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

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 anyone 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 resettling 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 anyone.”

“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