The Way We Live Now (World's Classics Series). Anthony Trollope
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thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as they were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and all her cleverness, — with all her fortune to boot, — marry that dustiest of all men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? John Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too, — slow of speech but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip, — fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his work. But though she had known him all her life she had never known him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so gotten within his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even on Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. Nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundredweight of flour upon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him, — that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod.
But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John Crumb’s honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was not a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to avoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and tall, — and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather.
Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant not above half a mile from Sheep’s Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when he made his appointment. The road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays. He approached the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. He had not stood long before he saw the girl’s bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the copse. Then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. “I like your impudence,” she said, “in calling yourself a friend.”
“Ain’t I a friend, Ruby?”
“A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is, — oh, ever so long ago now.”
“But I wrote to you, Ruby.”
“What’s letters? And the postman to know all as in ‘em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see ‘em. I don’t call letters no good at all, and I beg you won’t write ‘em any more.”
“Did he see them?”
“No thanks to you if he didn’t. I don’t know why you are come here, Sir Felix, — nor yet I don’t know why I should come and meet you. It’s all just folly like.”
“Because I love you; — that’s why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come because you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?” Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist.
It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half-hour was no doubt complete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half-hour was over. She felt that she could be content to sit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a realisation of those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at Bungay.
But what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry her, — had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her, and an amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he had learned to be aware. Before the half-hour was over I think that he wished himself away; — but when he did go, he made a promise to see her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at Harlestone market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again, and bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the journey.
“I suppose I am to be his wedded wife,” said Ruby to herself, as she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home; — so that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of the young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road. “I’ll never be nothing unless I’m that,” she said to herself. Then she allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury.
Chapter XIX
Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale
“I half a mind to go back tomorrow morning,” Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.
“tomorrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!”
“You could make any excuse you like about that.”
“It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them.”
“You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world.”
“That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for.”
“What did I come for?”
“That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house.”
“That’s all settled,” said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume. “Settled!”
“As far as the girl is concerned. I can’t very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here.”
“Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?”
“I told you that before.”
“My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!” In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all mothers in England! “No, you didn’t tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don’t wonder that any girl should be fond of you.”
“I can’t say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it.”
“If