ROGER CARBURY AND PAUL MONTAGUE.
Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property in
Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in
Suffolk a great many years,--certainly from the time of the War of
the Roses,--and had always held up their heads. But they had never
held them very high. It was not known that any had risen ever to
the honour of knighthood before Sir Patrick, going higher than that,
had been made a baronet. They had, however, been true to their
acres and their acres true to them through the perils of civil wars,
Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Carbury of
the day had always owned, and had always lived at, Carbury Hall. At
the beginning of the present century the squire of Carbury had been
a considerable man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of
the county. The income of the estate had sufficed to enable him to
live plenteously and hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout
hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when
she went avisiting. He had an old butler who had never lived anywhere
else, and a boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the
butler. There was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes,
and a couple of young women;--while the house was kept by Mrs.
Carbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own
preserves, and looked to the curing of her own hams. In the year 1800
the Carbury property was sufficient for the Carbury house. Since that
time the Carbury property has considerably increased in value, and
the rents have been raised. Even the acreage has been extended by
the enclosure of commons. But the income is no longer comfortably
adequate to the wants of an English gentleman's household. If a
moderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the
question whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to
him wherewith to keep up the estate. Land is a luxury, and of all
luxuries is the most costly. Now the Carburys never had anything but
land. Suffolk has not been made rich and great either by coal or
iron. No great town had sprung up on the confines of the Carbury
property. No eldest son had gone into trade or risen high in a
profession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had
been married. There had been no ruin,--no misfortune. But in the days
of which we write the Squire of Carbury Hall had become a poor man
simply through the wealth of others. His estate was supposed to bring
him in £2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House, to
live abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants,
he would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously. But he
lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys
before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich
neighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham,--of which family Dolly
Longestaffe was the eldest son and hope,--had the name of great
wealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of
London and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne. The
Hepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had
married into new money. The Primeros,--though the good nature of the
country folk had accorded to the head of them the title of Squire
Primero,--had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought
the Bundlesham property from a great duke. The estates of those three
gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around
the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their owners
altogether to overshadow our squire. The superior wealth of a bishop
was nothing to him. He desired that bishops should be rich, and was
among those who thought that the country had been injured when the
territorial possessions of our prelates had been converted into
stipends by Act of Parliament. But the grandeur of the Longestaffes
and the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though
he was a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into
the ear even of his dearest friend. It was his opinion,--which he
did not care to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be
his opinion by those with whom he lived intimately,--that a man's
standing in the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. The
Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although
the young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of
pheasants annually at about 10_s_. a head. Hepworth of Eardly was a
very good fellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties
as a country gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with
Carbury of Carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy £7,000 a year.
The Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in
the country, had powdered hair. They had a house in town,--a house
of their own,--and lived altogether as magnates. The lady was Lady
Pomona Longestaffe. The daughters, who certainly were handsome, had
been destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had,
a fortune of his own. They were an oppressive people in a country
neighbourhood. And to make the matter worse, rich as they were,
they never were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They
continued to live with all the appurtenances of wealth. The girls
always had horses to ride, both in town and country. The acquaintance
of Dolly the reader has already made. Dolly, who certainly was a poor
creature though good natured, had energy in one direction. He would
quarrel perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest
in the estate. The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven
months, of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all
the tradesmen in the little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and
Harlestone, were aware that the Longestaffes were the great people
of that country. Though occasionally much distressed for money,
they would always execute the Longestaffe orders with submissive
punctuality, because there was an idea that the Longestaffe property
was sound at the bottom. And, then, the owner of a property so
managed cannot scrutinise bills very closely.
Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay,
or his father before him. His orders to the tradesmen at Beccles were
not extensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied were
neither overcharged nor unnecessary. The tradesmen, consequently, of
Beccles did not care much for Carbury of Carbury;--though perhaps one
or two of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence
for the family. Roger Carbury, Esq., was Carbury of Carbury,--a
distinction of itself, which, from its nature, could not belong to
the Longestaffes and Primeros, which did not even belong to the
Hepworths of Eardly. The very parish in which Carbury Hall stood,--or
Carbury Manor House, as it was more properly called,--was Carbury
parish. And there was Carbury Chase, partly in Carbury parish and
partly in Bundlesham,--but belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety
to the Bundlesham estate.
Roger Carbury himself was all alone in the world. His nearest
relatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no
more than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since
been married and had gone away into the world with their husbands,
one to India, and another to the far west of the United States. At
present he was not much short of forty years of age, and was still
unmarried. He was a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square
face, with features finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and
well-formed chin. His hair was red, curling round his head, which
was now partly bald at the top. He wore no other beard than small,
almost unnoticeable whiskers. His eyes were small, but bright, and
very cheery when his humour was good. He was about five feet nine in
height, having the appearance of great strength and perfect health.
A more manly man to the eye was never seen. And he was one with
whom you would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good
terms,--partly because in looking at him there would come on you an
unconscious conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own
against his opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong,
that he would be very pleasant to his friends.
When Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger
Carbury had hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him
all kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to
go down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care
a straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin
in almost those very words. There had not, therefore, been much
friendship during Sir Patrick's life. But when the violent
ill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and
again offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,--and to the
young baronet. The young baronet had just joined his regiment and
did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and
Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to
make them happy. The effort as regarded Henrietta had been altogether
successful. As regarded the widow, it must be acknowledged that
Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun
to sigh for the glories of a literary career. A career of some
kind,--sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of her early
life,--she certainly desired. "Dear cousin Roger," as she called him,
had not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her in these
views. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms.
She had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the
bishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for
her. The Primeros had been odious; the Hepworths stupid; the
Longestaffes,--she had endeavoured to make up a little friendship
with Lady Pomona,--insufferably supercilious. She had declared to
Henrietta "that Carbury Hall was very dull."
But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her
opinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor
after a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most
matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at
that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very
cool;--some might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making.
Henrietta declared to her mother that she had not in the least
expected it. But he was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady
Carbury was eager on his side. Though the Carbury Manor House did not
exactly suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for
age, to her thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six
was young enough for any girl. But Henrietta had an opinion of her
own. She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and
even annoyed by the offer. She had praised him and praised the house
so loudly to her mother,--having in her innocence never dreamed of
such a proposition as this,--so that now she found it difficult to
give an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly
said that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in
that way. She did refuse the offer very plainly, but still with some
apparent lack of persistency. When Roger suggested that she should
take a few months to think of it, and her mother supported Roger's
suggestion, she could say nothing stronger than that she was afraid
that thinking about it would not do any good. Their first visit to
Carbury had been made in September. In the following February she
went there again,--much against the grain as far as her own wishes
were concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost
dumb in the presence of her cousin. Before they left the offer was
renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not do as they would
have her. She could give no reason, only she did not love her cousin
in that way. But Roger declared that he by no means intended to
abandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, and love with
him was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the
beginning of our present story.
But something else happened also. While that second visit was being
made at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger
Carbury had said much to his cousins,--one Paul Montague, of whom
some short account shall be given in this chapter. The squire,--Roger
Carbury was always called the squire about his own place,--had
anticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins
to his house that they must of necessity meet Paul Montague there.
But great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen into love
with his cousin's guest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness.
Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and
Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thus
spoke to the guest who had last arrived. "I've got to tell you
something, Paul."
"Anything serious?"
"Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own
life can approach it in importance." He had unconsciously assumed
that look, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating his
resolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight if
fighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware
that he had done something, he knew not what, militating against this
serious resolve of his friend. He looked up, but said nothing. "I
have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger
very gravely.
"Miss Carbury?"
"Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refused
me twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right
to hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life to
me depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy."
"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague in a hoarse
voice.
Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking
between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of
them declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by
the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally
unreasonable. Montague at once asserted that he also loved Henrietta
Carbury. He blurted out his assurance in the baldest and most
incomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no doubt.
No;--he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger
Carbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on
that very day had not Roger spoken to him. "You have neither of you
a shilling in the world," said Roger; "and now you know what my
feelings are you must abandon it." Then Montague declared that he
had a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that Miss
Carbury cared a straw about him. He had not the least reason to think
that she did. It was altogether impossible. But he had a right to his
chance. That chance was all the world to him. As to money,--he would
not admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he might earn an
income as well as other men. Had Carbury told him that the young
lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, Carbury's,
addresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene.
But as it was not so, he would not say that he would abandon his
hope.
The scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague
packed up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway station
by Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been
very hot words between the men, but the last words which Roger spoke
to the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in their
nature. "God bless you, old fellow," he said, pressing Paul's hands.
Paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the
pressure.
Paul Montague's father and mother had long been dead. The father had
been a barrister in London, having perhaps some small fortune of his
own. He had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others,
a sufficiency with which to begin the world. Paul when he had come
of age had found himself possessed of about £6,000. He was then at
Oxford, and was intended for the bar. An uncle of his, a younger
brother of his father, had married a Carbury, the younger sister
of two, though older than her brother Roger. This uncle many years
since had taken his wife out to California, and had there become an
American. He had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and
fruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not always
been plain to the Montagues and Carburys at home. The intercourse
between the two families had in the quite early days of Paul
Montague's life, created an affection between him and Roger, who, as
will be understood by those who have carefully followed the above
family history, were not in any degree related to each other. Roger,
when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education,
and had sent him to Oxford. But the Oxford scheme, to be followed by
the bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of the
country, had not succeeded. Paul had got into a "row" at Balliol, and
had been rusticated,--had then got into another row, and was sent
down. Indeed he had a talent for rows,--though, as Roger Carbury
always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them.
Paul was then twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to
California, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea,--based on
very insufficient grounds,--that rows are popular in California. At
the end of three years he found that he did not like farming life in
California,--and he found also that he did not like his uncle. So he
returned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to get
his £6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed he had been compelled
to come away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take
him home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his
uncle that an income amounting to ten per cent. upon his capital
should be remitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. The
clock alluded to must have been one of Sam Slick's. It had gone
very badly. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper
remittance;--then half the amount;--then there was a long interval
without anything; then some dropping payments now and again;--and
then a twelvemonth without anything. At the end of that twelvemonth
he paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from
Roger for his journey. He had now again returned, with some little
cash in hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in
his favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership
with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's
concerns. In accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per cent.
on his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his name
put up as one of the firm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague, and
Montague. A business declared by the two elder partners to be most
promising had been opened at Fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty
miles from San Francisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the elder
Montague were very high. Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his
uncle much, and would willingly have got back his £6,000 had he been
able. But he was not able, and returned as one of Fisker, Montague,
and Montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in
obtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed to Roger, and
to live for a few months. He was intent on considering how he should
bestow himself, consulting daily with Roger on the subject, when
suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached
to the girl whom he himself loved. What then occurred has been told.
Not a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real
cause of Paul's sudden disappearance. It had been necessary that he
should go to London. Each of the ladies probably guessed something
of the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject.
Before they left the Manor the squire again pleaded his cause with
Henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. Henrietta was colder than
ever,--but she made use of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all
the effect which her coldness might have had. She said that she was
too young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the
difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to
say it. It was easy to tell her that in a twelvemonth she would be
older;--but it was impossible to convince her that any number of
twelvemonths would alter the disparity between her and her cousin.
But even that disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling
sure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.
Within a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor House,
Paul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. He had
promised before he went that he would not see Henrietta again for
three months, but he would promise nothing further. "If she won't
take you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try." That had been
his argument. Roger would not accede to the justice even of this.
It seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly
because he had got no income, partly because of Roger's previous
claim,--partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger
never said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not
such a man as his friend had taken him to be.
Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his
friend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once to Roger
Carbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of them. Indeed
he could have no chance if the girl were disposed to take Roger for
her husband. Roger had all the advantage of Carbury Manor at his
back, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business
of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, in a wretched little town 250
miles further off than San Francisco! But if, with all this, Roger
could not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about want
of money was mere nonsense. Paul was sure that his friend would have
created no such difficulty had not he himself been interested. Paul
declared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and
that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.
He came up to London at various times in search of certain employment
which had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the
three months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from
time to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that
he would not declare his passion,--now for two months, then for
six weeks, then for a month. In the meantime the two men were fast
friends,--so fast that Montague spent by far the greater part of
his time as his friend's guest,--and all this was done with the
understanding that Roger Carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath
should Paul ever receive the privilege to call himself Henrietta
Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth
between them should Henrietta be persuaded to become the mistress of
Carbury Hall. So things went on up to the night at which Montague
met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should also be
informed that there had been already a former love affair in the
young life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still
was, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious
to marry before his second journey to California;--but the marriage
had been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.