 16 The Bishop and the Priest The afternoon on which Lady Carberry arrived at her cousin's house had been very stormy. Roger Carberry had been severe and Lady Carberry had suffered under his severity, or had at least so well pretended to suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he had been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to London and, when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad, feminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had done so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of meeting the Melmots had been settled, and there was no need for speaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the wagonette when they pleased. I'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving about our lanes, he said. Lady Carberry assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it to her and then went his way. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit till Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine at Cavisham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth and honor and honesty of his character and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love. She was beginning within her heart to take his side against her mother and brother and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love? I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here, said Lady Carberry. Why so, Mama? It would be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the gentlemen of England. But in his present mood with me he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense! He did talk about the Melmans. I don't suppose, Mama, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmans can be nice people. Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger, it has to be born. But I beg that you will not copy him. Mama, I think that is unkind. And I shall think it is very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing. What word? What word? Any word. If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to her father. Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmans? I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place and that someday he will be Sir Felix Carberry of Carberry, I don't think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmont. How could he do that, Mama? If your cousin were to die as he is now it would be so. Your brother would be his heir. You should not think of such a thing, Mama. Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than anyone? And what I say is so. If Roger were to die tomorrow he would be Sir Felix Carberry of Carberry. But Mama, he will live and have a family. Why should he not? You say he is so old that you will not look at him. I never said so. When we were joking I said he was old. You know I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day. If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that kind so stiff and stubborn in old fashioned that nothing will change him. He will go on bootying over it till he will become an old misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wish that the Melmonts should be made to understand that the property and title and name of the place will all go together. It will be so and why should not Felix have the advantage? Who is to say it? Ah, that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally. Oh Mama, you wouldn't suggest it to him that this place is to go to Felix when he is dead. It would not kill him a day sooner. You would not dare do it Mama. I would dare do anything for my children but you need not look like that Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself. Henrietta would feign have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as that proposed. She refrained however and was silent. There was no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes of maneuvers in which her mother's mind had learned to work and to dislike and almost to despise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes. In the afternoon Lady Carberry alone had driven herself into beckles that she might telegraph to her son. You are to dine at Cavisham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there. Lady Carberry had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might too probably understand who was the she who was spoken of as being at Cavisham and might understand also the project and speak of it publicly. But then it was essential that Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday and unless warned would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the long staffs and their dinner party. Again if he were told to come simply for the Monday he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carberry's desire to get him down for as long a period as was possible and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keep him as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighborhood. Then she returned and shut herself up in her bedroom and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the breakfast table. She should ever accuse her justly of idleness and afterwards as she walked by herself round and round the garden she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere if the Carberry's were unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers. Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till he appeared in the drawing room before dinner but she was thinking of him during every minute of the day. How good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand. Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all but dead and buried simply because of his love for her. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? She came to think of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before but yet she would not tell herself she loved him. It might perhaps be her duty to give herself to him without loving him because he was so good but she was sure that she did not love him. In the evening the bishop came and his wife, Mrs. Yeld, and the Hepworths of Erdley and Father John Barham, the beckles priest. The party consisted of eight, which is perhaps the best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a dinner table, especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to the master. In this case Mr. Hepworth faced the giver of the feast. The bishop and the priest were opposite to each other and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. In the drawing room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife and then to his cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had seen it all before, no doubt, but she had never watched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the mother of his children. The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming gray, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and something of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for clerical breaches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortune outside his bishopric, and as he never went up to London and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman and was very popular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such clergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theology, either on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a model bishop. By the very high and the very low, by those rather who regarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish, he was looked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea in either of those boats. He was an unselfish man who loved his neighbor as himself and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God for his daily bread from his heart and prayed heartily to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed, or even to hold one, if it will be necessary that a man should understand and define his creed before he can hold it. Whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by any inward misgivings, who shall say? If there were such, he never whispered a word of them even to the wife of his bosom. From the tone of his voice and the look of his eye you would say that he was unscathed by that agony which doubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. Yet it was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith or entered into arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it. He was diligent in preaching, moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfare of his clergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. The edifice of every church in his diocese was a care to him. He labored at schools and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the poor. But he was never known to declare to man or woman that the human soul must live or die forever according to its faith. Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese than the bishop of Elmham. A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the lately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beckles, it would be impossible to conceive. And yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, so meagre, so wasted in appearance that unless when he stooped he was taken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair which was cut short in accordance with the usage of his church, but which he so constantly ruffled by the action of his hands that though short it seemed to be wild and uncombed. In his younger days when long locks straggled over his forehead he had acquired a habit while talking energetically of rubbing them back with his finger which he had not since dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a high broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin long nose, cheeks very thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin. He was utterly without worldly means except those which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to find him food and raiment. But no man ever lived more indifferent to such matters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger son of an English country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to Oxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarreled with him till he had drawn a sister with him. When banished from the house he had still striven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care, but of this he never complained. It was a part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. Had he been able to change his creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and poverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable and satisfactory as it was. He considered that his father, as a Protestant, and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all the same, had been right to quarrel with him, but he loved his father and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications that his father might see the truth and be as he was. To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey, that he should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others, and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faith being sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man except as a testimony of faith. For to him whose belief was true enough to produce obedience moral conduct would certainly be added. The dogmas of his church were, to Father Barham, a real religion, and he would teach them in season and out of season, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving their truth. Afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his perseverance would create, he had but one duty before him, to do his part towards bringing over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one, that he should but half convert one, that he should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one, so that future conversion might be possible, but even that would be work done. He would sow the seed if it might be so, but if it were not given to him to do that he would at any rate plow the ground. He had come to Beckles lately and Roger Carberry had found out that he was a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found out also that he was very poor and had consequently taken him by the hand. The young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbor's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should be delighted to dine at Carberry as he was much in want of a dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparent frankness of the man about himself had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winter evening in the parlor at Carberry, had tried his hand at converting his host. I have the most thorough respect for your religion, Roger had said, but it would not suit me. The priest had gone on with his logic. If he could not sow the seed he might plow the ground. This had been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest and such earnestness commanded respect, and Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored he could not be injured by such teaching. Then it occurred to him one day that he had known the bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years and had never heard from the bishop's mouth, except when in the pulpit, a single word of religious teaching, whereas this man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the very fact that his creed was always talking to him about his faith. Roger Carberry was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two. Lady Carberry at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one looking at her or listening to her could think that her heart was sore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin and was skillful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She had known the bishop before and had, on one occasion, spoken to him of her soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of her error, and she never repeated it. To Mr. Elf she commonly talked of her mind. To Mr. Brown of her heart. To Mr. Booker of her body and its wants. She was quite ready to talk of her soul on a proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subject even on a bishop. Now she was full of the charms of Carberry and its neighborhood. Yes, indeed, said the bishop, I think Suffolk is a very nice county, and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for Norfolk, too, it's an ill bird that follows its own nest. I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling, said Lady Carberry. Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns and have lost all local distinctions. We still keep our name and reputation, said the bishop. Silly Suffolk. But that was never deserved. As much perhaps as other general epithets, I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautiful scenery like the Lake Country. No rivers great for fishing like Scotland. No hunting grounds like the Shires. Partridges, pleaded Lady Carberry with pretty energy. Yes, we have partridges, fine churches and the herring fishery. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can't increase and multiply as they do in the great cities. I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason. What is the use of a crowded population? The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carberry. Oh yes, said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to her voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine arrangement. The world must be peopled, but for myself I like the country better than the town. So do I, said Roger, and I like Suffolk. The people are hardy and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poor people touch their hats and the rich people think of the poor. There is something left among us of old English habits. That is so nice, said Lady Carberry. Something left of old English ignorance, said the bishop. All the same, I daresay we're improving, like the rest of the world. What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carberry. At any rate, we can grow flowers in Suffolk. Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest and was in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbor. She was perhaps a little stauncher than her husband in Protestantism, and though she was willing to admit that Mr. Barum might not have ceased to be a gentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quite sure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to do with him. Mr. Carberry had not taken them unawares. Notice had been given that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declared that he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs. Yeld had had her misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after the bishop had expressed his, but she had an idea that right was right and wrong, wrong, and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and therefore ought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were no priests, there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr. Barum was, no doubt, a man of good family, which did make a difference. Mr. Barum always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was an exact proportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy. Mrs. Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civil words, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almost overcame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poor of beckles, being very careful to allude only to their material position. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money to buy those wonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr. Barum was very meek and agreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a plan ready-formed for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly within her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it about on this occasion. It was not till he had made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of our people that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation by observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately. When the ladies were gone, the bishop at once put himself in the way of conversation with the priest and asked questions as to the morality of beckles. It was evidently Mr. Barum's opinion that his people were more moral than other people, though very much poorer. But the Irish always drink, said Mr. Hepworth. Not so much as the English, I think, said the priest, and you are not to suppose that we are all Irish of my flock to greater proportion our English. It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbors, said the bishop. Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of persons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give the exact number in this diocese, but in my own immediate neighborhood I could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be Roman Catholic. It is not, my lord, because there are none. Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my neighbors. I think here in Suffolk they must be chiefly the poor, said Mr. Hepworth. They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our savior, said the priest. I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn, said the bishop with a curious smile. We were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our savior was the teacher of a new religion, that the poor and the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature, but that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible. The Roman population still believed, said Carberry, when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears. The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it, thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also. The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord, said the priest. That begs the whole question, said the bishop, turning to his host and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs, which had lately been imported into the palace's thighs. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A's and the B's and the C's and the D's. