The Way We Live Now I

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

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.

221

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

“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.

222

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

“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

223

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

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 will; — never!”

“I hope not, Marie.”

“You needn’t be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to kill me. I hate him, — and I do so love you.” Then she leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. “You will speak to papa; won’t you?”

“Will that be the best way?” “I suppose so. How else?”

“I don’t know whether Madame Melmotte ought not — “ “Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more

afraid of him than anybody; — more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman always did that.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” said Sir Felix. “I’m not afraid of him. Why should I? He and I are very good friends, you know.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day.”

224

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

“Did he? Perhaps he’ll like you for a son-in-law.” “There’s no knowing; — is there?”

“I hope he will. I shall like you for papa’s son-in-law. I hope it isn’t wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me.” Then she put her face up towards his again.

“Of course I love you,” he said, not thinking it worth his while to kiss her. “It’s no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better go and see him in the city.”

“He is in a good humour now,” said Marie.

“But I couldn’t get him alone. It wouldn’t be the thing to do down here.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“Not in the country, — in another person’s house. Shall you tell Madame Melmotte?”

“Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won’t say anything to him. Mamma does not care much about me. But I’ll tell you all that another time. Of course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you.” Then he left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. Mr. Melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house, and Lord Alfred was still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felix passed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in London. Mr. Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour. Sir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. Yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister on the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not coming. He believed that

225

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give £500 on their marriage. But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. Though the writer had not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from Sir Felix Carbury, — the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon. Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep’s Acre, on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyond her ken. There were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay. Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o’clock on that Sunday she was ensconced among the Sheepstone Birches, so that she might see without much danger of being seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she most required the kindness of a controlling hand!

Mr. Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is called a bishop’s lease, Sheep’s Acre Farm being a part of the property which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was still set apart for its sustentation; — but he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a former occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord to

228

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

call on the old man, and had then first seen Ruby; — and had heard from Roger something of Ruby’s history up to that date. It had then been just made known that she was to marry John Crumb. Since that time not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. Mr. Carbury had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned, — but his growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there should be any conversation between them on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her grandfather’s landlord.

There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their aspirations, whether for good or evil, — whether for food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to be come by either honestly or dishonestly, — are, if looked at at all, fairly visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can generally find out what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are at work. But the Ruggles woman, — especially the Ruggles young woman, — is better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. If she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for heaven. Her education has been much better than that of the man. She can read, whereas he can only spell words

229

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

from a book. She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on a paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper. But her ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. By such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen, — and, as to that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. But the woman builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. To the young farmer the squire’s daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. To the farmer’s daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure, — by whom to be looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over. The girl marries after her kind, and then husband and children put the matter at rest for ever.

A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find. But her 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,

230