The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LVII.

  LORD NIDDERDALE TRIES HIS HAND AGAIN.

  Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to MarieMelmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte'shouse on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as thatpromise had been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was notseen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking,he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. Hisfather's property was not very large. His father and his grandfatherhad both been extravagant men, and he himself had done somethingtowards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been anunderstood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marryan heiress. In such families as his, when such results have beenachieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put rightby an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, andis almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things.Rank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rankby re-gilding its splendour. The arrangement, as it affects thearistocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved ofby the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified ineating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renewas a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, hadentertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had neveralarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with anyundowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to "have his fling"before he devoted himself to the redintegration of the familyproperty. His father had felt that it would be wrong and mightprobably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regardedall the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. But therearose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, andthe father had at last found himself compelled to inform his sonthat if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done withinternecine war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose senseand temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light.He assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough,"declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiressshould be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the taskimposed on him. This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castleduring the last winter, and the reader knows the result.

  But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquishad been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almostunlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundredthousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. Buthere there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritancewhich might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuousfor its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. Theold man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficultieshad been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterlytwo difficulties had culminated above the others. The young ladypreferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat,not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even asto its very existence.

  The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as hecould learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, somuch money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient tosecure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no meansenough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been alreadysettled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, herfather had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing theincome,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so thatin the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retireto obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning againwith whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless notanticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the factthat he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this littleharbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Mariehad been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. And theMarquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married beforeshe herself had restored this money to her father, her husband wouldbe so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainderin prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering wasto be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds,and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding shouldhave been fixed with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis'slawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis haddetermined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember thatthose dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind,have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yetreached the Marquis in all its details.

  But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmottedeclared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wantedto have one little fling of her own before she settled down forlife,--was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, hadnot gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intendedwife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. "She'll besick of him by this time, I should say," his father said to him."What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed tothink that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge againsthis son for having made his arrangements so exclusively withMelmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledgedto himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she waspossessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday eveninghe had determined that he would try again. He had expected that theplum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand topick it.

  On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time.Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their workin the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit tohim. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to besent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, afterthey had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook handswith her,--of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, puttinga brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very realdifficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Herposition was uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her loverand has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time findit difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has runaway without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go withher, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred,her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's couragewas good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to LordNidderdale.

  Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hearanything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest'svisit.

  "Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.

  "I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he hadbeen sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have anArchbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to seeto that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn'tthere, Alfred?" Alfred shook his head. "There's a Dean, I know, forI called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thoughtall those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that thefellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civilto him."

  "Mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said Lord Alfred.

  "You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good asa play to you."

  "I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."

  "D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We mustgo back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they arenot looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be readyat exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arriveat eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame,will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." The ladieswent up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffesoon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dearfriend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon MadameMelmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty whichshe found a great difficulty in performing. After all that hadhappened, sh
e did not know how to get up and go out of the room. Asregarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becomingalmost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--andprobably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her presentduty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and thatduty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how toget out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrenceof the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain inbed during the whole evening. She liked Nidderdale better than anyone else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for SirFelix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kingsand emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighedand shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to goto bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declaredthat though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought anEmperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also pluckedup her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for thedoor. "Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. MadameMelmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that shewas being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. "I must see if I can'tdo something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But LordNidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it."That's a shame," said Marie.

  "Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said hislordship. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"

  Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also hadthought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Whyhad Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return,and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attemptto write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have founda hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked insidethe garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived toleave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her fatherhad told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured herthat he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage withher about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it.The repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, whichhad showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he hadspent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so?Marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even thegambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of theenterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confessto her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--orthe cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more thanonce almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been betterthan Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready toconsent that the thing should be considered as over between them.No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almostdetermined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he reallyloved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away witha lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself ata man's head. Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving thegarden gates open on the Sunday morning.

  But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why,that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to anend by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to bemarried and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appearagain, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be awarethat suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion wasstaved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool wouldfrighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put anend to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commandedher, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when heshould come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurancethat Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. Onthe Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with hisback to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with theevident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at anyrate that she would speak up. "I don't know what you should have tosay to me, Lord Nidderdale."

  "Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"

  "Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often,my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when thelady has told him that she liked somebody else better."

  "Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."

  "Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've givenyou reason to believe it, at any rate."

  "You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."

  "That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond ofhim? Accidents will happen, you know."

  "I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant,Miss Melmotte."

  "You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Ofcourse I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought backagain."

  "Why did not Sir Felix go?"

  "I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours."

  "But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well letme say what I've got to say,--out at once."

  "You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference."

  "You knew me before you knew him, you know."

  "What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so manypeople before I knew you."

  "And you were engaged to me."

  "You broke it off."

  "Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, yourfather and my father broke it off for us."

  "If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off.Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that hereally loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But youdidn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you.And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared forme a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thoughtI didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--becauseyour father has told you again. And you'd better go away."

  "There's a great deal of truth in what you say."

  "It's all true, my lord. Every word of it."

  "I wish you wouldn't call me my lord."

  "I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I nevercalled you anything else when they pretended that we were to bemarried, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name wastill I looked it out in the book after I had consented."

  "There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I tolove you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."

  "Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good."

  "I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truerto you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down toLiverpool with you."

  "You don't know why he didn't go."

  "Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything aboutthat."

  "Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with analtered tone and an altered face. "If you really know, you might aswell tell me."

  "No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tellyou. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come backto you?"

  "I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him;--I do indeed. Iknow that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is.But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true.I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don'tcare what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. Yououghtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here.I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't sayany kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than anyperson--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call thatkind, but it's true."

  "Say good-bye to me, Marie."

  "Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't comeany more."

  "Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference be
tweenme and him yet." So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away hethought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extremedifficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit."She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be," hesaid to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."

  Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost indismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carburywas not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of hisbeauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no othergood quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show somepluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed LordNidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept SirFelix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, whenhe said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason,let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love.Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had acommon-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, noespecial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughingeyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. Butif he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now,she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in piecesfor him.