The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXXVI.

  THE MEETING IN BRUTON STREET.

  When the news of her husband's death was in some very rough wayconveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether.Marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stoodby the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps bythe necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched womanas by her own superior strength of character, to save herself fromthat prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blowis apt to produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to hertidings of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at thebedside. But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of MadameMelmotte soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment shewas not only active but efficacious. No;--she would not go down tothe room; she could do no good by going thither. But they must sendfor a doctor. They should send for a doctor immediately. She was thentold that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in therooms below. The necessity of throwing whatever responsibility theremight be on to other shoulders had been at once apparent to theservants, and they had sent out right and left, so that the housemight be filled with persons fit to give directions in such anemergency. The officers from the police station were already therewhen the woman who now filled Didon's place in the house communicatedto 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 thecondemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly notthat which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters.He had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whoseslightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become mattersof serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles wereglorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missedwould be missed with mourning. How should it have been so withher? In all the intercourses of her family, since the first roughusage which she remembered, there had never been anything sweet orgracious. Though she had recognised a certain duty, as due fromherself to her father, she had found herself bound to measure it,so that more should not be exacted from her than duty required. Shehad long known that her father would fain make her a slave for hisown purposes, and that if she put no limits to her own obedience hecertainly would put none. She had drawn no comparison between himand other fathers, or between herself and other daughters, becauseshe had never become conversant with the ways of other families.After a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in adaughter's heart; but she had never respected him, and had spent thebest energies of her character on a resolve that she would never fearhim. "He may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for hisadvantage that which I do not think he has a right to exact fromme." That had been the state of her mind towards her father; and nowthat he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leavingher to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and noassistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awerather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Those who depart must haveearned such sorrow before it can be really felt. They who are leftmay be overwhelmed by the death--even of their most cruel tormentors.Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it could not probablybe said of her with truth that she was crushed by pure grief. Therewas fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fearof terrible revelations, fear of some necessary movement she knewnot whither, fear that she might be discovered to be a poor wretchedimpostor who never could have been justified in standing in thesame presence with emperors and princes, with duchesses and cabinetministers. This and the fact that the dead body of the man who had solately been her tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardlydare to leave her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thusmore dreadful even than when alive, utterly conquered her. Feelingsof the same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerfulalso with Marie;--but they did not conquer her. She was strong andconquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to whichshe was in truth superior. In such a household the death of such afather after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender sorrowwhich comes from real love.

  She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and haddoubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had beengreater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to signthose deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told herthe truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means ofknowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. Butshe had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told herthat it would be of no avail,--and at that time had not been angrywith her as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of hisruin. She took some comfort in thinking of that.

  But what was she to do? What was to be done generally by thatover-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had beeninstructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyedthe order. But she herself at this moment cared but little for anyproperty. How ought she to behave herself? Where should she go? Onwhose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time?As for love, and engagements, and marriage,--that was all over. Inher difficulty she never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury.Though she had been silly enough to love the man because he waspleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone in sillinessas to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one might lean.Had that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. Butit might be possible that Lord Nidderdale would help her. He wasgood-natured and manly, and would be efficacious,--if only he wouldcome to her. He was near, and she thought that at any rate she wouldtry. So she had written her note and sent it by the butler,--thinkingas she did so of the words she would use to make the young manunderstand that all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying eachother was, of course, to mean nothing now.

  It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shownup-stairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. As hepassed 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 ofthe dead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without aglance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seenhis burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words.And now the man was dead,--having destroyed his own life. Surely theman must have known when he uttered those words what it was thathe intended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie,conscious as he was that everyone was deserting him, he must eventhen have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that itwas better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might betheir 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 beaccomplished!

  Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Mariewas with him. He walked up to her, took her by both hands, andlooked into her face. There was no trace of a tear, but her wholecountenance seemed to him to be altered. She was the first to speak.

  "I thought you would come when I sent for you."

  "Of course I came."

  "I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. Youwon't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more ofall those things which he was planning?" She paused a moment, but hewas not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. "Youknow what has happened?"

  "Your servant told us."

  "What are we to do? Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poorpapa! Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered Iwish that I could be dead too."

  "Has your mother been told?"

  "Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment.It was better that it should be so;--better at last. But we haveno friends who would be considerate enough to try to save us fromsorrow. But I think it was better. Mamma is ve
ry bad. She is alwaysnervous and timid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What oughtwe to do? It is Mr. Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left itto-morrow."

  "He will not mind that now."

  "Where must we go? We can't go back to that big place in GrosvenorSquare. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and thepolicemen?"

  "I will do that."

  "But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should Iask you to do anything?"

  "Because we are friends."

  "No," she said, "no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I havebeen an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a personlike you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poorpapa;--poor papa!" And then for the first time she burst into tears.

  "I wish I knew what might comfort you," he said.

  "How can there be any comfort? There never can be comfort again! Asfor comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one troubleafter another,--one fear after another! And now we are friendless andhomeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have."

  "Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?"

  "I think he had ever so many,--but I do not know who they were. Hisown clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left himyesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; butnow that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the nameof one of them. Mr. Miles Grendall used to be with him."

  "I do not think that he could be of much service."

  "Nor Lord Alfred? Lord Alfred was always with him till very lately."Nidderdale shook his head. "I suppose not. They only came becausepapa had a big house." The young lord could not but feel that hewas included in the same rebuke. "Oh, what a life it has been! Andnow,--now it's over." As she said this it seemed that for the momenther strength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of thesofa. He tried to raise her, but she shook him away, burying herface in her hands. He was standing close to her, still holding herarm, when he heard a knock at the front door, which was immediatelyopened, as the servants were hanging about in the hall. "Who arethey?" said Marie, whose sharp ears caught the sound of varioussteps. Lord Nidderdale went out on to the head of the stairs, andimmediately heard the voice of Dolly Longestaffe.

  Dolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the careof Mr. Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had methis father with Mr. Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They wereall coming according to appointment to receive the money which Mr.Melmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. Of course theyhad none of them as yet heard of the way in which the Financier hadmade his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the doorhad been intent only in reference to their own money. Squercum, whohad heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that themoney would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine ofsuccess. "Don't we wish we may get it?" Dolly had said, and by sayingso had very much offended his father, who had resented the want ofreverence implied in the use of that word "we." They had all beenadmitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an oldacquaintance with some of the articles around him. "I knew I'd got acoat just like that," said Dolly, "and I never could make out what myfellow had done with it." This was the speech which Nidderdale hadheard, standing on the top of the stairs.

  The two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who hadopened the door and from the presence of three or four servants inthe hall, that things were not going on in their usual course. BeforeDolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to Mr.Bideawhile that Mr. Melmotte--"was no more."

  "Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Bideawhile. Squercum put his hands into histrowsers pockets and opened his mouth wide. "Dead!" muttered Mr.Longestaffe senior. "Dead!" said Dolly. "Who's dead?" The butlershook his head. Then Squercum whispered a word into the butler'sear, and the butler thereupon nodded his head. "It's about what Iexpected," said Squercum. Then the butler whispered the word to Mr.Longestaffe, and whispered it also to Mr. Bideawhile, and they allknew that the millionaire had swallowed poison during the night.

  It was known to the servants that Mr. Longestaffe was the owner ofthe house, and he was therefore, as having authority there, showninto the room where the body of Melmotte was lying on a sofa. The twolawyers and Dolly of course followed, as did also Lord Nidderdale,who had now joined them from the lobby above. There was a policemanin the room who seemed to be simply watching the body, and whorose from his seat when the gentlemen entered. Two or three of theservants followed them, so that there was almost a crowd round thedead man's bier. There was no further tale to be told. That Melmottehad been in the House on the previous night, and had there disgracedhimself by intoxication, they had known already. That he had beenfound dead that morning had been already announced. They could onlystand round and gaze on the square, sullen, livid features of thebig-framed man, and each lament that he had ever heard the name ofMelmotte.

  "Are you in the house here?" said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in awhisper.

  "She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebodyto tell her something. I must go up to her again now."

  "Had you seen him before?"

  "No indeed. I only came down when I heard your voices. I fear it willbe rather bad for you;--won't it?"

  "He was regularly smashed, I suppose?" asked Dolly.

  "I know nothing myself. He talked to me about his affairs once, buthe was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything.I believed him then. How it will go, I can't say."

  "That other thing is all over of course," suggested Dolly.

  Nidderdale intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thingwas all over, and then returned to Marie. There was nothing furtherthat the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed from thehouse;--not, however, till Mr. Bideawhile had given certain shortinjunctions to the butler concerning the property contained in Mr.Longestaffe's town residence.

  "They had come to see him," said Lord Nidderdale in a whisper. "Therewas some appointment. He had told them to be all here at this hour."

  "They didn't know, then?" asked Marie.

  "Nothing,--till the man told them."

  "And did you go in?"

  "Yes; we all went into the room." Marie shuddered, and again hid herface. "I think the best thing I can do," said Nidderdale, "is to goto Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom hechiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, becausehe has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find outCroll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyerto arrange everything for you."

  "And where had we better go to?"

  "Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?"

  "Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfort wouldbe the best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been donehere? And couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr.Longestaffe's house?" Nidderdale promised that he himself would lookfor lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer. "And now, my lord,I suppose that I never shall see you again," said Marie.

  "I don't know why you should say that."

  "Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be troubleenough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't thinkit has been my fault."

  "Nothing has ever been your fault."

  "Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindestpeople I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for differentreasons, but I do not want you to come back."

  "Good-bye, Marie. I shall always remember you." And so they parted.

  After that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding bothMr. Smith and Herr Croll. When he reached Abchurch Lane, the news ofMelmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known,or said to be known, of his circumstances than Nidderdale had as yetheard. The crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been thedesertion of Cohenlupe,--that and the sudden fall in the value of theSouth Central Pacific and Mexi
can Railway shares, consequent on therumours spread about the City respecting the Pickering property. Itwas asserted in Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touchedthe Pickering property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood forWestminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to doany or all of those things without danger, simply as the result ofthe money which would then have been realised by the railway. But hehad allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparativelysmall sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from onedanger to another, till at last the waters around him had becometoo deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him. As to his immediatedeath, Herr Croll expressed not the slightest astonishment. It wasjust the thing, Herr Croll said, that he had been sure that Melmottewould do, should his difficulties ever become too great for him. "Anddere vas a leetle ting he lay himself open by de oder day," saidCroll, "dat vas nasty,--very nasty." Nidderdale shook his head, butasked no questions. Croll had alluded to the use of his own name, butdid not on this occasion make any further revelation. Then Croll madea further statement to Lord Nidderdale, which I think he must havedone in pure good-nature. "My lor," he said, whispering very gravely,"de money of de yong lady is all her own." Then he nodded his headthree times. "Nobody can toch it, not if he vas in debt millions."Again he nodded his head.

  "I am very glad to hear it for her sake," said Lord Nidderdale as hetook his leave.