The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the Pulpit. Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte’s character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte’s undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. “Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf,” said the lady. The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte’s guests.

“There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see,” said Mr. Melmotte.

“I was one of the unfortunates,” said Mr. Alf.

“I’m sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room you would have found me.”

“Ah⁠—if I had but known!” said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

Lady Carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. “Mr. Melmotte,” she said, whispering to him, “I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr. Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Broune, as of course you know, manages the Breakfast Table. There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And they declare, you know,” she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, “that his commercial articles are gospel⁠—absolutely gospel.” Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated;⁠—but not out of hearing.

“Getting very hot,” said Mr. Melmotte.

“Very hot indeed,” said Mr. Broune.

“It was over 70 in the city today. I call that very hot for June.”

“Very hot indeed,” said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was over. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. “It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;⁠—very good.” Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. “And I came,” continued Mr. Melmotte, “because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don’t go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter.” Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;⁠—clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. “My daughter, ma’am, is engaged to another man.”

“You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?”

“I won’t give her a shilling if she marries anyone else; that’s all. You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board.”

“I did;⁠—I did.”

“I have a great respect for your son, ma’am. I don’t want to hurt him in any way. If he’ll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I’m against it, I’ll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I’ll be the making of him. Good night, ma’am.” Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.

Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the “making of Felix,” if Felix would only obey him⁠—accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be “made” by Mr. Melmotte’s city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. Her beautiful boy⁠—so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world! Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother’s love was noble and disinterested.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? His daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes. His advice would have been very clear. He would have told