the board or the young man's probable usefulness in his new sphere of life. To Montague, his letter was longer. It is always best to be open and true, he said. Since you were kind enough to say that you would come to me, Lady Carberry has proposed to visit me just at the same time and to bring her daughter. After what has passed between us, I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome here together. It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want of hospitality towards you. Paul wrote back to say that he was sure that there was no want of hospitality and that he would remain in town. Suffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be said that the scenery around Carberry was either grand or beautiful, but there were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and the grounds around it, which gave it a charm of its own. The Carberry River, so-called, though at no place is it so wide but that an active schoolboy might jump across it, runs or rather creeps into the waveny and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds Carberry Manor House. The moat has been rather a trouble to the proprietors and especially so to Roger, as in these days of sanitary considerations, it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean with at any rate moving water in it or else to fill it up and abolish it altogether. That plan of abolishing it had to be thought of and was seriously discussed about 10 years since, but then it was decided that such a proceeding would altogether alter the character of the house, would destroy the gardens and would create a waste of mud all round the place which it would take years to beautify or even to make indurable. And then an important question had been asked by an intelligent farmer who had long been a tenant on the property. Philanoop, A, A, sooner said than Dunesquire, where be the stoof to come from? The squire therefore had given up that idea and instead of abolishing his moat had made it prettier than ever. The high road from Bungay to Beckles ran close to the house, so close that the gable ends of the building were separated from it only by the breadth of the moat. A short private road, not above 100 yards in length, led to the bridge which faced the front door. The bridge was old and high with sundry architectural pretensions and guarded by iron gates in the center, which, however, were very rarely closed. Between the bridge and the front door there was a sweep of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage and on either side of this the house was brought close to the water so that the entrance was in a recess or irregular quadrangle of which the bridge and moat formed one side. At the back of the house there were large gardens screened from the road by a wall 10 feet high in which there were yew trees and cypresses said to be of wonderful antiquity. The gardens were partly inside the moat but chiefly beyond them and were joined by two bridges, a footbridge and one with a carriageway. And there was another bridge at the end of the house furthest from the road leading from the back door to the stables and farmyard. The house itself had been built in the time of Charles II. When that, which we call Tudor architecture, was giving way to a cheaper, less picturesque though perhaps more useful form. But Carberry Manor House through the whole county had the reputation of being a Tudor building. The windows were long and for the most part low made with strong mullions and still contained small old fashioned panes for the squire had not as yet gone to the expense of plate glass. There was one high bow window which belonged to the library and which looked out onto the gravel sweep at the left of the front door as you entered it. All the other chief rooms faced upon the garden. The house itself was built of a stone that had become buff or almost yellow with years and was very pretty. It was still covered with tiles as were all the attached buildings. It was only two stories high except at the end where the kitchens were placed and the offices which thus rose above the other part of the edifice. The rooms throughout were low and for the most part long and narrow with large wide fireplaces and deep wane scuttings. Taking it all together one would be inclined to say that it was picturesque rather than comfortable. Such as it was its owner was very proud of it with a pride of which he never spoke to anyone which he endeavored studiously to conceal but which had made itself known to all who knew him well. The houses of the gentry around him were superior to his in material comfort and general accommodation but to none of them belonged to that thoroughly established look of old county position which belonged to Carberry. Bundlesham where the Primeros lived was the finest house in that part of the county but it looked as if it had been built within the last 20 years. It was surrounded by new shrubs and new lawns by new walls and new outhouses and savored of trade. So at least thought Roger Carberry though he never said the words. Caversham was a very large mansion built in the early part of George III's reign when men did care that things about them should be comfortable but did not care that they should be picturesque. There was nothing at all to recommend Caversham but its size. Eardley Park, the seat of the Hepworths had as a park some pretensions. Carberry possessed nothing that could be called a park. The enclosures beyond the gardens being merely so many home paddocks but the house of Eardley was ugly and bad. The Bishop's Palace was an excellent gentleman's residence but then that too was comparatively modern and had no peculiar features of its own. Now Carberry Manor House was peculiar and in the eyes of its owner was preeminently beautiful. It often troubled him to think what would come of the place when he was gone. He was at present 40 years old and was perhaps as healthy a man as you could find in the whole county. Those around who had known him as he grew into manhood among them especially the farmers of the neighborhood still regarded him as a young man. They spoke of him at the county fairs as the young squire. When in his happiest moods he could be almost a boy and he still had something of old fashioned boyish reverence for his elders but of late there had grown up a great care within his breast. A care which does not often perhaps in these days bear so heavily on men's hearts as it used to do. He had asked his cousin to marry him having assured himself with certainty that he did love her better than any other woman and she had declined. She had refused him more than once and he believed her implicitly when she told him that she could not love him. He had a way of believing people especially when such belief was opposed to his own interests and had none of that self confidence which makes a man think that if opportunity be allowed him he can win a woman even in spite of herself. But if it were faded that he should not succeed with Henrietta then so he felt assured no marriage would now be possible to him. In that case he must look out for an heir and could regard himself simply as a stop gap among the carveries. In that case he could never enjoy the luxury of doing the best he could with the property in order that a son of his own might enjoy it. Now Sir Felix was the next heir. Roger was hampered by no entail and could leave every acre of the property as he pleased. In one respect the natural succession to it by Sir Felix would generally be considered fortunate. It had happened that a title had been won in a lower branch of the family and were this succession to take place the family title and the family property would go together. No doubt to Sir Felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most proper thing in the world. As it would also to Lady Carberry were it not that she looked to Carberry Manor as the future home of another child. But to all this the present owner of the property had very strong objections. It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet himself, so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good could come from that quarter, that he thought ill also of the baronetcy itself. Sir Patrick to his thinking had been altogether unjustifiable in accepting an enduring title knowing that he would leave behind him no property adequate for its support. A baronet so thought Roger Carberry should be a rich man, rich enough to grace the rank which he assumed to wear. A title according to Roger's doctrine on such subjects could make no man a gentleman, but if improperly worn might degrade a man who would otherwise be a gentleman. He thought that a gentleman born in bread acknowledged as such without doubt could not be made more than a gentleman by all the titles which the queen could give. With these old fashioned notions Roger hated the title which had fallen upon a branch of his family. He certainly would not leave his property to support the title which Sir Felix unfortunately possessed. But Sir Felix was the natural heir and this man felt himself constrained almost as by some divine law to see that his land went by natural descent. Though he was in no degree fettered as to its disposition he did not presume himself to have more than a life interest in the estate. It was his duty to see that it went from Carberry to Carberry as long as there was a Carberry to hold it and especially his duty to see that it should go from his hands at his death unimpaired in extent or value. There was no reason why he should himself die for the next 20 or 30 years. But were he to die Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the acres and then there would be an end of Carberry. But in such case he, Roger Carberry would at any rate have done his duty. He knew that no human arrangements can be fixed. Let the care in making them be ever so great. To his thinking it would be better that the estate should be dissipated by a Carberry than held together by a stranger. He would stick to the old name while there was one to bear it and to the old family while a member of it was left. So thinking he had already made his will leaving the entire property to the man whom of all others he most despised should he himself die without child. In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carberry 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 Carberry. 