The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

purpose these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.

Mr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;⁠—by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial One himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr. Melmotte’s own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. “It’s that fellow from The Herald office did it, not me,” he said, almost in a passion. “I don’t know how people ought to sit. But that’s the reason.”

“I’m d⁠⸺ if I’m going to be treated in this way in my own house,” were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall. “Who the d⁠⸺ are you?” he asked, when the priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. It was not the habit of Father Barham’s life to appear in sleek apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger’s welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.

Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite pluck; but outward humility⁠—at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise⁠—was the rule of his life. “I am the Rev. Mr. Barham,” said the visitor. “I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmotte.”

“That’s my name, sir. And what may you want? I don’t know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you’d look to it, Miles. Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?”

“I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,” said the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself.

“Is it business?” asked Lord Alfred.

“Certainly it is business,” said Father Barham with a smile.

“Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane⁠—in the City,” said his lordship.

“My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith.”

“Some lunatic,” said Melmotte. “See that there ain’t any knives about, Alfred.”

“No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others.”

“Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you’d better not go away.”

“You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte,” continued the priest. “If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes⁠—”

“Certainly not;⁠—certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not go away you’ll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows him.”

“Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend.”

“Carbury! D⁠⸺ the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here? A set of beggars! Why don’t you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him?”

“You’d better go,” said Lord Alfred. “Don’t make a rumpus, there’s a good fellow;⁠—but just go.”

“There shall be no rumpus,” said the priest, waxing wrathful. “I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?”

“You’re in the way,” said Lord Alfred.

“It’s a piece of gross impertinence,” said Melmotte. “Go away.”

“Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?”

“What the mischief does he mean?” asked Melmotte.

“He wants to know whether you’re a papist,” said Lord Alfred.

“What the deuce is it to him?” almost screamed Melmotte;⁠—whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.

“That’s a remarkable thing,” said Melmotte⁠—“very remarkable.” Even this poor priest’s mad visit added to his inflation. “I suppose he was in earnest.”

“Mad as a hatter,” said Lord Alfred.

“But why did he come to me in his madness⁠—to me especially? That’s what I want to know. I’ll tell you what it is. There isn’t a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as⁠—your humble servant. I wonder whether the Morning Pulpit people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion.”

“Mad as a hatter,” said Lord Alfred again;⁠—“just that and