So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soire of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why Paul should not have been there,--but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide.
Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague." Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.
"Yes," he said,--making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made,--"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would come up and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.
"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.
"I came back to-day,--to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?"
"A little business," said Roger.
Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. "Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"
"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.
"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?"
"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it."
"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?"
"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to."
"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour."
"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden."
"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world."
This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. "What brought him here?"
"He brought himself, mamma."
"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent."
"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord."
"How long was he here?"
"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up."
"You did not know that he was to come?"
"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming."
"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"
"No;--I am not."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. "I do not think he ever has."
"You do not think?"
"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife."
"What has he said? When did he say it?"
Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he said; but it meant that."
"You told me he had been here but a minute."
"It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it."
"He had come prepared to say it."
"How could he,--expecting to find you?"
"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."
"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an accident."
"An accident!"
"It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together."
"And you;--what did you say?"
"Nothing. You came."
"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?" Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. "How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.
"I do not know that he will ask again."
"That is prevaricating."
"No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else."
"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."
Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."
"It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.
"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."
"Why will you not marry your cousin?"
"I am not good enough for him."
"Nonsense!"
"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me." Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.
[Illustration: Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.]
There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. "I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,--"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"
"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb."
"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her."
"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"
"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."
"That would be very bad."
"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect."
"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"
"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."
"You still believed him?"
"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money."
After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."
"Nor did I. But what could I do?"
"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you."
But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter, too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.
"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to Oregon," said Roger.
"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."
"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way."
"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?"
"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."
But Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.
"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.
He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?
At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.
How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night." Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. "Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."
"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."
"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"
"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"
"Yes; she's a friend of mine."
"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"
Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."
"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire."
"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."
"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague."
"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."
"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him,--but I never cared that for him."
"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."
"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute."
"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."
"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."
Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."
"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you."
"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?"
"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him."
"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."
"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."
"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"
"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."
"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."
"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.
Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?
In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.

Lady Carbury had returned from the soire with Roger. They came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. Roger had supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and could hardly avoid feeling that a meeting between the two had been planned in the mother's absence. Roger was not a man liable to suspicion, but the circumstances were suspicious.
Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague." The moment she saw Paul she thought that the meeting between Hetta and him had been pre-arranged.
"Yes," he said lamely, "I had nothing to do, and thought I would come and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him, but Roger felt assured that his coming truly had been an accident.
"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.
"I came back today, for that Board in the city. I will tell you all about it later. What has brought you to London?"
"A little business," said Roger.
There was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and Henrietta, knowing the way in which her mother's thoughts would run, forced herself to speak.
"Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"
"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.
"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to work at Dante, but I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the soire, Roger?"
"I was out of my element; but I think your mother liked it."
"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can feed the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?"
"I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden."
"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite decided that if I am ever able, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world."
This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter.
"What brought him here?"
"He brought himself, mamma."
"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent."
"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord."
"How long was he here?"
"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up."
"You did not know that he was to come?"
"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you? I knew nothing of his coming."
"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"
"No; I am not."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered. "I do not think he ever has."
"You do not think?"
"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife."
"What has he said? When did he say it?"
Again Hetta paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said - I don't know what he said; but it meant that."
"You told me he had been here but a minute."
"It was very little more. It was almost no time, and yet he said it."
"He had come prepared to say it."
"How could he, expecting to find you?"
"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."
"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was also - an accident."
"An accident!"
"It was not intended, mamma, though I have known it ever so long; and so have you."
"And what did you say?"
"Nothing. You came."
"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?"
Hetta was again silent, and now for longer. She put her hand up and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no word spoken. But she was not sure that her mother, being so unsympathetic, had a right to know her thoughts.
"How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.
"I do not know that he will ask again."
"That is prevaricating."
"No, mamma; I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that. I do love him. There. You should know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you. I do love him, and I shall never love anyone else."
"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."
Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."
"It makes me ill to hear you talk - as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury spoke with extreme scorn.
"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."
"Why will you not marry your cousin?"
"I am not good enough for him."
"Nonsense!"
"Very well; but that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray, do believe me."
Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed, and her daughter left the room.
There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague; but not a word about Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul asked about the cause of Carbury's journey to London.
"I could not speak of it before Hetta," said Roger. "You remember Ruby Ruggles? She was to have married John Crumb, but she has gone off, leaving him most unhappy. John Crumb is almost too good for her."
"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with anyone?"
"No; she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think that Felix has - well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."
"That would be very bad."
