The Way We Live Now (26 page)

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 summer-house. 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 Longestaflfe. 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 gentlemen 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 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 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?'

Miss 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 £500 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!