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him, these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would someday be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbors he did not know to what church they belonged. But Father Barham, though he had not as yet been 12 months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders. Your priest is a very zealous man, said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carberry, and I do not doubt that he is an excellent gentleman, but he is perhaps a little indiscreet. I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights, without any reference to his own worldly welfare. That is all very grand and I am perfectly willing to respect him, but I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company. I am sure he would repeat nothing. Perhaps not, but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me. I don't think it answers, said Mrs. Yel, to her husband as they went home. Of course I don't want to be prejudiced, but Protestants are Protestants and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics. You may say the same of liberals and conservatives, but you wouldn't have them declined to meet each other. It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all, religion is religion. It ought to be, said the bishop. Of course, I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear, but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barum again. I don't know that I do either, said the bishop. But if he comes in my way, I hope I shall treat him civilly. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 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 17, Marie Malmott, Here's a Love Tale. On the following morning, there came a telegram from Felix. He was to be expected at Beckles on that afternoon by a certain train, and Roger, at Lady Carberry's request, undertook to send a carriage to the station for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was still another train by which he might come, so as to be just in time for dinner, if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carberry, with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily when displeased, but he assented. Then the carriage had to be sent again. No carriages and carriage horses were not numerous at Carberry. The squire kept a wagonette and a pair of horses, which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the carriage once on this day and now sent it again, Lady Carberry having said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he did it with deepest pleasure. To the mother, her son was Sir Felix, the baronet entitled to special consideration because of his position and rank, because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the day. To Roger Carberry, Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. Nevertheless, the dinner was put off and the wagonette was sent. But the wagonette, again, came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carberry and Henrietta in very much gloom. About four in the morning, the house was roused by the coming of the baronet. Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, he had contrived to catch the evening mail and had found himself deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carberry. Roger came down in his dressing gown to admit him and Lady Carberry also left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been a very fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a very different opinion and spoke little or nothing. Oh, Felix, said the mother, you have so terrified us. I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found out that I had to come 15 miles across the country with a pair of old jades who could hardly get up a trot. But why didn't you come by the train you named? I couldn't get out of the city, said the baronet with a ready lie. I suppose you were at the board. To this Felix made no direct answer. Roger knew that there had been no board. Mr. Melmont was in the country and there could be no board, nor could Sir Felix have had business in the city. It was sheer impudence, sheer indifference and into the bargain a downright lie. The young man who was of himself so unwelcome who had come there on a project which he, Roger, utterly disapproved, who had now knocked him and his household up at four o'clock in the morning had uttered no word of apology. Miserable cub, Roger muttered between his teeth. Then he spoke aloud. You had better not keep your mother standing here. I will show you to your room. All right, old fellow, said Sir Felix. I'm awfully sorry to disturb you all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy and soda before I go to bed, though. This was another blow to Roger. I doubt whether we have soda water in the house. And if we have, I don't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you will come with me. He pronounced the word brandy in a tone which implied that it was a wicked dissipated beverage. It was a wretched work to Roger. He was forced to go upstairs and fetch a key in order that he might wait upon this cub, this curr. He did it, however, and the cub drank his brandy and water, not in the least disturbed by his hosts ill humor. As he went to bed, he suggested the probability of his not showing himself till lunch on the following day and expressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. He is born to be hung, said Roger to himself as he went to his room, and he'll deserve it. On the following morning, being Sunday, they all went to church, except Felix. Lady Carberry always went to church when she was in the country, never when she was at home in London. It was one of those moral habits, like early dinners and long walks, which suited country life. And she fancied that were she not to do so, the bishop would be sure to know it and would be displeased. She liked the bishop. She liked bishops generally and was aware that it was a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for society. As to the purpose for which people go to church, it had probably never in her life occurred to Lady Carberry to think of it. On their return, they found Sir Felix smoking a cigar on the gravel path close in front of the open drawing room window. Felix said, his cousin, take your cigar a little farther. You are filling the house with tobacco. Oh heavens, what a prejudice, said the Baronette. Let it be so, but still do as I ask you. Sir Felix chucked the cigar out of his mouth onto the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked up to the spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the first greeting of the day between the two men. After lunch, Lady Carberry strolled about with her son, instigating him to go over at once to caverns him. How the juicy might he get there? Your cousin will lend you a horse. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than I am and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with insolence. If it were anywhere else, I should just go into the yard and ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course. Roger has not a great establishment. I suppose he has a horse and saddle and a man to get it ready. I don't want anything grand. He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday. I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork and because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him for a horse as I would anyone else and if he does not like it, he may lump it. About half an hour after this, he found his cousin. Can I have a horse to ride over to Cavish from this afternoon? He said. Our horses never go out on Sunday, said Roger. Then he added after a pause. You can have it. I'll give the order. Sir Felix would be gone on Tuesday and it should be his own fault if that odious cousin ever found his way into Carberry House again. So he declared to himself as Felix wrote out of the yard but he soon remembered how probable it was that Felix himself would be the owner of Carberry and should it ever come to pass as still was possible that Henrietta should be the mistress of Carberry, he could hardly permit her to receive her brother. He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as he cantered away upon the road listening to the horse's feet. The young man was offensive in every possible way. Who does not know that ladies only are allowed to canter their friend's horses upon roads. A gentleman trots his horse and his friend's horse. Roger Carberry had but one saddle horse, a favorite old hunter that he loved as a friend and now this dear old friend whose legs probably were not quite so good as they once were was being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub. Soda and brandy. Roger exclaimed to himself almost allowed thinking of the discomforture of that early morning. He'll die some day of delirium tremens in a hospital. Before the long staffs left London to receive their new friends, the Melmots at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr. Longstaff, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded daughter. The daughter on her side undertook that the guests should be treated with feminine courtesy. This might be called the most favored nation clause. The Melmots were to be treated exactly as though old Melmot had been a gentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return for this, the Longstaff family were to be allowed to return to town. But here again the father had carried another clause. The prolonged sojourn in town was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July, the Longstaffs were to be removed into the country for the remainder of the year. When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the father became absolutely violent in his refusal. In God's name, where do you expect the money is to come from? When Georgiana urged that other people had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time was coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over her head. This, however, she took, as having been said, with political license, the same threat having been made more than once before. The treaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to carry it out with fair honesty. The Melmots were being treated with decent courtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled. The idea hardly ever in truth entertained, but which had been barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte had been abandoned. Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course, either by his father or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie Melmotte. Therefore, when the Longstaffs heard that Sir Felix was coming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining him at Cavisham. He had been lately talked of in London as the favorite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longstaff had a grudge of her own against Lord Nitterdale and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix's prospects. Soon after the Melmots' arrival, she contrived to say a word to Marie, respecting Sir Felix. There is a friend of yours going to die in here on Monday, Miss Melmotte. Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. I think you know Sir Felix Carberry, continued Georgiana. Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carberry. He is coming down to his cousins. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carberry Manor would hardly be just what he would like. I don't think he is coming because of me, said Marie Blushing. She had once told him that he might go to her father, which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her power of acceptance went. Since that she had not seen him indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor as far as she knew had he said a word to Mr. Melmotte. That she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind that she was in love with Felix Carberry, and she had resolved on constancy, but she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness. We had heard, said Georgiana, that he was a particular friend of yours, and she laughed aloud with a vulgarity which Madam Melmotte certainly could not have surpassed. Sir Felix on the Sunday afternoon found all the ladies out on the lawn, and he also found Mr. Melmotte there. At the last moment Lord Alfred Grendel had been asked, not because he was at all in favor with any of the longstaffs, but in order that he might be useful in disposing of the great director. Lord Alfred was used to him and could talk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and drink. Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked to cavern him, and Lord Alfred had come, having all his expenses paid by the great director. When Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his entertainment by talking to Mr. Melmotte in a summer house. He had a cool drink before him and a box of cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how hard the world had been to him. Lady Pomona was languid, but not uncivil in her reception. She was doing her best to perform her part of the treaty in reference to Madam Melmotte. Sophia was walking apart with a certain Mr. Whitstable, a young squire in the neighborhood, who had been asked to cavern him because as Sophia was now reputed to be 28, they, who decided the question might have said 31 without falsehood, it was considered that Mr. Whitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be expected. Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more admired and boasted among her friends of the offers that she had rejected. Her friends, on the other hand, were apt to tull of her many failures. Nevertheless, she held her head up and had not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables. At the present moment, her hands were empty, and she was devoting herself to such a performance of the treaty as should make it impossible for her father to leave his part of it unfulfilled. For a few minutes, Sir Felix sat on a garden chair, making conversation to Lady Pomona and Madam Melmotte. A beautiful garden, he said. For myself, I don't much care for gardens, but if one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one would like. Delicious, said Madam Melmotte, repressing a yawn and drawing her shawl higher round her throat. It was the end of May and the weather was very warm for the time of year. But in her heart of hearts, Madam Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden. It isn't a pretty place, but the house is comfortable and we make the best of it, said Lady Pomona. Plenty of glass, I see, said Sir Felix. If one is to live in the country, I like that kind of thing. Carberry is a very poor place. There was a fence in this, as though the carberry property and the carberry position could be compared to the long staff property and the long staff position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, the long staffs were great people. For a small place, said Lady Pomona, I think carberry is one of the nicest in the county. Of course, it is not extensive. No, by Jove, said Sir Felix. You may say that, Lady Pomona. It's like a prison to me with that moat round it. Then he jumped up and joined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be released for a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before she left them together. She had understood that the two horses now in the running were Lord Nitterdale and Sir Felix, and though she would not probably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to destroy Lord Nitterdale. Sir Felix had his work to do and was willing to do it. As far as such willingness could go with him, the prize was so great and the comfort of wealth was so sure that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk and induced him to travel all night across dirty roads in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard to feminine beauty, he had his own ideas and his own inclinations. He was by no means indifferent to such attraction, but Marie Melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth and from a modest, shy demeanor joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something and have thoughts of her own. If only she had some friend near her, whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her shyness and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone, and she was much alone, she would build castles in the air which were bright with art and love rather than with gems and gold. The books, she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to anyone since she was a child. Sir Felix Carberry, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man and now she was with him alone. Now, surely, had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials. You know why I have come down here, he said, to see your cousin? No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor as Cross is the mischief. How disagreeable. Yes, he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the long staffs, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me. I don't know, said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude. Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's? Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular. Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me. He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. I thought you told me that you would love me. Did I? Did you not? I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it. Am I to believe that? Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself. By George I did, I was quite an earnest. There never was a fellow more an earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it again. To say what? Whether you'll accept me. I don't know whether you love me well enough. She longed to be told by him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr. Melmont which he almost feared. Do you really love me well enough? She whispered. Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches and all that, but you know I love you. Do you? By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. I did indeed. It was a poor declaration of love, but it's sufficed. Then I will love you, she said. I will with all my heart. There's a darling. Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix, now may I? Rather. Oh Felix, I hope you will love me. I will sow dot upon you. You know, a great many men have asked me to love them. I suppose so, but I have never, never cared for one of them in the least, not in the least. You do care for me. Oh yes. She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the moment that she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only, he would have preferred even Sophia Longstaff. There was indeed a certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house where they were unseen. So as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. Oh Felix, she said, giving her face up to him. No one ever did it before. He did not in the least believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him. Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to you. Of course I will be good to you. Men are not always good to their wives, but papa is often very cross to mama. I suppose he can be cross. Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this, but I suppose he intends that you shall be married. He wanted me to marry Lord Nitterdale and Lord Grasslow, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nitterdale again now. He hasn't said so, but mama tells me, but I never will, never. I hope not, Marie. You needn't be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to kill me. I hate him and I do so love you. Then she leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. You will speak to papa, won't you? Will that be the best way? I suppose so, how else? I don't know whether madame Melma ought not. Oh dear no, nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him than anybody, more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always did that. Of course I'll do it, said Sir Felix. I'm not afraid of him, why should I? He and I are very good friends, you know. I'm glad of that. He made me a director of one of his companies the other day. Did he? Perhaps he'll like you for a selling law. There's no knowing, is there? I hope he will. I shall like you for a proposed selling law. I hope it isn't wrong to say that. Oh Felix, say that you love me. Then she put her face up towards his again. Of course I love you. He said, not thinking it worth his while to kiss her. It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better go and see him in the city. He is in a good humor now, said Marie. But I couldn't get him alone. It wouldn't be the thing to do down here. Wouldn't it? Not in the country and another person's house. Shall you tell Madam Melmont? Yes, I shall tell Mama, but she won't say anything to him. Mama does not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time. Of course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you. Then he left her as soon as he could and escaped to the other ladies. Mr. Melmont was still sitting in the summer house and Lord Alfred was still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felix passed in front of the great man, he told himself that it was much better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in London. Mr. Melmont did not look as though he were in a good humor. Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madam Melmont. Yes, he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister on the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not coming. He believed that his cousin Roger never did go anywhere like anyone else. No, he had not seen Mr. Longstaff. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him tomorrow. Then he escaped and got on his horse and rode away. That's going to be the lucky man, said Georgiana to her mother that evening. In what way, Lucky? He is going to get the heiress and all the money. What a fool Dolly has been. I don't think it would have suited Dolly, said Lady Pomona. After all, why should not Dolly marry a lady? End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 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 18. Ruby Ruggles, Here's a Love Tale. Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles of Sheep's Acre in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received the following letter from the hands of the rural post-letter carrier on that Sunday morning. A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon. There was not another word in the letter but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well from whom it came. Daniel Ruggles was a farmer who had the reputation of considerable wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighborhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead, he had quarreled with his only son whose wife was also dead and had banished him from his home. His daughters were married and away, and the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter Ruby, and this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. She was 23 years old and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at Bungay in the meal and Pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give 500 pounds on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and Pollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writer had not dared to sign his name, she knew well that it came from Sir Felix Carberry, the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon. Poor Ruby Ruggles, living down at Sheep's acre on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyond her kin. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and Pollard at Bungay. Therefore, she was full of a wild joy, half joy, half fear when she got her letter, and therefore punctually at four o'clock on that Sunday, she was ensconced among the Sheepstone birches so that she might see without much danger of being seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she most required the kindness of a controlling hand. Mr. Ruggles held his land or the greater part of it on what is called a bishop's lease. Sheep's acre farm being a part of the property which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham and which was still set apart for its sustenation. But he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carberry estate so that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carberry. Those sheepstone birches at which Felix made his appointment belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the old man and had then first seen Ruby and had heard from Roger something of Ruby's history up to that date. It had then been just made known that she was to marry John Chrome. Since that time, not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr. Carberry had heard with sorrow that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned but his growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there should be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her grandfather's landlord. There is perhaps no condition of mind more difficult for the ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realize than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day laborer and his wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their aspirations, whether for good or evil, whether for food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children or for drink first to become by either honestly or dishonestly are, if looked at at all, fairly visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class, one can generally find out what they would be at and in what direction their minds are at work. But the Ruggles woman, especially the Ruggles young woman, is better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than our hours for heaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. She can read whereas he can only spell words from a book. She can write a letter after her fashion whereas he can barely spell words out on a paper. Her tongue is more glib and her intellect sharper, but her ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. By such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents and even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen. And as to that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the woman builds castles in the air and wonders and longs. To the young farmer, the squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. To the farmer's daughter, the young squire is an Apollo whom to look at is a pleasure by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind and then husband and children put the matter at rest forever. A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk, it would be impossible to find. But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague and as active as they were erroneous. Why should she, with all her prettiness and all her cleverness, with all her fortune to boot, marry that dustiest of all men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? John Crumb was not bad looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow too, slow of speech, but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip, fond of his beer but not often drunk and the very soul of industry at his work. But though she had known him all her life, she had never known him otherwise than Dusty. The meal had so gotten within his hair and skin and raiment that it never came out altogether even on Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and waistcoat that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. Nevertheless, it was said of him that he could thrash any man in Bungae and carry 200 weight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him, that he worshiped the very ground on which she tried. But alas, she thought, there might be something better than such worship. And therefore, when Felix Carberry came in her way with his beautiful oval face and his rich brown color and his bright hair and lovely mustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love. And when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John Crumb's honest promises. But though she was an utter fool, she was not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant, but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behooved her to avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion, she was pretty with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on weekdays would see confined in curlpapers and large round dark eyes and a clear dark complexion in which the blood showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong and healthy and tall and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather. Felix Carberry took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by sheepstone birches, which was a little cop's distant, not above half a mile from Sheepfaker Farmhouse. A narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road by which there was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at all times and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached the gate in a walk and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside the wood in the meadow but on the bank of the ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the field and then dismounting fastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the cops. Then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. I liked your impudence, she said, in calling yourself a friend. Ain't I a friend, Ruby? A pretty sort of friend, you. When you was going away, you was to be back at Carberry in a fortnight and that is, oh, ever so long ago now, but I wrote to you, Ruby, what's letters? And the postman to know all is in them for anything anybody knows and grandfather to be almost sure to see them. I don't call letters no good at all and I beg you, won't write them anymore. Did he see them? No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here, Sir Felix, nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It's all just folly-like because I love you. That's why I come, A. Ruby, and you have come because you love me. A. Ruby is not that about it. Then he threw himself on the ground beside her and got his arm around her waist. It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half