"He certainly knew her. Though he lied when I first spoke to him, I got him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. And we know what that means. But I do not think that she came to London at his request."
"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"
"No. I found him the day after she left, and I think that he knew nothing about it then. Since that he has avoided me. To make matters worse, old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter."
After that Paul told all his own story - the double story, about both Melmotte and Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in it, you know. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is good; do exactly what he tells you."
But the Railway business was not the heaviest of Paul's troubles. He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. It was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury.
Roger knew of both loves; he had urged his friend to abandon the widow, and equally urged him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet he had to discuss Mrs. Hurtle as though there were no such person as Henrietta. Paul told it all - the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.
"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas," said Roger.
"But even if the rumours are untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged, but said nothing. "I know I have been a fool," continued Paul. "I know I have been wrong. But if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it."
"Get out of it honestly if you can; but get out of it. I advised you to do this before. I believe this woman has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her. I'll go and see her if you like."
But Paul would not allow this. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved that Paul should go next day to Islington, tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories he had heard, and declare his resolution not to marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should get to the end of such a story before the wild cat would show its claws. But Paul declared that, claws or no claws, he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife.
"I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.
"So do I," said Paul.
He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and when he awoke the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well to put off his execution till Monday? Were there not still matters to consider? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution today?
At last he jumped out of bed and into his bath-tub, and dressed quickly. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast, and then, although it was still early, he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.
How quick that cab went! Before Paul had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview, the cab was in Islington and dashed noisily up to the house. Paul paid the cabman, pushed open the iron gate and walked very quickly past the little garden up to the door. He rang rather furiously, and asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till tonight."
Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.
"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby recognised Paul as quickly as he did her; and thought at once that he had come in search of her. She knew that Roger Carbury was in town looking for her. She had learned this from Sir Felix - for she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Yes. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."
"I'm all right, Mr. Montague. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."
"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"
"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, so they've gone, and the baby with them. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"
"Yes; she's a friend of mine."
"Oh, I didn't know. Should I say, sir, as you was here?"
"I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles," said Paul.
"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all. Grandfather is that provoking a young woman can't live with him. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him, his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre."
"But I thought there was somebody else to give you a home."
"Oh, yes, there's John Crumb."
"You were to have married him, I thought."
"Ladies is to change their minds if they like, Mr. Montague. Grandfather made me say I'd have him, but I never cared that for him."
"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."
"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch."
That told the whole story. Paul was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded.
"But there's Betsy a crying upstairs," said Ruby.
"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."
"You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."
Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it.
This would give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no postal delivery. He left the note on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going.
"Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, tripping down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."
"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. He doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me?"
"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."
"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."
"Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means you no good."
"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."
"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."
"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.
Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach. What business had he to advise her in love - he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had declared his love to Hetta Carbury?
In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, he thought, for two days; but it did not make him comfortable. He thought of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. If he had heard the declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to forget Mrs. Hurtle.


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 waggonnette 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 time-server, 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."
[Illustration: The bishop thinks that the priest's analogy is not correct.]
"The Roman population still believed," said Carbury, "when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears."
"The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also."
"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the priest.
"That begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his host, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A----s and the B----s, and the C----s and the D----s. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.
"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."
"I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare."
"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company."
"I am sure he would repeat nothing."
"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me."
"I don't think it answers," said Mrs. Yeld to her husband as they went home. "Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics."
"You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't have them decline to meet each other."
"It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion."
"It ought to be," said the bishop.
"Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again."
"I don't know that I do, either," said the bishop; "but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly."

After that day of storm, the next morning was very calm. Roger went out about the farm immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. Lady Carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books.
Before 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 on his way. He had resolved to 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 went 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, 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, but in his present mood 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. I beg that you will not copy Roger with his superhuman virtue."
"Mamma, I think that is unkind."
"And I shall think it very unkind if you 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?"
"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 Mr. Melmotte."
"Then why does he not go?"
"I suppose he is delicate about the money side of it. 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 with old Melmotte."
"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."
"Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than anyone? And it is so. If Roger were to die tomorrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."
"But, mamma, Roger 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. 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 so stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. If you would take him I would be quite contented. But if you mean to be obstinate I wish that the Melmottes should understand that the property and title will go together. Why should not Felix have that advantage?"
"Who is to say it?"
"Ah; that's the thing. Roger is so prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally."
"Oh, mamma; you wouldn't suggest it to him! You would not dare, mamma."
"I would dare 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 how much it might help us without in any way hurting himself."
Henrietta was silent; but she thought that her cousin was too honest to take part in any such scheme. She was beginning to understand the tortuous manuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.
