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

shape: “Hasn’t there been some mistake about the numbers? There’s room forever so many more.”

“Don’t know,” said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte.

“What the deuce do you mean?” whispered Melmotte. “You’ve been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn’t squeeze a place.”

“Can’t say anything about it,” said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate.

“I’ll be d⁠⸺ if I don’t find out,” said Melmotte. “There’s either some horrible blunder, or else there’s been imposition. I don’t see quite clearly. Where’s Sir Gregory Gribe?”

“Hasn’t come, I suppose.”

“And where’s the Lord Mayor?” Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. “I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?”

“No; I haven’t seen him at all.”

“But he was to come. What’s the meaning of it, Alfred?”

“Don’t know anything about it.” He shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room.

“And where’s Mr. Killegrew⁠—and Sir David Boss?” Mr. Killegrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the Conservative party. “There are ever so many people not here. Why, there’s not above half of them down the room. What’s up, Alfred? I must know.”

“I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come.” Lord Alfred’s answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. “If you go on making a row,” he said, “I shall go away.” Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. “Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You’ll know all about it soon enough.” This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests.

In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those Banquo’s seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English⁠—the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted⁠—it was not within his Imperial Majesty’s power to have much conversation with his neighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much⁠—for this was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much⁠—for this was not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. “And this,” he must have said to himself, “is what they call royalty in the West!” If a prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great.

“Where’s Sir Gregory?” said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending over the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City.

“Ain’t he here?” said Todd⁠—knowing very well who had come from the City and who had declined.

“No;⁠—and the Lord Mayor’s not come;⁠—nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What’s the meaning of it?”

Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he answered. “I’m here, that’s all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I’ve had a very good dinner. They who haven’t come, have lost a very good dinner.”

There was a weight upon Melmotte’s mind of which he could not rid himself. He knew from the old man’s manner, and he knew also from Lord Alfred’s manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open their mouths. And yet it might be so important to him that he should know! “It’s very odd,” he said, “that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be room. I think it is very odd.”

“It is odd,” said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before him.

Melmotte had lately seen much of Beauchamp Beauclerk, in reference to the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemen had been set apart together. There Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of these