The Way We Live Now (World's Classics Series). Anthony Trollope
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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 stiffnecked old bachelor, — as cross as the mischief.”
“How disagreeable!”
“Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn’t come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?”
“I don’t know,” said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude.
“Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother’s?”
“Did I say anything? I don’t remember anything particular.”
“Do you not? Then I fear you can’t think very much of me.” He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. “I thought you told me that you would love me.”
“Did I?”
“Did you not?”
“I don’t know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn’t mean it.”
“Am I to believe that?”
“Perhaps you didn’t mean it yourself.”
“By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellow more in earnest than I was. I’ve come down here on purpose to say it again.”
“To say what?”
“Whether you’ll accept me?”
“I don’t know whether you love me well enough.” She longed to be told by him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr Melmotte which he almost feared. “Do you really love me well enough?” she whispered.
“Of course I do. I’m bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know I love you.”
“Do you?”
“By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. I did indeed.”
It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. “Then I will love you,” she said. “I will with all my heart.”
“There’s a darling!”
“Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix now mayn’t I?”
“Rather.”
“Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You know a great many men have asked me to love them.”
“I suppose so.”
“But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least, — not in the least.”
“You do care for me?”
“Oh yes.” She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the moment that she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only he would have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe. There was indeed a certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in Marie’s mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. “Oh, Felix,” she said, giving her face up to him; “no one ever did it before.” He did not in the least believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him. “Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to you.”
“Of course I will be good to you.”
“Men are not always good to their wives. Papa is often very cross to mamma.”
“I suppose he can be cross?”
“Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don’t know what he’ll say when we tell him about this.”
“But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?”
“He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale again now. He hasn’t said so, but mamma tells me. But I never