LORD NIDDERDALE TRIES HIS HAND AGAIN.
Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie
Melmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's
house on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that
promise had been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not
seen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking,
he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His
father's property was not very large. His father and his grandfather
had both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something
towards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been an
understood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry
an heiress. In such families as his, when such results have been
achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right
by an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, and
is almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things.
Rank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank
by re-gilding its splendour. The arrangement, as it affects the
aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of
by the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified in
eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew
as a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had
entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never
alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any
undowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to "have his fling"
before he devoted himself to the redintegration of the family
property. His father had felt that it would be wrong and might
probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded
all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. But there
arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and
the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son
that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with
internecine war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose sense
and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light.
He assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough,"
declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress
should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task
imposed on him. This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle
during the last winter, and the reader knows the result.
But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis
had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost
unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred
thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But
here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance
which might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous
for its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The
old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties
had been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly
two difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady
preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat,
not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as
to its very existence.
The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he
could learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so
much money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to
secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means
enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already
settled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her
father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the
income,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that
in the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire
to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again
with whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not
anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact
that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little
harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie
had been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. And the
Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before
she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would
be so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder
in prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering was
to be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds,
and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should
have been fixed with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis's
lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had
determined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember that
those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind,
have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet
reached the Marquis in all its details.
But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte
declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted
to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for
life,--was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had
not gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended
wife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. "She'll be
sick of him by this time, I should say," his father said to him.
"What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed to
think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against
his son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with
Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged
to himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she was
possessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening
he had determined that he would try again. He had expected that the
plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to
pick it.
On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time.
Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work
in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to
him. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be
sent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after
they had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands
with her,--of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting
a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real
difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her
position was uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover
and has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find
it difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run
away without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with
her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred,
her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage
was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord
Nidderdale.
Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hear
anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's
visit.
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had
been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an
Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see
to that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't
there, Alfred?" Alfred shook his head. "There's a Dean, I know, for
I called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought
all those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the
fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil
to him."
"Mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said Lord Alfred.
"You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as
a play to you."
"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."
"D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We must
go back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are
not looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready
at exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive
at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame,
will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." The ladies
went up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe
soon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear
friend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame
Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which
she found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had
happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. As
regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming
almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and
probably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her present
duty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that
duty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how to
get out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence
of the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in
bed during the whole evening. She liked Nidderdale better than any
one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir
Felix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings
and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed
and shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go
to bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared
that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an
Emperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked
up her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the
door. "Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. Madame
Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she
was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. "I must see if I can't
do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord
Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it.
"That's a shame," said Marie.
"Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said his
lordship. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"
Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had
thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why
had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return,
and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt
to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found
a hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside
the garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to
leave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father
had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her
that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with
her about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it.
The repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which
had showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had
spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so?
Marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the
gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the
enterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess
to her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or
the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than
once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better
than Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to
consent that the thing should be considered as over between them.
No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost
determined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really
loved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with
a lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at
a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the
garden gates open on the Sunday morning.
But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why,
that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an
end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be
married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear
again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware
that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was
staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would
frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an
end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded
her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he
should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance
that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On
the Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his
back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the
evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any
rate that she would speak up. "I don't know what you should have to
say to me, Lord Nidderdale."
"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"
"Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often,
my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the
lady has told him that she liked somebody else better."
"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."
"Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given
you reason to believe it, at any rate."
"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."
"That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of
him? Accidents will happen, you know."
"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant,
Miss Melmotte."
"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of
course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back
again."
"Why did not Sir Felix go?"
"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours."
"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let
me say what I've got to say,--out at once."
"You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference."
"You knew me before you knew him, you know."
"What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many
people before I knew you."
"And you were engaged to me."
"You broke it off."
"Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your
father and my father broke it off for us."
"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off.
Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he
really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you
didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you.
And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for
me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought
I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because
your father has told you again. And you'd better go away."
"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."
"It's all true, my lord. Every word of it."
"I wish you wouldn't call me my lord."
"I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never
called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be
married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was
till I looked it out in the book after I had consented."
"There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to
love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."
"Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good."
"I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer
to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to
Liverpool with you."
"You don't know why he didn't go."
"Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about
that."
"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an
altered tone and an altered face. "If you really know, you might as
well tell me."
"No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell
you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back
to you?"
"I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him;--I do indeed. I
know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is.
But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true.
I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't
care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You
oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here.
I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say
any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any
person--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that
kind, but it's true."
"Say good-bye to me, Marie."
"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come
any more."
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between
me and him yet." So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he
thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme
difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit.
"She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be," he
said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."
Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in
dismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury
was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his
beauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other
good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some
pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord
Nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir
Felix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when
he said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason,
let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love.
Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a
common-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no
especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing
eyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But
if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now,
she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces
for him.