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

boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf⁠—and her clamour was successful. “Who was going to stop her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody’s money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased.” So saying she began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. The gentleman looked at his telegram⁠—looked at another document which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she pleased⁠—all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what little English she could command to half-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene. They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay. She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. “But the box in her hand is mine,” said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station⁠—and out of our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.

Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape. And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when⁠—when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love! But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true to him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;⁠—she had said it before, and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mind from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed⁠—would not that be the best termination to her present disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how then would it be with poor Felix? “After all I don’t know that he cares for me,” she said to herself, thinking over it all.

The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a little advice. “Put a good face on it,” he said, “and don’t be cast down.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she answered. “I don’t mean.”

“Your mother will be delighted to have you back again.”

“I don’t think that mamma cares. It’s papa. I’d do it again tomorrow if I had the chance.” The gentleman looked at her, not having expected so much determination. “I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to please anyone but herself? I won’t. And it’s very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it.”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte.”

“It is nothing in our house. It isn’t about the money. It’s because papa wants me to marry another man;⁠—and I won’t. It was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people.”

“You wouldn’t have come back if he hadn’t done that.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” said Marie.

The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;⁠—to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it. “And are you to come?” Marie asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. “All the people will wonder who you are,” said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much suffering.

When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother’s room⁠—and there she found her father, alone. “This is your game, is it?” said he, looking down at her.

“Well, papa;⁠—yes. You made me do it.”

“You fool you! You were going to New York⁠—were you?” To this she vouchsafed no reply. “As if I hadn’t found out all about it. Who was going with you?”

“If you have found out all about it, you know, papa.”

“Of course I know;⁠—but you don’t know all about it, you little idiot.”

“No doubt I’m a fool and an idiot. You always say so.”

“Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?” Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. “An hour ago he was in bed at his mother’s house in Welbeck Street.”

“I don’t believe it, papa.”

“You don’t, don’t you? You’ll find it true. If you had