The Way We Live Now Anthony Trollope (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📖

Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;⁠—and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven’t the time for it. But⁠—if it is to be that way⁠—do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;⁠—the very soul, Mr. Montague.”

“But if I can’t be unanimous?”

“Well;⁠—if you can’t, and if you won’t take my advice about going out;⁠—which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;⁠—then I can only suggest that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it⁠—some time before the end of the year.”

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. “And now, goodbye,” said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. “I’m afraid that I’m keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting downstairs.”

XLI All Prepared

During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover’s prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father’s money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June. “You may buy what you like, mamma,” she said; “and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they’ll do. But they’ll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn’t have him.” Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. “Nobody shall manage this matter for me,” said Marie. “I know what I’m about now, and I won’t marry anybody just because it will suit papa.” “Que nous étions encore à Francfort, ou New York,” said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for London;⁠—but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.

While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city⁠—though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned⁠—Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close alongside of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover’s letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment⁠—having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in⁠—was of course ready with a lie. “It was the only thing to do, Marie;⁠—it was indeed.”

“But you said you had accepted some offer.”

“You don’t suppose I wrote the letter?”

“It was your handwriting, Felix.”

“Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He’d have sent you clean away where I couldn’t have got near you if I hadn’t written it.”

“And you have accepted nothing?”

“Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven’t got anything from him yet.” Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200.

“Nobody ever does who gives papa money,” said the observant daughter.

“Don’t they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel.”

“I wouldn’t have written it, if it had been ever so.”

“It’s no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we’d best do now?” Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. “I wonder whether you’re sure you’re right about that money which you say is settled.”

“I’m quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris⁠—just when we were coming away⁠—that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won’t⁠—if I should have