The Way We Live Now (49 page)

From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr Melmotte of the present hour was a very different man from that Mr Melmotte who was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle. Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without his being allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to catch a simple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfred when he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges. He was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the great man. It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the world the great man was perched at that moment. Miss Longestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how great a man her host was. Lady Monogram when she refused to go to Grosvenor Square, or even to allow any one to come out of the house in Grosvenor Square to her parties, was groping in outer darkness. Madame Melmotte did not know. Marie Melmotte did not know. The great man did not quite know himself where, from time to time, he was standing. But the world at large knew. The world knew that Mr Melmotte was to be Member for Westminster, that Mr Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China, that Mr Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway in his pocket – and the world worshipped Mr Melmotte.

In the meantime Mr Melmotte was much troubled about his private affairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this marriage – not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand a year was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twenty thousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six months after the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum at once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept waiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish for them a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the young people were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a week or so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papers that Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides that Nidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money was not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then at that time Melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce, the very navel of the commercial enterprise of the world – as all men now regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much less stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first to exact.

But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented at her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no concern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, and himself fixed some day in August for the wedding. ‘It is no use, father, for I will never have him,' said Marie.

‘Is it about that other scamp?' he asked angrily.

‘If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to you and told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue.'

‘You'll both starve, my lady; that's all.' Marie however was not so wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as to be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to suffer if married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any long discussion. As he left her he took hold of her and shook her. ‘By –,' he said, ‘if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, not you, you little fool!'

But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale spoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off – and now the young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resetting everything with the girl. He was not very skilful at making love – but he was thoroughly good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give pain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and hardly any kindness which he would not do – so that the labour upon himself was not too great. ‘Well, Miss Melmotte,' he said, ‘governors are stern beings, are they not?'

‘Is yours stern, my lord?'

‘What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think you understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; I was, indeed.'

‘I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale.'

‘That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and I can't marry without leave from the governors.'

‘Nor with it,' said Marie, nodding her head.

‘I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere – I don't quite know where.' – The hitch had been with himself, as he demanded ready money. ‘But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?'

‘No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can.'

‘Do you mean that?'

‘I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it. I have seen more of things since then.'

‘And you've seen somebody you like better than me?'

‘I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought to blame me, my lord.'

‘Oh dear no.'

‘There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn't it, now?'

‘The governors were off, I think.'

‘The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one.'

‘I agree with you there – I do indeed,' said Lord Nidderdale.

‘And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal about it since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine.'

‘But I don't know why you shouldn't – just marry me – because you – like me.'

‘Only, just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale.'

‘Thanks; – so much!'

‘I like you ever so – only marrying a person is different.'

‘There's something in that, to be sure.'

‘And I don't mind telling you,' said Marie with an almost solemn expression on her countenance, ‘because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody else – oh, so much.'

‘I supposed that was it.'

‘That is it.'

‘It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think of it again?'

‘I tell you, my lord, I'm – in love.'

‘Oh, ah; – yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket' And so Nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away – not however without an idea that the marriage would still come off. There was always – so he thought – such a bother about things before they would get themselves fixed. This happened some days after Mr Broune's proposal to Lady Carbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she might hear from him – and entrusted her letter to Didon.

Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr Broune's proposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her promise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day her letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and she had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be much guided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only
accept it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden. She never said this even to herself – but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect She had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake – having even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. The maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices; but it might so probably be again secured – by means of her son's beauty! Hetta had said that Mr Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men liked their own way. And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the man! And added to all this there was something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that she should burden any one with the responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr Broune: –

‘
DEAREST FRIEND,

‘I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be described – and yet with you I would have no reticence. I would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears – with every circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience. The result of it would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter in upon
a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.

‘I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would now become your wife. But I shall never marry again.

‘Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend,

‘
MATILDA CARBURY.
'

About six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for a while alone – full of regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which would certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment she was in debt – and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff on which she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about the marriage. As regarded herself, Mr Broune would have made her secure – but that now was all over. Poor woman! This at any rate may be said for her – that had she accepted the man her regrets would have been as deep.

Mr Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of the lady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet from the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That gently sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described him to herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of Mr Broune's character which showed itself in this matter. He was a susceptible old goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissing might probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that her little manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself constrained to reciprocate the passion. She was beautiful in his eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes like a lady; and, if it was written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at the top of his table, Lady Carbury would look as well there as any other. She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself bound to obtain for himself the right to kiss her.

The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in,
drunk, at the front door. As he made his escape the lad had insulted him. This perhaps helped to open his eyes. When he woke the next morning, or rather' late in the next day, after his night's work, he was no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with him. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that first matutinal retrospection, and pro-spection, into things as they have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent – or perhaps a cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left untasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comforts himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all over,
teres atque rotundus
¹
– so to have managed his little affairs that he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! Mr Broune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the course of his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon – for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in the morning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not balance his sheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he feared that he had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of tea with which his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of himself,
teres atque rotundus
, as he was wont to do when things were well with him. Everything was to be changed. As he lit a cigarette he bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in her bedroom. Then he remembered other things. ‘I'll be d— if he shall live in my house,' he said to himself.