hour was no doubt complete. She had her London lover beside her and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love and made her promises and told her that she was pretty. He probably did not enjoy it much. He cared very little about her and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. He had begun to think that the odor of patchouli was unpleasant and that the flies were troublesome and the ground hard before the half hour was over. She felt that she could be content to sit there forever and to listen to him. This was a realization of those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at Bongae. But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her, had not dared to say those very words and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her and an amount of strength also and a fire in her eye of which he had learned to be aware. Before the half hour was over, I think that he wished himself away. But when he did go, he made a promise to see her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harrelston Market and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden, belonging to the farm. As he made the promise, he resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again and bid her come to him in London and would send her money for the journey. I suppose I am to be his wedded wife, said Ruby to herself as she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home, so that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of the young man, should anyone chance to see the young man on the road. I'll never be nothing unless I'm that, she said to herself. Then she allowed her mind to lose itself and expatiating on the difference between John Crom and Sir Felix Carberry. End of chapter 18. Chapter 19 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 19, Had a Carberry, Here's a Love Tale. I have a mind to go back tomorrow morning, Felix said to his mother, that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment, Roger was walking around the garden by himself and Henrietta was in her own room. Tomorrow morning, Felix, you are engaged to dine with the long staffs. You could make any excuse you like about that. It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The long staffs, you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carberry, how sad it would be that you should have quarreled with them. You forget, mother, that Dolly Longstaff is about the most intimate friend I have in the world. That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for. What did I come for? That you might see Marie Melmont more at your ease than you can in their London house. That's all settled, said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume. Settled. As far as the girl is concerned, I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here. Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmont has accepted you? I told you that before. My dear Felix, oh my boy, in her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken, not only to success, but to such magnificent splendor as should make her son to be envied by all young men and herself to be envied by all mothers in England. No, you didn't tell me before, but I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you. I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it. If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it? I don't know that he will. You are a man of rank with a title of your own. I suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied with all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the directors at his board. Oh Felix, it is almost too good to be true. I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you know. Oh Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl and we shall all be so fond of her. Don't let any feeling of that kind come over, you pray don't. You will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. Of course, you can hunt as often as you like and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income. I quite understand that. If this were once done, you would never have any more trouble of that kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to you or to tell you how dearly I love you or to make you understand how well I think you have done it all. Then she caressed him again and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If after all, her beautiful boy who had lately been her disgrace and her great trouble because of his poverty should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 pounds a year, how glorious would it be? She must have known, she did know, how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendor obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established. He was her son and the prospect of his fortune and splendor was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. But Felix, she continued, you really must stay and go to the long steps tomorrow. It will only be one day and now will you to run away? Run away? What nonsense you talk? If you were to start back to London at once, I mean, it would be in a front to her and the very thing to set Malmotte against you. You should lay yourself out to please him, indeed you should. Oh, bother, said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him and he consented to endure the most unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carberry, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her, though he might not like Felix, who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to her cousin. He would have rejoiced for the sake of the family, but as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would have received her tidings with silent scorn and even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr. Malmotte at the dinner party at Cavisham. During the whole of that evening, Roger Carberry hardly spoke to his cousin Hedda. There was not much conversation between them till quite late when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people there and had walked back, taking Carberry on the way. What did you think of our bishop? Roger asked him rather imprudently. Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord and that he does more good among his neighbors than an average lord, but you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of anyone sufficient to make him a bishop. Nine-tenths of the clergy and the dioceses would be guided by him in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him. Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own and would not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops that has an opinion if there be one left and see how far your clergy can send to his teaching. Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religion in the man's hearing, but his new friend did not by any means return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he to take up the cudgels for an argument, he might be worsted in the combat. As in such combat, success is won by practice skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading and Felix was smoking elsewhere, wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of dullness in which no cards were to be seen and wear except at mealtimes there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carberry was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own church must be not. I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs, she said with her sweetest smile. I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom I have seen, nor indeed as to all the rest whom I have not seen. There is so much respected everywhere as good and pious men. I did not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income that they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them but much with the system by which they are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labor in his vocation and becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons? Indeed, no, said Lady Carberry, who did not in the least understand the nature of the question put to her. And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty? Hardly indeed. The English people, or some of them, that some being the richest and at present the most powerful, like to play at having a church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a church. Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barron? In matters of faith, I do, and so I suppose to you. At least you make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters. That, I thought, was for children, said Lady Carberry. The clergyman in the catechism says, my good child, it is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter as viewed by your church is childish altogether and intended only for children. As a rural adults with you want no religion. I am afraid that is true of a great many. It is marvelous to me that when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith, unless indeed he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity. That is worse than anything, said Lady Carberry with a sigh and a shudder. I don't know that it is worse than a belief, which is no belief, said the priest with energy, than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible. That is very bad, said Lady Carberry. We're getting too deep, I think, said Roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read. I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening, said Lady Carberry. The priest drew himself back into his chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that Lady Carberry had been talking nonsense and clever enough also to be aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carberry might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking and Roger Carberry might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments. I don't like hearing my church ill-spoken of, said Roger. You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it, said the priest. And therefore the less said the sooner mended, said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walked away to Beckles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be that he had at any rate cloud some ground. Even the attempt to plow the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten. The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All that pride of independence which had amounted almost to roughness when she was in London seemed to have left her. When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house, she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye nor a turn of her hand that he did not watch and calculated its effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings, how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace and sweetness and sense took part with him against those who were nearer to herself and therefore in pity she was kind to him. It was thus he read it and he read it almost with exact accuracy. Hedda, he said after breakfast, come out into the garden awhile. Are not you going to the men? Not yet at any rate. I did not always go to the men as you call it. She put on her hat and tripped out with him knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure as soon as she found the white rose in her room that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carberry. And up to this time she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this, there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted simply because he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmonts. