The Way We Live Now (114 page)

‘I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own money.' Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House on the preceding evening. ‘What the devil does that matter?' said the old man. ‘You're not going to marry the man himself.'

‘I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now.'

‘And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?'

‘I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else.' The marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. ‘At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery.'

‘I can't see what that has to do with you.'

‘I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money.'

‘Then you may just go to the devil,' said the old marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. ‘They tell me,' said the old man, ‘that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money.'

‘A Jewess,' suggested Nidderdale.

‘What difference does that make?'

‘Oh no – not in the least – if the money's really there. Have you heard any sum named, sir?' The old man only grunted. ‘There are two sisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each.'

‘They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year.'

‘It's only for her life, sir.'

‘She could insure her life. D— me, sir, we must do something. If you
turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?'

‘I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it.' The old man growled again. ‘You see, sir, I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It'd save a deal of trouble.'

‘If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away,' said the old marquis.

At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man was. ‘I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr Melmotte's in Bruton Street,' said the footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances of Lord Nidderdale's engagement. The son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. ‘You'd better go and see,' said the marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as to what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. ‘Go and see Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid over.'

‘He knows that already,' said Nidderdale as he left the room.

In the hall he found a man whom he recognized as Melmotte's butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But the lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had some story to tell. ‘Is there anything the matter?'

‘Yes, my lord – yes. Oh dear – oh dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship.'

‘They've taken him to prison!' exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. ‘What is it, then? He can't be dead.' Then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. ‘Mr Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him myself. How did he die?' But the fat, ponderous man was so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, and
had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note was as follows: -

‘
DEAR LORD NIDDERDALE
,

‘The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad.

I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?

‘
MARIE
.'

He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as to the manner of his master's death. And now the marquis, gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. ‘Mr Melmotte is – dead,' said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall. ‘This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he – died?'

‘It was – poison,' said the butler solemnly. ‘There has been a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars – and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in – there he was – poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us.'

Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which Marie had made in her first misery. The marquis thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street. ‘What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid – at any rate, till you know how things are.'

But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get – but because she had nearly been so near to him. ‘I couldn't refuse her,' he said over and over again. ‘I couldn't bring myself to do it. Oh no; – I shall certainly go.'

‘You'll get into a mess if you do.'

‘Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at once. It
is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would be abominable.' Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the butler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half an hour.

‘Don't you go and make a fool of yourself,' his father said to him when he was alone. ‘This is just one of those times when a man may ruin himself by being soft-hearted.' Nidderdale simply shook his head as he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.

When the news of her husband's death was in some very rough way conveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether. Marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stood by the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps by the necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman as by her own superior strength of character, to save herself from that prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow is apt to produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidings of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside. But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame Melmotte soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was not only active but efficacious. No; she would not go down to the room; she could do no good by going thither. But they must send for a doctor. They should send for a doctor immediately. She was then told that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below. The necessity of throwing whatever responsibility there might be on to other shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and they had sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled with persons fit to give directions in such an emergency. The officers from the police station were already there when the woman who now filled Didon's place in the house communicated to Madame Melmotte the fact that she was a widow.

It was afterwards said by some of those who had seen her at the time, that Marie Melmotte had shown a hard heart on the occasion. But the condemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly not
that which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters. He had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whose slightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become matters of serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were glorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed would be missed with mourning. How should it have been so with her? In all the intercourses of her family, since the first rough usage which she remembered, there had never been anything sweet or gracious. Though she had recognized a certain duty, as due from herself to her father, she had found herself bound to measure it, so that more should not be exacted from her than duty required. She had long known that her father would fain make her a slave for his own purposes, and that if she put no limits to her own obedience he certainly would put none. She had drawn no comparison between him and other fathers, or between herself and other daughters, because she had never become conversant with the ways of other families. After a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had never respected him, and had spent the best energies of her character on a resolve that she would never fear him. ‘He may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his advantage that which I do not think he has a right to exact from me.' That had been the state of her mind towards her father; and now that he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving her to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and no assistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awe rather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Those who depart must have earned such sorrow before it can be really felt. They who are left may be overwhelmed by the death — even of their most cruel tormentors. Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it could not probably be said of her with truth that she was crushed by pure grief. There was fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear of some necessary movement she knew not whither, fear that she might be discovered to be a poor wretched impostor who never could have been justified in standing in the same presence with emperors and princes, with duchesses and Cabinet ministers. This and the fact that the dead body of the man who had so lately been her tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardly dare to leave her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thus more dreadful even than when alive, utterly conquered her. Feelings of the same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerful also with Marie — but they did not conquer her. She was strong, and
conquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to which she was in truth superior. In such a household the death of such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender sorrow which comes from real love.

She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and had doubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had been greater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to sign those deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her the truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means of knowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. But she had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her that it would be of no avail –and at that time had not been angry with her as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin. She took some comfort in thinking of that.

But what was she to do? What was to be done generally by that over-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had been instructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed the order. But she herself at this moment cared but little for any property. How ought she to behave herself? Where should she go? On whose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time? As for love, and engagements, and marriage – that was all over. In her difficulty she never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury. Though she had been silly enough to love the man because he was pleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone in silliness as to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one might lean. Had that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. But it might be possible that Lord Nidderdale would help her. He was good-natured and manly, and would be efficacious – if only he would come to her. He was near, and she thought that at any rate she would try. So she had written her note and sent it by the butler – thinking as she did so of the words she would use to make the young man understand that all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothing now.

It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown upstairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first floor. As he passed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open, he saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of the dead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without a glance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen his burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. And now the man was dead — having destroyed his own life. Surely the man must have
known when he uttered those words what it was that he intended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie, conscious as he was that every one was deserting him, he must even then have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that it was better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might be their nature, must have been heavy on him then with all their weight; and he himself and all the world had known that he was ruined. And yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and had spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be accomplished!