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 pretenses 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 Grendahl and Sir Felix Carberry under the absolute control of such a one as Mr. Augustus Melmont. Was not this building a house upon the sand with a vengeance? What a life it would be for Henrietta Carberry were she to marry a man striving to become rich without labor 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. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 15. You should remember that I am his mother. This is so kind of you, said Lady Carberry 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 Carberry and where should a Carberry go to escape from London's smoke but to the old house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull. Oh no, said Heta, smiling. You ought to remember that I am never dull in the country. The Bishop and Mrs. Yell are coming here to dine tomorrow and the Hepworths? I shall be so glad to meet the Bishop once more, said Lady Carberry. 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 neighbor? Yes, a new neighbor. Father John Barham who has come to Beckles as a priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here in this parish and does duty both at Beckles 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 in amounts to about as much as the wages of a day laborer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy secondhand clothes. How shocking, said Lady Carberry 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 wants to know him. He won't hurt the Bishop but you and Hedda will find it very dull. I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carberry, said Henrietta. It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here, said Lady Carberry. 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 Carberry had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between Cavisham and the Manor House so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness to Marie Melmont. I have asked the long staffs 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 daresay. Why not? They never do. They have probably a house full of guests and they know that my accommodation is limited. I have no doubt they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday and, if you like, we will go. I know they ought to have guests, said Lady Carberry. What guests? The Melmonts are coming to them. Lady Carberry, 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 Melmonts coming to Cavisham, 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 Melmont in the country. Oh yes, Madame Melmont told me. I take it they are very intimate. Mr. Longstaff asked the Melmonts to visit him at Cavisham? 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. Longstaff does want a little pecuniary assistance. Any 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. What I should have thought that such a man as Mr. Longstaff might have kept such another man as Mr. Melmont out of his wife's drawing room. Henrietta became redder than ever. Even Lady Carberry flushed up as she remembered that Roger Carberry knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmont'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 than 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 Carberry had come down to his house in order that she might be near the Melmont's. 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 maneuver 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 Carberry came out to him in the garden. She had changed her traveling 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 Melmont's and she wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good that might come to her in hers by an alliance with the heiress. I can understand, Roger, she said, taking his arm, but you should not like those people. What people? The Melmont's. 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. And I was thinking of the long staffs 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 his head 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 Carberry. 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 Melmots. 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 Carberry. 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. Melmot. 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 the 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 carcass 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 pretense, 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 neighborhood, it's such a house as Cavisham, 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 Hedda, but we will go. No, I certainly did 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 retraction, some connolly 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 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 could be more harsh than that? At any rate, 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 Melmots 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 Carberry. I think I will go to my room now, my headaches 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 Carberry 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 Carberry. He held a 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 in a boat of trouble, on whose behalf were it possible he would make the very air softer and the flowers sweeter than their want, 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 Hedda, and now he had been told by his guests 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 Hedda. 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. Carberry, she said, Mama is so unhappy. I fear that I have offended her. It is not that, but that you should be 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 Hedda 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 Mama 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 director's ship. I don't see why he should not try at any rate. Dear Hedda, 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 and formed to Lady Carberry, 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 Carberry understood the full extent of her triumph and was enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now come down to Carberry and go over from Thence to Cavisham and prosecute his wooing, and the master of Carberry 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 Carberry never missed. He understood it, too, and though he was soft and gracious in his bearing and evering 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 Melmots. In the course of the evening there came a note, or rather a bundle of notes, from Cavisham. That address to Roger was in the form of a letter. Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the long staff party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at Carberry Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests. Lady Pomona hoped that Mr. Carberry and his relatives, who Lady Pomona heard were with him at the hall, would do the long staffs the pleasure of dining at Cavisham, either on the Monday or Tuesday following as might best suit the Carberry plans. That was the purport of Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carberry. Then there were cards of invitation for Lady Carberry and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix. Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady Carberry and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The tone of his voice as he spoke graded 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 Heta 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 Cavisham to meet the Melmots. Poor Heta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to meet the Melmots, nor did she wish to dine alone with her cousin Roger. That will be best, said Lady Carberry 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 Carberry feared. A quarter of an hour later the Cavisham 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 Carberry declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasure in dining at Cavisham on the Monday.