In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles to 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 understand who the "She" was, and might also understand the project, and speak of it publicly. But it was essential that Felix should know how great was the opportunity given him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday - and, unless warned, would probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes' dinner-party. But if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. Lady Carbury desired to get him down for as long as possible.
On her return, she shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two on an article for the Breakfast Table. Nobody should ever accuse her of idleness. Afterwards, as she walked by herself round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere.
Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till dinner. But she was thinking of him every minute - how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at least kindness from her! Could it be true that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? She thought of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, 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 Mrs. Yeld his wife, and the Hepworths, and Father John Barham, the priest. Mr. Hepworth sat facing Roger at the table, the bishop and the priest were opposite each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger turned such matters over much in his mind. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him to the others. Henrietta, watching him, told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had never watched him as she now watched him, since her mother had said that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife.
The bishop was a tall man of sixty, healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and a double chin. He was a man of fortune; and, as he had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country - where he was very popular. Among the poor he was idolized, and by such clergy as were not enthusiastic about their theology, he was regarded as a model bishop. By those of the very high and the very low church, he was looked upon as a time-server.
An unselfish man, he loved his neighbour and forgave all trespasses, thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed sincerely to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed which he could neither understand nor define. Whether he had any inward misgivings, who shall say? He never spoke of his faith.
He was diligent in preaching - moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. His house was open to his fellow-clergymen; he laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare 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 new Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be impossible to conceive; and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was thin, meagre and wasted in appearance. His thick brown hair was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but he so constantly ruffled it with his hands that it seemed to be wild and uncombed. 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 forehead, enormous blue eyes, a long nose, hollow cheeks, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin.
He was utterly without income, except that which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which was not enough for food and clothing; but he was indifferent to such matters. The younger son of an English country gentleman, he had been sent to Oxford to be ordained, 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 converted a sister. When banished from the house he had still striven to convert the other sisters by his letters, and was now an alien from his father's heart. But it was part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. If he had not suffered persecution and poverty, his own conversion would not have seemed to him as satisfactory as it was.
He held that a man should believe and obey - that he should abandon his own reason, and allow himself to be guided by authority. Faith being all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham a real religion; and he had but one duty before him: to bring over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one person, or only half convert one; or do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. If he could not sow the seed, he would at any rate plough the ground.
When he came to Beccles, Roger Carbury had learned that he was a gentleman by birth and education, and also very poor, and had consequently taken him in hand. The young priest had accepted his neighbour's hospitality, laughingly saying that 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. This frankness had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, one winter evening at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host.
"I have the greatest respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would not suit me." The priest repeated his attempt two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man's earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such preaching. It occurred to him 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, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.
Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles. No one would 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 was too wise to talk to the bishop of her soul; so she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood.
"Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "Suffolk is a very nice county; and Norfolk too."
"I like a county which has something left of county feeling," said Lady Carbury. "Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost local distinctions."
"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "Silly Suffolk!"
"That was never deserved."
"I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no industry and no beautiful scenery. 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 herring. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us."
"For myself I like the country better than the town."
"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, and not so radical as 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 him. She had an idea that Roman Catholics were wrong, and ought to be suppressed. Mr. Barham was, no doubt, a gentleman of good family, which did make a difference.
Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. He started with quiet humility, and advanced to talkative enthusiasm. When Mrs. Yeld said a few civil words, he replied with a shame-faced modesty that she approved of. She spoke of the poor of Beccles: there was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money for those wonderful Sunday bonnets?
Mr. Barham agreed meekly to everything. No doubt he already had a plan for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly in her husband's palace, but he did not attempt it 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, observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.
When the ladies were gone the bishop began to talk to the priest, and asked about the morality of Beccles. It was 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 we are not all Irish. Most of my flock 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 Catholics round about us. But I could not name any Catholic families."
"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr. Hepworth.
"They were chiefly the poor who first put their faith in our Saviour," said the priest.
"I think the analogy is hardly correct," said the bishop, with a curious smile. "We are 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 natural. But that the poor should keep to an old faith abandoned by the rich is not so easy to understand."
"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the priest.
"That begs the question," said the bishop, turning to Roger Carbury, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace sties.
Father Barham continued his argument with Mr. Hepworth. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. The wealthier families of his faith - whom he named - would some day restore England to her pristine condition.
"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and no doubt an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."
"I like him because he is doing the best he can, 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 better of me."
Mrs. Yeld said to her husband as they went home, "Of course I don't mean to oppose 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."