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

Why should my money be given up to him? And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage.”

“You don’t want me to sign the papers?”

“No;⁠—I haven’t got the papers. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter.”

“I won’t⁠—if you’ll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more.”

Then the father’s pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. “I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. As you say, I don’t know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you.”

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother’s house had been much curtailed. His latchkey had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence⁠—and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. “I dare say you don’t remember me, Lady Carbury,” Marie said. “I am Marie Melmotte.”

At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;⁠—but she did so before she replied. “Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.”

“Yes;⁠—I am Mr. Melmotte’s daughter. How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street.”

“Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.” Now Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that “it was all over” with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting. “Everybody says that he’ll be in gaol before a week is over.” That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

“I want to see him,” said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while. “I suppose he told you everything;⁠—didn’t he? You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and telling you.”

“I thought it was all off,” said Lady Carbury.

“I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong. It shan’t be all over if he will be true.”

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. “I am afraid,” she said, “that it would not be suitable.”

“Why should it not be suitable? They can’t take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;⁠—but it is mine. It is ever so much;⁠—I don’t know how much, but a great deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain’t a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn’t rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable.”

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it was true? “I understand that your papa is opposed to it,” she said.

“Yes, he is;⁠—but papa can’t prevent me, and papa can’t make me give up the money. It’s ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare to do it, why can’t he?”

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she should see Mr. Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him⁠—this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him⁠—as she declared⁠—with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands were there⁠—or even an income of a single thousand a year⁠—then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world