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

would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her.”

“I saw him talking to her last night.”

“There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that.” But Mr. Broune’s eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr. Alf. “I shouldn’t think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.”

“Has it never been done?”

“Never, I think;⁠—that is, by the editor of such a paper as the Pulpit. How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he’ll come to the ground. Where’s Felix now?”

“Do not ask me,” said the poor mother.

“Is he doing anything?”

“He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.”

“But that wants money.” She only shook her head. “You do not give him any?”

“I have none to give.”

“I should simply take the key of the house from him⁠—or bolt the door if he will not give it up.”

“And be in bed, and listen while he knocks⁠—knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence.” Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.

Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his wife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always joined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unless he explained his absence by some engagement⁠—so that his presence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not unfrequently “Alfred” and Miles would both come, as Melmotte’s dinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take the son’s place⁠—but on this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to anyone indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But not a person had called today⁠—the day after the great party⁠—and even she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. She thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day. “Is not Mr. Grendall coming?” she asked, as she took her seat at the table.

“No, he is not,” said Melmotte.

“Nor Lord Alfred?”

“Nor Lord Alfred.” Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day’s proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. Nothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters⁠—just as if nothing had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage. One of them, about five o’clock, came into him with news from the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr. Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He read Alf’s speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburg and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. His whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. “I think we shall do pretty well,” he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. “Nor Lord Alfred,” he said with scorn. Then he added more. “The father and son are two d⁠⸺ curs.” This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

“Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?” she said afterwards, creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.

“What do you call wrong?”

“I don’t know;⁠—but I seem to be afraid of something.”

“I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time.”

“Then there is something.”

“Don’t be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You don’t suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with £400 a year paid quarterly in advance.”

“Shall we have to⁠—move again?” she asked.

“How am I to tell? You haven’t much to do when we move, and may get plenty