Carrie, as may be surmised, never spoke about Philip to her father. She
was therefore rather surprised when one morning he passed her the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_, and pointed to a short paragraph in it:—
‘Mr. Richard Meadowes and Mr. Philip Meadowes left London yesterday for
Paris. They purpose making the Grand Tour of Europe, a circumstance
which will deprive society of two of its greatest ornaments,’ etc. etc.
Carrie blushed, and felt very miserable, thinking how long an absence
that meant on Phil’s part—he would not be in church next Sunday, nor
any Sunday for months to come!—‘Ah, Philip, why did you go?’ she asked
herself. Sebastian on his part was well content, and this perhaps made
him acquiesce more than it was natural for him to do in a plan which
Lady Mallow divulged to him that very afternoon. This was no less a
scheme than Carrie’s entrance into Society (with a large S).
‘For a young gentlewoman of Carrie’s parts and appearance she leads by
far too quiet a life, sir,’ said her Ladyship. ‘And now that I am
returned to town, I am resolved that Carrie shall make the figure she
ought in Society. ’Twas her good mother’s desire, I feel certain, and,
moreover, Carrie herself will delight in it.’
‘Perhaps you speak truly, Charlotte,’ said Sebastian, ‘and for certain
my Carrie hath charms enough and to spare. I fear you’ll have some
difficulty with her adorers ere long if you take her into Society, as
you call it; but if the girl is of the same mind with yourself, I have
naught to say against it.’
Lady Mallow thought Carrie rather lack-lustre over this generous
proposal. She did not seem to wish much to go to balls and routs, though
she was far too good-natured to show her disinclination very
openly—still there was a want of that exuberant whole-heartedness in
the pursuit of pleasure which used to characterise her at one time.
Carrie only smiled her charming smile and said—
‘You are most kind, madam; ’twill be most agreeable, I am certain.’
She did not even kindle to great interest over her new dresses. What was
the use? Philip would not see them.
Lady Mallow’s ‘circle,’ as she would have called it, received the
beautiful Caroline Shepley with open arms. She might have danced her
pretty little feet off had she had a mind to, and might have had her
head turned round on her shoulders if the compliments she received had
only seemed to her worth the getting. But, alas, Carrie listened coldly
to all the compliments that were showered upon her. She judged every man
she met by one standard—Philip,—and none of them ever came up to it.
There was indeed about Philip a certain careless elegance quite
unattainable, or at least quite unattained, by the other young men of
Carrie’s acquaintance. He was not particular about anything he said or
did, yet it seemed to Carrie he could say or do with impunity what, if
done by any other man, would have offended her in every way. Lady Mallow
made matters worse by continually urging Carrie to think seriously about
this or that man who paid her attentions.
‘Indeed, my dear niece, you should not be so saucy; for all your looks
and the little money your good father may leave you, you will be left a
maiden lady—that pitiable being,—if you despise good offers such as
those of Mr. Sedgebrooke and Captain Cole, as pretty-mannered gentlemen
both as you are like to meet, of good family (though untitled), and
personable men to look at. Sedgebrooke hath a thousand a year to his
fortune, and the Captain, though not so well to do, is an officer and a
gentleman—two very good things.’ Thus Lady Mallow.
But Carrie was obdurate.
‘I cannot abide Sedgebrooke, madam, and for Cole, the sight of his hands
is enough for me—bah, I hate fat hands: the hands of a gentleman should
be thin and brown by my way of thinking.’
So both of these eligible gentlemen were refused. But as time wore on
Lady Mallow was pleased to observe how much brighter Carrie had become.
Her eyes had an exquisite sparkle, she seemed always smiling. ‘Society
hath begun to brighten Carrie,’ she said to Sebastian, who growled, and
remarked that he had never thought her dull. It was not Society,
however, that was brightening Carrie, but the fact that Phil had
returned to town.
She had met him one afternoon as she walked with her aunt in the gardens
at Vauxhall.
‘My dear Carrie, see there,’ Lady Mallow had said. ‘There is Mr. Philip
Meadowes, the—I regret to say it—the natural son of Mr. Richard
Meadowes of Fairmeadowes, the property which adjoins to mine at Wynford.
For certain I thought it curious that he paid no attention to Sir James,
but his infrequent visits to Fairmeadowes no doubt explained the
circumstance, for on every hand I have accounts of the affability both
of the father and the son. They are beloved in the neighbourhood.’
The good lady rattled on long after the subject of her discourse had
passed by. She did not guess how much Phil was beloved in a
neighbourhood very close to her at that moment. Carrie listened to her
aunt’s talk with heightened colour and sparkling eyes. How different
Philip had looked! how much older! He looked boyish no longer—and yet
he was the same, her dearest Phil, who would come very soon to claim her
now. . . . What would her father say that day? Carrie’s joy was checked
at the thought.
For the last month or two of these two years of waiting Carrie could not
be tender enough to her father. She was with him every moment of his
spare time, and sat by him in the evening, and held his hand till he
laughed and asked her the reason of all this sentiment. Carrie laughed
also, but her eyes filled with tears; she knew the blow that impended
over him.
At last one night she determined to speak. She sat down beside her
father and laid her face against his shoulder.
‘Sir, I feel certain that ere long Philip Meadowes will come to claim
your promise,’ she said.
She felt her father draw in his breath hard before he spoke.
‘I thought you had forgot Philip Meadowes,’ he said at length.
‘I—forgotten—oh, sir, so soon? What do you take me for?’ cried Carrie.
She raised her face for a moment as she spoke.
‘Then you mean to have him?’
‘Yes, sir; I can do no other thing.’
Sebastian rose, and pushed Carrie from him almost with roughness.
‘If you marry this man, Carrie, you part from me; you cannot know all
’twould mean to me. You are too young, you have been ever too happy,
even to guess at it. I repeat: Marry Philip Meadowes and part from me,
or stay with me and part from him.’
Carrie in her agitation rose and stood beside her father. Then suddenly
she flung herself into his arms in her impetuous childish fashion.
‘Oh, sir, I must—I must. I cannot part from Philip; he is grown to be
like part of myself,’ she cried in a passion of tears.
Sebastian raised Carrie’s face to his and kissed her.
‘I do not blame you, Carrie—I cannot blame you, for you act too
entirely as I would have acted myself. I only bid you good-bye.’
‘Could you never know him and love him, sir?’ asked Carrie timidly.
‘May the Lord forgive me!—no, Carrie; not even for your sake.’
‘’Twill half break my heart to leave you, sir,’ said Carrie; ‘but
’twould break quite in two if I left Phil. Oh, what am I to do?’
‘Leave me,’ said Sebastian, and without another word he turned on his
heel and went out.