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr. Melmont's money till her very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there, but as contrasted with that, Roger's conduct in bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine forever because a girl could not love him? A man born to be loved if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely? Heda, he said, put your arm here. She gave him her arm. I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him and now he is always turning against me. He doesn't do any harm, I suppose. He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere. So thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time. It's only about the church. He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I didn't quite like your hearing it. I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it, it's their business. Poor fellow, I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like the gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house. I liked him, only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop. And I like him, then there was a pause. I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs. His own affairs, Roger, do you mean money? Never says a word to me about money. I meant about the Melmont. No, not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything. I wonder whether she has accepted him. I think she very nearly did accept him in London. I can't quite sympathize with your mother and all her feelings about this marriage because I do not think that I recognize as she does the necessity of money. Felix is so disposed to be extravagant. Well, yes, but I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognize her unselfish devotion to his interests. Mama thinks more of him than of anything, said Heta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself. I know it, and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion, this, he said, looking up to Heta and smiling, I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day, we almost had a quarrel. I felt that there was something unpleasant. And then Felix, coming after his time, put me out. I am getting old and cross or I should not mind such things. I think you are so good and so kind. As she said this, she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him. I have been angry with myself, he said. And so I am making you my father confess her. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes. And I think that you would understand me better than your mother. I do understand you, but don't think there is any fault to confess. You will not exact any penance. She only looked at him and smiled. I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Cavisham as I know nothing about it. But I will express some civil wish to him about things in general. Will that be a penance? If you could look into my mind, you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half a dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church? But then he was traveling all the Saturday night. Whose fault was that? But don't you see it as a triviality of the offense which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe or burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday. And therefore I must do penance. There was nothing of love in all this. Hada, however, did not wish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend, as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making love to her, how happy could she be? But his determination still held good. And now, said he, altering his tone altogether, I must speak about myself. Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. No, he said, do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it, we shall at any rate be cousins and friends. Always friends, she said. Yes, always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. I will not tell you again that I love you, you know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only. So constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that I cannot, as it were, escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For after all, let a woman be ever so good, and you, to me, are all that is good. A man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect. Oh, no, I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am sure, quite sure, that you are the only possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your husband. Pray, pray, do not say that. Yes, I think that I have a right to say it and a right to expect that you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me, not that I should fear art for myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere. What am I to say? We each of us know of what the other is thinking if Paul Montague has robbed me of my love. Mr. Montague has never said a word. If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you. But he never has. We have been like brothers together, one brother being very much older than the other indeed or like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere. What am I to say? If he has such hope, he has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way. Hedda, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course, I know the way of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague, no right to expect an answer, but it is all the world to me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love even me if you love no one else. The tone of his voice was manly and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her were bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to the tale that she now told her, but she believed in him altogether. She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection in life. In that moment, she all but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She so regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit and would have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refused him. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. As it was, she made him no answer but continued to walk beside him trembling. I thought I would tell it you all because I wished you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if I could, all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman, as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly paradise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple. Oh, Roger, if ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I, at least, shall never change. Of course, if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart, darling. I hope I may be strong enough, through it all, to think more of your happiness than of my own. Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of the bridges and leaving her to find her way into the house alone. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 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 20, Lady Pomona's Dinner Party. Roger Carberry's half-formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home while Lady Carberry and Sir Felix went to dine at Cavisham fell to the ground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hedda's yielding to his prayer, that he had, in fact, not made a prayer, and Hedda had certainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady Carberry started with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone. In the ordinary course of his life, he was used to solitude. During the greater part of the year, he would eat and drink and live without companionship, so that there was to him nothing particularly sad in this desertion. But on the present occasion, he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the loneliness of his lot in life. These cousins of his, who were his guests, cared nothing for him. Lady Carberry had come to his house simply that it might be useful to her. Sir Felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy, and Hedda herself, though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious through pity rather than love. On this day he had, in truth, asked her for nothing, but he had almost brought himself to think that she might give all that he wanted without asking. And yet, when he told her of the greatness of his love and of its endurance, she was simply silent. When the carriage, taking them to dinner, went away down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house, listening to the sound of the horse's feet, and telling himself that there was nothing left for him in life. If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he