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

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 anyone 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