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

on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else.” The Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. “At any rate, sir, I can’t marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery.”

“I can’t see what that has to do with you.”

“I couldn’t do it, sir. I’d do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn’t do that. And, moreover, I don’t believe in the money.”

“Then you may just go to the devil,” said the old Marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. “They tell me,” said the old man, “that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money.”

“A Jewess,” suggested Nidderdale.

“What difference does that make?”

“Oh no;⁠—not in the least;⁠—if the money’s really there. Have you heard any sum named, sir?” The old man only grunted. “There are two sisters and two brothers. I don’t suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each.”

“They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year.”

“It’s only for her life, sir.”

“She could insure her life. D⁠⸺⁠me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?”

“I don’t think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. Of course I’ll think of it if you press it.” The old man growled again. “You see, sir, I’ve been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven’t thought of inquiring about anyone else. There always is someone up with a lot of money. It’s a pity there shouldn’t be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It’d save a deal of trouble.”

“If you can’t talk more seriously than that you’d better go away,” said the old Marquis.

At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man was. “I believe, my lord, he’s one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte’s in Bruton Street,” said the footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances of Lord Nidderdale’s engagement. The son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. “You’d better go and see,” said the Marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as to what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. “Go and see Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won’t stir a step till it has been actually paid over.”

“He knows that already,” said Nidderdale as he left the room.

In the hall he found a man whom he recognised as Melmotte’s butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But the lord could tell by the man’s face and manner that he himself had some story to tell. “Is there anything the matter?”

“Yes, my lord⁠—yes. Oh, dear⁠—oh, dear! I think you’ll be sorry to hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship.”

“They’ve taken him to prison!” exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. “What is it then? He can’t be dead.” Then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. “Mr. Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him myself. How did he die?” But the fat, ponderous man was so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any account of the scene of his master’s death, but simply handed the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note was as follows:⁠—

Dear Lord Nidderdale,

The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?

Marie.

He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as to the manner of his master’s death. And now the Marquis, gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son’s delay that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. “Mr. Melmotte is⁠—dead,” said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall. “This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he⁠—died?”

“It was⁠—poison,” said the butler solemnly. “There has been a doctor already, and there isn’t no doubt of that. He took it all by himself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;⁠—and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in⁠—there he was⁠—poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us.”

Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which Marie had made in her first misery.