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

“I mean it accurately and certainly,” said Mr. Longestaffe. “We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham to London this year.”

“Our ball is fixed,” said Lady Pomona.

“Then it must be unfixed.” So saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room and descended to his study.

The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly. But the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother.

“He can’t really mean it,” said Sophia.

“He does,” said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.

“He must unmean it again;⁠—that’s all,” said Georgiana. “Dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun?”

“I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus.”

“Dolly can take care of himself,” said Georgiana, “and always does do so. Dolly does not care for us.”

“Not a bit,” said Sophia.

“I’ll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn’t stir from this at all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he promises to bring us back. I won’t stir⁠—unless he has me carried out of the house.”

“My dear, I couldn’t say that to him.”

“Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury, who is rustier still. I won’t stand it. There are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me I know. It wouldn’t be nice of course. I don’t like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;⁠—it’s quite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte.”

“That’s ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine.”

“But you’re going to have her down at Caversham. I can’t think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how hard papa is to manage.”

“Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear.”

“No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren’t going down. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn’t he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it’s the dullest house, I think, in all England.”

The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other’s company. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables. Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. To her had been imparted upstairs the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would be desirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed from debt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he replied that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged and would be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold⁠—and, as a consequence of that, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year.

The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head, as was their custom. There was very little show of affection in the kiss. “You had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week,” he said. They heard the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without deigning to notice them.

“I don’t think it quite nice, mamma; that’s all. Of course if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you.”

“What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your own cousin’s house?”

“You know what I mean, mamma.”

“It’s done now, my dear, and I don’t think there is anything at all in what you say.”

This little conversation arose from Lady Carbury’s announcement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting the hospitality of Carbury Manor for the Whitsun week. It was very grievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with her, even though he was her cousin. But she had no escape. She could not remain in town by herself, nor could she even allude to her grievance to anyone but to her mother. Lady Carbury, in order that she might be quite safe from opposition, had posted the following letter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter:⁠—

Welbeck Street, 24th April, 18⁠—.

My dear Roger,

We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what I am going to propose doesn’t suit you’ll say so at once. I have been working very hard⁠—too hard indeed, and I feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you