'He is a gentleman then?'

'Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a convert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes.'

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

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

'Will the bishop like to meet him?'

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

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

'It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here,' said Lady Carbury.

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

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

'They are down here then?'

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

'Why not?'

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

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

'What guests?'

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

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

'Oh yes,—Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate.'

'Mr Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!'

'Why not?'

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

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

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

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

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

'What people?'

'The Melmottes.'

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

'Meaning me.'

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

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

'I would not follow them at all.'

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

'Nature has done enough for him.'

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

'I fear not.'

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

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

'Oh, Roger, how hard you are!'

'A man must be hard or soft,—which is best?'

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

'But does he love her?'

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

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

'But I think so much about it.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No; I certainly do not wish that.'

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

'I have not meant to be harsh.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mr Carbury,' she said, 'mamma is so unhappy!'

'I fear that I have offended her.'

'It is not that, but that you should be so—so angry about Felix.'

'I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,—more vexed than I can tell you.'

'She knows how good you are.'

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

'I do not think she will do that.'

'And you?'

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

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

'Girls are so different, you know.'

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

'You were energetic, that was all.'

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

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

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

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

'Monday will be best,' she said; '—that is, if nobody is coming here.'

'There will be nobody here.'

'I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,—and Felix will accept their invitation.'

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVI - THE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST

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

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

'Why so, mamma?'

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

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

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

'Mamma, I think that is unkind.'

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

'What word?'

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

'Then why does he not go to Mr Melmotte?'

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

'How could he do that, mamma?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Who is to say it?'

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

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

'It would not kill him a day sooner.'

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

'I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself.' Henrietta would fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as that proposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. There was no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to despise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.

In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles that she might telegraph to her son. 'You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there.' Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might too probably understand who was the 'she' who was spoken of as being at Caversham, and might understand also the project, and speak of it publicly. But then it was essential that Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday,—and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes and their dinner-party. Again if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carbury's desire to get him down for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighbourhood. Then she returned, and shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the 'Breakfast Table.' Nobody should ever accuse her justly of idleness. And afterwards, as she walked by herself round and round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere. If the Carburys were unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers. Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But she was thinking of him during every minute of the day,—how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand! Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for her. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? She came to think of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she would not tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him,—because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.

In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs Yeld, and the Hepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. The party consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,—especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to the master. In this case Mr Hepworth faced the giver of the feast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and then to his cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the mother of his children.

The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and something of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for clerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortune outside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was very popular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such 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 timeserver, because he would not put to sea in either of those boats. He was an unselfish man, who loved his neighbour 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 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. And 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 laboured 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 for ever 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 Beccles, 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 quarrelled 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 plough the ground.

He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury 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 neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should be delighted to dine at Carbury, 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 parlour at Carbury, 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 plough 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 of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger Carbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.

Lady Carbury 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 skilful 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 Alf she commonly talked of her mind; to Mr Broune, 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 Carbury and its neighbourhood. '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 fouls its own, nest."'.

'I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling,' said Lady Carbury. '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 Carbury, 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 Carbury.'

'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 hearty, 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 Carbury.

'Something left of old English ignorance,' said the bishop. 'All the same I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr Carbury! 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 neighbour. She was, perhaps, a little stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though she was willing to admit that Mr Barham 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 Carbury 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 Barham was, no doubt, a man of good family, which did make a difference.

Mr Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was in 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 Beccles, 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 Barham 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 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 Beccles. It was evidently Mr Barham'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 the greater proportion are English.'

'It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours,' 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 neighbourhood 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 neighbours.'

'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 Saviour,' said the priest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I am sure he would repeat nothing.'

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

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

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

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

'It ought to be,' said the bishop.

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

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



CHAPTER XVII - MARIE MELMOTTE HEARS A LOVE TALE

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

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

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

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

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

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

'All right, old fellow,' said Sir Felix. 'I'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 cur! He did it, however, and the cub drank his brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his host's ill-humour. As he went to bed he suggested the probability of his not showing himself till lunch on the following day, and expressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. 'He is born to be hung,' said Roger to himself as he went to his room,—'and he'll deserve it.'

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

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

'Oh heavens,—what a prejudice!' said the baronet.

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

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

'Your cousin will lend you a horse.'

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

'Roger has not a great establishment.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.'

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

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

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

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 Grendall had been asked,—not because he was at all in favour with any of the Longestaffes, 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 Caversham, 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 summerhouse. He had 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 Madame Melmotte. Sophia was walking apart with a certain Mr Whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight,—they who decided the question might have said thirty-one 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 which she had rejected. Her friends on the other hand were apt to tell 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 Madame Melmotte. '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 Madame 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 the year; but, in her heart of hearts, Madame 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. Carbury is a very poor place.'

There was offence in this;—as though the Carbury property and the Carbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and the Longestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, the Longestaffes were great people. 'For a small place,' said Lady Pomona, 'I think Carbury 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 Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would not probably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to destroy Lord Nidderdale.

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 demeanour 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 any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, 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 as 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 Longestaffes, 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 in earnest. There never was a fellow more in 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 Melmotte 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 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 mayn't I?'

'Rather.'

'Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote 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 Longestaffe. 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. Papa is often very cross to mamma.'

'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 Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again now. He hasn't said so, but mamma 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 Melmotte 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 son-in-law.'

'There's no knowing;—is there?'

'I hope he will. I shall like you for papa's son-in-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 humour 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,—in another person's house. Shall you tell Madame Melmotte?'

'Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma 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 Melmotte was still sitting in the summerhouse, 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 Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour. Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. 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 any one else. No; he had not seen Mr Longestaffe. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to-morrow. 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?'



CHAPTER XVIII - RUBY RUGGLES HEARS 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 neighbourhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;—he had quarrelled 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 twenty-three 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 L500 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 Carbury,—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 ken. 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 sustentation;—but he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury. 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 Crumb. Since that time not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr Carbury 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 realise than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer 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 be come 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 are ours 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 for ever.

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 Bungay, and carry two hundredweight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him,—that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod.

But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair and lovely moustache, 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 behoved 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 week days would see confined in curl-papers, 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 Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre 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 copse. Then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. 'I like 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 Carbury 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 as in 'em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't call letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more.'

'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; eh, Ruby? And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?' Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round 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 odour 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 for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation 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 Bungay.

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 Harlestone 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 any one 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 in expatiating on the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury.



CHAPTER XIX - HETTA CARBURY HEARS A LOVE TALE

'I half a mind to go back to-morrow morning,' Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.

'To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!'

'You could make any excuse you like about that.'

'It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes 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 Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them.'

'You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe 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 Melmotte 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 Melmotte 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 splendour 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 L20,000 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 splendour 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 splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. 'But, Felix,' she continued, 'you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one day. And now were 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 an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte 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 almost unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, 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 Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.

During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta. 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 Carbury 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 neighbours than an average lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop.'

'Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese 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 consent 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 combats success is won by practised 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 dulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own Church must be naught.

'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.'

'They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!'

'I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But 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 labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons?'

'Indeed, no,' said Lady Carbury, 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 Barham?'

'In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do 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 Carbury. '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 rule, adults with you want no religion.'