The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“But Carbury wasn’t with her.”

“Well, no;⁠—I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He’s such a d⁠⸺ brute, he’d be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand.”

“You don’t like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I’ve no reason to love him. He couldn’t have gone. He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o’clock as drunk as Cloe. He’d lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour.”

“Brute!” exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation.

“I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I’m sure he couldn’t get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night;⁠—no end of portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy taking a girl to New York! It was plucky.”

“It was all her doing,” said Miles, who was of course intimate with Mr. Melmotte’s whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearing the true story.

“What a fiasco!” said the young lord, “I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it.” Then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time had come.

Mr. Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr. Melmotte, and Melmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support given by the Breakfast Table to his candidature. But Mr. Broune cut him short. “I never talk about the Breakfast Table,” said he. “We endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended.” Melmotte bowed. “I have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix’s friend, I have called to return the money to you.” Mr. Broune did not like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him.

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he would have repressed if he could.

“No doubt you understand all about it.”

“Yes;⁠—I understand. D⁠⸺ scoundrel!”

“We won’t discuss that, Mr. Melmotte. I’ve drawn a cheque myself, payable to your order⁠—to make the matter all straight. The sum was £250, I think.” And Mr. Broune put a cheque for that amount down upon the table.

“I dare say it’s all right,” said Mr. Melmotte. “But, remember, I don’t think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel.”

“At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady’s behalf. Good morning.” Mr. Melmotte did put out his hand in token of amity. Then Mr. Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As Nidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned. “Well, my Lord, and how are you?” said he with his pleasantest smile. Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. “You don’t look down in the mouth, my Lord.”

Then Lord Nidderdale⁠—who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law⁠—sang the refrain of an old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember.

Cheer up, Sam;
Dont let your spirits go down.
There’s many a girl that I know well,
Is waiting for you in the town.

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Melmotte, “very good. I’ve no doubt there is⁠—many a one. But you won’t let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie.”

“Upon my word, sir, I don’t know about that. Miss Melmotte has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me.”

“A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She’s been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn’t settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody.”

“She doesn’t seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr. Melmotte.”

“No;⁠—of course we had her back again from Liverpool.”

“But they say that she got further than the gentleman.”

“He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what he is now. She’ll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I’m very sorry. You know that I’ve been on the square with you always. She’s my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy⁠—that is, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, I want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of course has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury.”

“I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything.”

“She won’t forgive him. By George, she shan’t. She shall hear the whole story. You’ll come and see her just the same as ever!”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Melmotte.”

“Why not? You’re not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly