She expressed her sense of injury very well. Roger began to be ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. And yet he did not know how to recall them. ‘If I have hurt you, I regret it much.’
‘Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard the world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once.’
‘You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You cannot think that I meant to offend you.’ They walked on in silence till they had reached the door leading from the garden into the house, and here he stopped her. ‘If I have been over hot with you, let me beg your pardon,’ She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house. ‘Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury.’
‘I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly stand.’
It was late in the afternoon — about six — and according to his daily custom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as they came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on the spot where Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the lawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet. Could it really be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her daughter with her? Was it thus that he was to part with the one human being in the world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of the duties of hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was bound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more gracious than the world required elsewhere. And of all guests those of his own name were the best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury. He held the place in trust for the use of others. But if there were one among all others to whom the house should be a house of refuge from care, not an abode of trouble, on whose behalf, were it possible, he would make the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their wont, to whom he would declare, were such words possible to his tongue, that of him and of his house, and of all things there, she was the mistress, whether she would condescend to love him or no — that one was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told by his guest that he had been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to London!
And he could not acquit himself. He knew that he had been rough. He had said very hard words. It was true that he could not have expressed his meaning without hard words, nor have repressed his meaning without self-reproach. But in his present mood he could not comfort himself by justifying himself. She had told him that he ought to have remembered that Felix was her son; and as she spoke she had acted well the part of an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that though he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemned himself. Look where he would there was no comfort. When he had sat half an hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house to dress for dinner — and to prepare himself for an apology, if any apology might be accepted. At the door, standing in the doorway as though waiting for him, he met his cousin Hetta. She had on her bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he thought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness towards him than he had ever seen there before.
‘Mr Carbury,’ she said, ‘mamma is so unhappy!’
‘I fear that I have offended her.’
‘It is not that, but that you should be so — so angry about Felix.’
‘I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her — more vexed than I can tell you.’
‘She knows how good you are.’
‘No, I’m not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me that she talked of going back to London.’ He paused for her to speak, but Hetta had no words ready for the moment. ‘I should be wretched indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger.’
‘I do not think she will do that.’
‘And you?’
‘I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only wish that Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to him.’ Roger could express no hope in this direction or even look as though he approved of the directorship. ‘I don’t see why he should not try at any rate.’
‘Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you.’
‘Girls are so different, you know.’
It was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he made his apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at last it was accepted. ‘I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix,’ he said — ‘and I beg your pardon.’
‘You were energetic, that was all.’
‘A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never be rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me.’ She answered him by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel was over.
Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now come down to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and prosecute his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further objection. And Felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed. Roger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy by the former severity of his language. Such points as these Lady Carbury never missed. He understood it too, and though he was soft and gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant as he could to his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out of his undoubted right to disapprove of all connection with the Melmottes. In the course of the evening there came a note — or rather a bundle of notes — from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was in the form of a letter. Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the Longestaffe party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests. Lady Pomona hoped that Mr Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady Pomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday following, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That was the purport of Lady Pomona’s letter to Roger Carbury. Then there were cards of invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix.
Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady Carbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The tone of his, voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was something in it of his former harshness. But she knew how to use her triumph. ‘I should like to go,’ she said.
‘I certainly shall not go,’ he replied; ‘but there will be no difficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once, because their servant is waiting.’
‘Monday will be best,’ she said; ‘— that is, if nobody is coming here.’
‘There will be nobody here.’
‘I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta — and Felix will accept their invitation.’
‘I can make no suggestion,’ said Roger, thinking how delightful it would be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was that Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the Melmottes. Poor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to meet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousin Roger.
‘That will be best,’ said Lady Carbury after a moment’s thought. ‘It is very good of you to let us go, and to send us.’
‘Of course you will do here just as you please,’ he replied. But there was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A quarter of an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home with two letters — the one from Roger expressing his regret that he could not accept Lady Pomona’s invitation, and the other from Lady Carbury declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasure in dining at Caversham on the Monday.