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

would not have returned the forgeries to his own hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale⁠—unless there should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte’s service, and would therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep the secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his breakfast⁠—and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could hardly go to Cuthbert’s Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators⁠—and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was about to have a crushing fall⁠—but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

“Papa,” she said, coming very gently into the room, “I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday.”

“Of course you were wrong;⁠—but it doesn’t matter now.”

“If you wish it I’ll sign those papers. I don’t suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;⁠—and I’m sure I don’t care whether he does or not.”

“What makes you think that, Marie?”

“I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner’s, and he was there. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to come here any more.”

“Was he uncivil to you?”

“O dear no. He’s never uncivil. But I’m sure of it. Never mind how. I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn’t you let me marry that other man?”

“He is a penniless adventurer.”

“But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him.”

“Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?”

“Never, papa.”

“Or heard from him?”

“Not a line.”

“Then what makes you think he would marry you?”

“He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in Germany.”

“We could do that just as well without your marrying.”

“But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don’t want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. I like him, and I don’t like anybody else.”

“He wouldn’t take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you.”

“He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don’t mean to say that he’s anything particularly grand. I don’t know that anybody is very grand. He’s as good as anybody else.”

“It can’t be done, Marie.”

“Why can’t it be done?”

“There are a dozen reasons.