3 books to know Horatian Satire. Anthony Trollope
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in truth entertained but which had been barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned. Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course either by his father or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie Melmotte. Therefore when the Longestaffes heard that Sir Felix was coming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining him at Caversham. He had been lately talked of in London as the favourite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of her own against Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix’s prospects. Soon after the Melmottes’ arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting Sir Felix. ‘There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday, Miss Melmotte.’ Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. ‘I think you know Sir Felix Carbury,’ continued Georgiana.
‘Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.’
‘He is coming down to his cousin’s. I suppose it is for your bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like.’
‘I don’t think he is coming because of me,’ said Marie blushing. She had once told him that he might go to her father, which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her power of acceptance went. Since that she had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to Mr Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind that she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on constancy. But she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.
‘We had heard,’ said Georgiana, ‘that he was a particular friend of yours.’ And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame Melmotte certainly could not have surpassed.
Sir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on the lawn, and he also found Mr Melmotte there. At the last moment Lord Alfred Grendall had been asked — not because he was at all in favour with any of the Longestaffes, but in order that he might be useful in disposing of the great Director. Lord Alfred was used to him and could talk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and drink. Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked to Caversham, and Lord Alfred had come, having all his expenses paid by the great Director. When Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his entertainment by talking to Mr Melmotte in a summerhouse. He had cool drink before him and a box of cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how hard the world had been to him. Lady Pomona was languid, but not uncivil in her reception. She was doing her best to perform her part of the treaty in reference to Madame Melmotte. Sophia was walking apart with a certain Mr Whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight — they who decided the question might have said thirty-one without falsehood. — it was considered that Mr Whitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be expected. Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of the offers which she had rejected. Her friends on the other hand were apt to tell of her many failures. Nevertheless she held her head up, and had not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables. At the present moment her hands were empty, and she was devoting herself to such a performance of the treaty as should make it impossible for her father to leave his part of it unfulfilled.
For a few minutes Sir Felix sat on a garden chair making conversation to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. ‘Beautiful garden,’ he said; ‘for myself I don’t much care for gardens; but if one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one would like.’
‘Delicious,’ said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing her shawl higher round her throat. It was the end of May, and the weather was very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart of hearts, Madame Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden.
‘It isn’t a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we make the best of it,’ said Lady Pomona.
‘Plenty of glass, I see,’ said Sir Felix. ‘If one is to live in the country, I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place.’
There was offence in this; — as though the Carbury property and the Carbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and the Longestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money, the Longestaffes were great people. ‘For a small place,’ said Lady Pomona, ‘I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of course it is not extensive.’
‘No, by Jove,’ said Sir Felix, ‘you may say that, Lady Pomona. It’s like a prison to me with that moat round it.’ Then he jumped up and joined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be released for a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before she left them together. She had understood that the two horses now in the running were Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would not probably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to destroy Lord Nidderdale.
Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it — as far as such willingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and induced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of Mr Melmotte’s wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard to feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. He was by no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone — and she was much alone — she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.
‘You know why I have come down here?’ he said.
‘To see your cousin.’
‘No, indeed. I’m not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor — as cross as the mischief.’
‘How disagreeable!’
‘Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn’t come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude.
‘Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother’s?’
‘Did I say anything? I don’t remember anything particular.’
‘Do you not? Then I fear you can’t think very much of me.’ He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. ‘I thought you told me that you would love me.’
‘Did