The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXXV.

  BREAKFAST IN BERKELEY SQUARE.

  Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of theperformance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say,disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered allits circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening,and Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved withunsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lorddrink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody nowknew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man wereto become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate forthe City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery,everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he hadpretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet hehad seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord "hisdear boy" before the whole House.

  And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. Ifhe had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with thegirl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He hadquarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, andhad confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite ofa little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very goodfellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottesgenerally? He was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothingof which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that shedeserved well at his hands. Though at this moment he hated the fathermost bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they hadbeen pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindlyfeeling for the girl. Of course he could not marry her now. That wasmanifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others,had known that she was to be married for her money, and now thatbubble had been burst. But he felt that he owed it to her, as to acomrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personalexplanation with herself. He arranged in his own mind the sort ofspeech that he would make to her. "Of course you know it can't be.It was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and nowit turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and weshould have nothing to live upon. It's out of the question. But, uponmy word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really thinkwe should have got on uncommon well together." That was the kind ofspeech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to findfor himself the opportunity of making it. He thought that he must putit all into a letter. But then that would be tantamount to a writtenconfession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he fearedthat Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great manhimself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of suchan admission.

  Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he sawDolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte,the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody.Dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a senseof his own importance. "I wonder whether it's true," he was saying toLord Grasslough. "He has an appointment to meet me and my governorat twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He sworeyesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keephis appointment, you know, if he's in prison."

  "You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that," saidGrasslough.

  "I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor hasbeen. He had no more right than you have to give up the property.Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid tospeak to him since he cut up so rough the other night."

  In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grassloughasked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything aboutMelmotte, the latter answered out loud, "Yes;--I left him in theHouse half an hour ago."

  "People are saying that he has been arrested."

  "I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested whenI left the House." Then he went up and put his hand on DollyLongestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. "I suppose you were aboutright the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understandwhat it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for bothof us."

  "Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "I thinkyou're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel.Suppose we have a rubber of whist."

  Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte hadtried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, andthat he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall."By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.

  "I am very glad I was not there," said Nidderdale. It was threeo'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte waslying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.

  On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat atbreakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square.From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a fewhundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living withhis father, and the two had now met by appointment in order thatsomething might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage.The Marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs inwhich he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. Hecould be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that theladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the mostpart, found it impossible to live with him. But his eldest son hadendured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had beentreated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by meansof his own extreme good humour. What did a few hard words matter?If his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what allthat meant. As long as his father would make fair allowance for hisown peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father'sroughness. All this was based on his grand theory of live and letlive. He expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion,and he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it.

  He was a little late himself, and he found his father alreadybuttering his toast. "I don't believe you'd get out of bed a momentsooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it."

  "You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don'tearn the money." Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup oftea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.

  "I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord.

  "Not particular." The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth athim. "The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that."

  "I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne.Well;--what have you got to say about all this?"

  "What have you got to say?"

  "You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."

  "I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to ownthat. I suppose the whole thing is over?"

  "I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her ownmoney." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviourin the House on the preceding evening. "What the devil does thatmatter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the manhimself."

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

  "And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money ishers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't bechoosers. 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." TheMarquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give hisson much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making sucha search. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man whois 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 Icouldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."

  "Then you may just go to the devil," said the old Marquis turninghimself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took upthe newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect
equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. "They tellme," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will havea lot of money."

  "A Jewess," suggested Nidderdale.

  "What difference does that make?"

  "What difference does that make?"]

  "Oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. Have youheard any sum named, sir?" The old man only grunted. "There are twosisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have ahundred thousand each."

  "They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has abouttwenty thousand a year."

  "It's only for her life, sir."

  "She could insure her life. D----me, sir, we must do something. Ifyou turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean tolive?"

  "I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest wouldbe 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 inearnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring aboutany one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It'sa pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with theamount of money, and what is expected in return. It 'd save a deal oftrouble."

  "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 Nidderdalethat a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was notalways anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked theservant whether he knew who the man was. "I believe, my lord, he'sone of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said thefootman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstancesof 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 asto what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. "Go and seeMelmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you areready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that youwon'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 recognised as Melmotte's butler, aponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. Butthe lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself hadsome story to tell. "Is there anything the matter?"

  "Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry tohear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so muchas your lordship."

  "They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the manshook his head. "What is it then? He can't be dead." Then the mannodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst intotears. "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 wasso affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not asyet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simplyhanded the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It wasfrom Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time atwhich news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note wasas 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 asto the manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gatheringfrom a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay thatsomething 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, andhere is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it thathe--died?"

  "It was--poison," said the butler solemnly. "There has been adoctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all byhimself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and hehad in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all tohimself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there hewas,--poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift himup, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he hadbeen 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 consultationbetween the father and son as to a compliance with the request whichMarie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his sonhad better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good canyou do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you'vegot to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are."

  But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit tothis advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in herabject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At anyrate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him,and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what hecould get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. "Icouldn't refuse her," he said over and over again. "I couldn't bringmyself 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 atonce. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It wouldbe abominable." Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by thebutler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than halfan hour.

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