CHAPTER XX.

LADY POMONA'S DINNER PARTY.

Roger Carbury's half formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home while

Lady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to the

ground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hetta's

yielding to his prayer. But he had in fact not made a prayer, and

Hetta had certainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady

Carbury started with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone.

In the ordinary course of his life he was used to solitude. During

the greater part of the year he would eat and drink and live without

companionship; so that there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in

this desertion. But on the present occasion he could not prevent

himself from dwelling on the loneliness of his lot in life. These

cousins of his who were his guests cared nothing for him. Lady

Carbury had come to his house simply that it might be useful to her;

Sir Felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy;

and Hetta herself, though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft

and gracious through pity rather than love. On this day he had, in

truth, asked her for nothing; but he had almost brought himself to

think that she might give all that he wanted without asking. And yet,

when he told her of the greatness of his love, and of its endurance,

she was simply silent. When the carriage taking them to dinner went

away down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of

the house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling

himself that there was nothing left for him in life.

If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul

Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he

valued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his

mind exact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inward

condemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to anyone the

services he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hetta he

had alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. But

he felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed

it to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought

that if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should

have retired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring

himself to forgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that

his friend had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and

it was Paul Montague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at

Carbury when Hetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of

the house. He sat there till the servant came to tell him that his

dinner was on the table. Then he crept in and ate,--so that the man

might not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in

his hand seeming to read. But he read not a word, for his mind was

fixed altogether on his cousin Hetta. "What a poor creature a man

is," he said to himself, "who is not sufficiently his own master to

get over a feeling like this."

At Caversham there was a very grand party,--as grand almost as a

dinner party can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess

of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the bishop

and his wife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and

the parson's family, and the people staying in the house, made

twenty-four at the dinner table. As there were fourteen ladies and

only ten men, the banquet can hardly be said to have been very well

arranged. But those things cannot be done in the country with the

exactness which the appliances of London make easy; and then the

Longestaffes, though they were decidedly people of fashion, were

not famous for their excellence in arranging such matters. If aught,

however, was lacking in exactness, it was made up in grandeur. There

were three powdered footmen, and in that part of the country Lady

Pomona alone was served after this fashion; and there was a very

heavy butler, whose appearance of itself was sufficient to give éclat

to a family. The grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown

open, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered.

It was not above once in the year that this kind of thing was done

at Caversham; but when it was done, nothing was spared which could

contribute to the magnificence of the fête. Lady Pomona and her two

tall daughters standing up to receive the little Countess of Loddon

and Lady Jane Pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat

smaller scale, while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though

ashamed of themselves, was a sight to see. Then the Carburys came,

and then Mrs. Yeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly

full; but nobody had a word to say. The bishop was generally a man

of much conversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were well pleased

with her listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on

this occasion nobody could utter a word. Lord Loddon pottered about,

making a feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. Lord

Alfred stood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand.

That much greater man, Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the

arm-holes of his waistcoat, and was impassible. The bishop saw at a

glance the hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. The

master of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and

then devoted his mind to expectation of the next comer. Lady Pomona

and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb.

In accordance with the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been entertained

civilly for four entire days. It could not be expected that the

ladies of Caversham should come forth unwearied after such a

struggle.

When dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie

Melmotte. There can be no doubt but that the Caversham ladies did

execute their part of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this

arrangement would be desirable to the Melmottes, and they made it.

The great Augustus himself went in with Lady Carbury, much to her

satisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now,

if ever, it would be her duty to exert herself. "I hope you like

Suffolk," she said.

"Pretty well, I thank you. Oh, yes;--very nice place for a little

fresh air."

"Yes;--that's just it, Mr. Melmotte. When the summer comes one does

long so to see the flowers."

"We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here,"

said Mr. Melmotte.

"No doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world

at large. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a London

street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor

Square."

"It's a very nice place, is London."

"If you have got plenty of money, Mr. Melmotte."

"And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do you

live in London, ma'am?" He had quite forgotten Lady Carbury even if

he had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common

to men, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to

dinner.

"Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being

entertained by you there." This she said with her sweetest smile.

"Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always just remember."

"How should you,--with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady

Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will

remember."

"Yes; I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there, next to my daughter."

"Happy fellow!"

"I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness in

that way now. They've got other things to think of."

"He thinks so much of his business."

"Oh! I didn't know," said Mr. Melmotte.

"He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr. Melmotte."

"Oh;--that's his business!" said Mr. Melmotte, with a grim smile.

Lady Carbury was very clever as to many things, and was not

ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but

she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as

to the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she saw

the names in a catalogue. "I trust that he is diligent, there," she

said; "and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in

having the advantage of your counsel and guidance."

"He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much."

After this Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's position in the

city. She endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation;

but she found Mr. Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while

she had to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in

favour of Protestantism at the bidding of the Caversham parson, who

sat on the other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm

by some mention of Father Barham's name.

Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. "I

have told mamma," Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner

with him. She was now full of the idea so common to girls who are

engaged,--and as natural as it is common,--that she might tell

everything to her lover.

"Did she say anything?" he asked. Then Marie had to take her place

and arrange her dress before she could reply to him. "As to her, I

suppose it does not matter what she says, does it?"

"She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not

rich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear."

So much she had been able to say during the bustle.

Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the

subject very willingly. "Have you been riding?" he asked.

"No; I don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is.

How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?"

"None at all," said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. "I just rode

home quietly. I go to town to-morrow."

"And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long." This

she said bringing her voice down to a whisper.

"Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the

city. Does he go every day?"

"Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's

good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very

cross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him

then. Lord Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come,

and they play cards. I think the city will be best."

"You'll stick to it?" he asked.

"Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will

ever turn me. I think papa knows that." Felix looked at her as

she said this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance

than he had ever read there before. Perhaps she would consent to

run away with him; and, if so, being the only child, she would

certainly,--almost certainly,--be forgiven. But if he were to

run away with her and marry her, and then find that she were not

forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to starve without a shilling

of fortune, where would he be then? Looking at the matter in all its

bearings, considering among other things the trouble and the expense

of such a measure, he thought that he could not afford to run away

with her.

After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the

same big room in which they had been assembled before the

feast,--seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation. Again nobody

talked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the

carriages were there to take them all home. "They arranged that you

should sit next to her," said Lady Carbury to her son, as they were

in the carriage.

"Oh, I suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young

woman, you know."

"Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it

unless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melmotte. Oh, Felix!

if you can bring it about."

"I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it."

"No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved

beautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together.

Good night, Felix, and God bless you!" she said again, as they were

parting for the night. "I shall be the happiest and the proudest

mother in England if this comes about."