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

a husband of my own.” Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trousers pockets. He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would be no “cropper” which a man could “come” so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie’s as to the settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. “What are you thinking of, Felix?” she asked.

“It’s d⁠⸺ difficult to know what to do.”

“But you do love me?”

“Of course I do. If I didn’t love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August.”

“Some day in August. But that’s all nonsense, you know. They can’t take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won’t marry him. He don’t care a bit for me, and never did. I don’t think you care much, Felix.”

“Yes, I do. A fellow can’t go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough.”

“I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be.”

“Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet.”

“You’re not going to give it up!”

“Oh no;⁠—not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn’t know what to do.”

“You’ve heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven’t you?” suggested Marie.

“He’s one of those city chaps.”

“And Lady Julia Start?”

“She’s old Lady Catchboy’s daughter. Yes; I’ve heard of them. They got spliced last winter.”

“Yes⁠—somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they’ve got a house close to Albert Gate.”

“How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn’t he?”

“I don’t suppose he’s half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier.”

“Oh;⁠—ah. Didon knows all about it.”

“That she does.”

“But she’d lose her place.”

“There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she’d arrange it all.”

“And would you come to Folkestone?”

“I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn’t mind going to⁠—New York. And then, perhaps, we might⁠—get⁠—married, you know, on board. That’s what Didon thinks.”

“And would Didon go too?”

“That’s what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I’d call myself by her name;⁠—any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn’t go together, but we’d get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn’t⁠—marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly.”

“That’s Didon’s plan?”

“That’s what she thinks best⁠—and she’ll do it, if you’ll give her £50 for herself, you know. The Adriatic⁠—that’s a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There’s an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month⁠—and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it.”

Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers’ ends⁠—even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to entrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show;⁠—no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then⁠—this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte’s daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.”

Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. “It’s deuced important,” he said at last with a groan.

“It’s not more important for you than me,” said Marie.

“If you’re wrong about the money, and he shouldn’t come round, where should we be then?”

“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said the heiress.

“That’s all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all.”

“You’d get me,” said Marie with a pout.

“Yes;⁠—and I’m awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But⁠—”

“Very well then;⁠—if that’s your love,” said Marie, turning back from him.

Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. “I’ll venture it.”

“Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!”

“There’s