valued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his mind exact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inward condemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to anyone the services he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hedda, he had alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. But he felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed it to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved. And he thought that if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should have retired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring himself to forgive his friend, even though Hedda had assured him that his friend had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and it was Paul Montague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at Carberry when Hedda came there, Hedda might now have been mistress of the house. He sat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on the table. Then he crept in and ate, so that the man might not see his sorrow. And after dinner he sat with a book in his hand seeming to read. But he read not a word, for his mind was fixed all together on his cousin Hedda. What a poor creature a man is, he said to himself, who was not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling like this. At Cavisham there was a very grand party, as grand almost as a dinner party can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess of Lodden, and Lady Jane Pughett from Lodden Park, and the Bishop and his wife and the Hepworths. These with the Carburys and the Parsons family, and the people staying in the house, made 24 at the dinner table. As there were 14 ladies and only 10 men, the banquet can hardly be said to have been very well arranged. But those things cannot be done in the country with the exactness which the appliances of London make easy. And then the long staffs, though they were decidedly people of fashion, were not famous for their excellence in arranging such matters. If ought, however, was lacking in exactness that was made up in grandeur. There were three powdered footmen, and in that part of the country, Lady Pomona alone was served after this fashion. And there was a very heavy butler whose appearance of itself was sufficient to give a clot to a family. The grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. It was not above once in the year that this kind of thing was done at Cavisham, but when it was done, nothing was spared which could contribute to the magnificence of the feet. Lady Pomona and her two tall daughters standing up to receive the little countess of Lodden and Lady Jane Puyatt, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat smaller scale, while Madame Melmont and Marie stood behind as though ashamed of themselves, was a sight to see. Then the carbories came and then Mrs. Yeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly full, but nobody had a word to say. The bishop was generally a man of much conversation and Lady Lodden, if she were well pleased with her listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on this occasion, nobody could utter a word. Lord Lodden potted about making a feeble attempt in which he was seconded by no one. Lord Alfred stood, stock still, stroking his gray mustache with his hand, that much greater man, Augustus Melmont, put his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and was impassable. The bishop saw at a glance the hopelessness of the occasion and made no attempt. The master of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered and then devoted his mind to expectation of the next comer. Lady Pomona and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb. In accordance with the treaty, Madame Melmont had been entertained civilly for four entire days. It could not be expected that the ladies of Cavisham should come forth unwearyed after such a struggle. When dinner was announced, Felix was allowed to take in Marie Melmont. There can be no doubt but that the Cavisham ladies did execute their part of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this arrangement would be desirable to the Melmonts and they made it. The great Augustus himself went in with Lady Carberry much to her satisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing room, but now, if ever, it would be her duty to exert herself. I hope you like, Suffolk, she said. Pretty well, I thank you. Oh yes, very nice place for a little fresh air. Yes, that's just it, Mr. Melmont. When the summer comes, one does long so to see the flowers. We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here, said Mr. Melmont. No doubt, because you can command the floral tribute of the world at large, what is there that money will not do? It can turn a London street into a bower of roses and give you grottoes and grove in a square. It's a very nice place, is London, if you have got plenty of money, Mr. Melmont. And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do you live in London, ma'am? He had quite forgotten Lady Carberry, even if he had seen her at his house. And with the dullness of hearing, common to men had not picked up her name when told to take her out to dinner. Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honor of being entertained by you there. This, she said with her sweetest smile. Oh, indeed, so many do come that I don't always just remember. How should you, with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady Carberry, the mother of Sir Felix Carberry, whom I think you will remember. Yes, I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there next to my daughter. Happy fellow. I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness in that way now. They've got other things to think of. He thinks so much of his business. Oh, I didn't know, said Mr. Melmont. He sits at the same board with you, I think, Mr. Melmont. Oh, that's his business, said Mr. Melmont with a grim smile. Lady Carberry was very clever as to many things and was not ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her. But she did not know much about the city and was profoundly ignorant as to the duties of those directors of whom, from time to time, she saw the names in a catalog. I trust that he is diligent there, she said, and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in having the advantage of your counsel and guidance. He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much. After this, Lady Carberry said no more as to her son's position in the city. She endeavored to open various other subjects of conversation, but she found Mr. Melmont to be heavy on her hands. After a while she had to abandon him in despair and give herself up to raptures in favor of Protestantism at the bidding of the Cavish and Parsons who sat on the other side of her and who had been worked to enthusiasm by some mention of Father Barham's name. Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. I have told Mama, Marie had whispered as she walked into dinner with him. She was now full of the idea, so common to girls who are engaged and as natural as it is common that she might tell everything to her lover. Did she say anything? He asked. Then Marie had to take her place and arrange her dress before she could reply to him. As to her, I suppose it does not matter what she says, does it? She said a great deal. She thinks that Papa will think you are not rich enough. Hush, talk about something else or people will hear. So much, she had been able to say during the bustle. Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love and change the subject very willingly. Have you been riding? He asked. No, I don't think there are horses here, not for visitors, that is. How did you get home? Did you have any adventures? Not at all, said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. I just rode home quietly. I go to town tomorrow. And we go on Wednesday. Mind you, come and see us before long. This, she said, bringing her voice down to a whisper. Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the city. Does he go every day? Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. He's best just after dinner, but it's so hard to get to him then. Lord Alfred is almost always there, and then other people come and they play cards. I think the city will be best. You'll stick to it, he asked. Oh yes, indeed I will. Now that I've once said it, nothing will ever turn me. I think papa knows that. Felix looked at her as she said this and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had ever read there before. Perhaps she would consent to run away with him. And if so, being the only child, she would certainly, almost certainly be forgiven. But if he were to run away with her and marry her and then find that she were not forgiven and that Melma allowed her to starve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? Looking at the matter in all its bearings, considering, among other things, the trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could not afford to run away with her. After dinner, he hardly spoke to her. Indeed, the room itself, the same big room in which they had been assembled before the feast, seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation. Again, nobody talked to anybody and the minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there to take them all home. They arranged that you should sit next to her, said Lady Carberry to her son as they were in the carriage. Oh, I suppose that came naturally. One young man and one young woman, you know. Those things are always arranged and they would not have done it unless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melma. Oh, Felix, if you can bring it about. A shall if I can, Mother, you needn't make a fuss about it. No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved beautifully to her at dinner. I was so happy to see you together. Good night, Felix, and God bless you, she said again, as they were parting for the night. I shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in England if this comes about. End of Chapter 20