The Way We Live Now (110 page)

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of
what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his breakfast – and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr Brehgert! He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators – and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was about to have a crushing fall – but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the period of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

‘Papa,' she said, coming very gently into the room, ‘I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday.'

‘Of course you were wrong – but it doesn't matter now.'

‘If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more – and I 'm sure Idon't care whether he does or not'.

‘What makes you think that, Marie?'

‘I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there. I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more.'

‘Was he uncivil to you?'

‘Oh dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how. I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?'

‘He is a penniless adventurer.'

‘But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him.'

‘Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?'

‘Never, papa.'

‘Or heard from him?'

‘Not a line.'

‘Then what makes you think he would marry you?'

‘He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in Germany.'

‘We could do that just as well without your marrying.'

‘But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else.'

‘He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you.'

‘He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand. He's as good as anybody else.'

‘It can't be done, Marie.'

‘Why can't it be done?'

‘There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him? And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage.'

‘You don't want me to sign the papers?'

‘No; – I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter.'

‘I won't – if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more.'

Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. ‘I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you.'

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence – and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. ‘I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury,' Marie said. ‘I am Marie Melmotte.'

At first Lady Carbury had not recognized her visitor – but she did so before she replied. ‘Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.'

‘Yes; – I am Mr Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street.'

‘Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.' Now Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr Broune that ‘it was all over' with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting. ‘Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a week is
over.' That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

‘I want to see him,' said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while. ‘I suppose he told you everything – didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and telling you.'

‘I thought it was all off,' said Lady Carbury.

‘I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over, but perhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true.'

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. ‘I am afraid,' she said, ‘that it would not be suitable.'

‘Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us – but it is mine. It is ever so much – I don't know how much, but a great deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable.'

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it was true? ‘I understand that your papa is opposed to it,' she said.

‘Yes, he is – but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare to do it, why can't he?'

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she should see Mr Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him – this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him – as she declared – with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands were there – or even an income of a single thousand a year – then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the
Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. ‘My son is upstairs,' she said. ‘I will go up and speak to him.'

‘Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him.'

‘I couldn't go down to her,' said Sir Felix, ‘with my face all in this way.'

‘I don't think she would mind that'.

‘I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to Liverpool.'

‘I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you.'

‘What's the use of that, if he is ruined?' He would not go down to see the girl – because he could not endure to expose his face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As regarded the money, he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

‘What shall I say to her?' asked his mother.

‘She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again.'

But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make. ‘Miss Melmotte,' she said, ‘my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance.'

‘That is his message – is it?' Lady Carbury remained silent. ‘Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him. I am ashamed – not of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury.'

‘Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me.'

‘No; – no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him.'

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way. What should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she endeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She had really loved – but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it – but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city – probably in some very distant part. But go where she might, she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.