How eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form to Marie’s father and make his proposition may be easily understood. ‘My dear Felix,’ she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon, ‘pray don’t put it off; you don’t know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip.’
‘It’s everything to get him in a good humour,’ pleaded Sir Felix.
‘But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used.’
‘There’s no fear of that; she’s all right. What am I to say to him about money? That’s the question.’
‘I shouldn’t think of dictating anything, Felix.’
‘Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down; or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with.’
‘You wouldn’t mind having it settled?’
‘No; — I’d consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me — say ￡7,000 or ￡8,000 a year. I wouldn’t do it for less, mother; it wouldn’t be worth while.’
‘But you have nothing left of your own.’
‘I’ve got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out,’ said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains.
‘Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way.’
‘It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money.’
‘You want to marry her yourself.’
‘I’m quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one’s mind how much or how little one means to take — and whether one is sure to get it.’
‘I don’t think there can be any doubt.’
‘If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn’t there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know.’
‘Of course he’d pay the money first.’
‘It’s very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn’t been paid over. He’s so clever, that he’d contrive that a man shouldn’t know whether the money had been paid or not. You can’t carry ￡10,000 a year about in your pocket, you know. If you’ll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up.’
Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix in the future.
All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now; — position, a title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something! Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than the baronet’s present condition. And then, though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter’s position? She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. ‘I think you should be content to run a little risk,’ she said.
Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in a humour to resent interference. ‘I wish you’d leave me alone,’ he said, ‘to manage my own business.’
‘Is it not my business too?’
‘No; you haven’t got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don’t want anybody to meddle with me.’
‘You ungrateful boy!’
‘I understand all about that. Of course I’m ungrateful when I don’t do everything just as you wish it. You don’t do any good. You only set me against it all.’
‘How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you’ve no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness.’
‘That’s what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort.’
‘He is the best friend I have.’ What would Roger have thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?
‘He’s an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain’t very pleasant. Of course it’s your house; but if you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to myself.’ It was impossible for Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her blood — some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all as long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the mother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. She almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love — but she acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness, and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. All that she had done, and all that she had borne, all that she was doing and bearing — was it not for his sake?
Sir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square since his return from Carbury, and had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but he had seen them together, and not a word had been said about the engagement. He could not make much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual with her; but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that Miss Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the young lady was ‘fatigante.’ Upon this Marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much. ‘Pooh!’ said Madame Melmotte. ‘You never like no person at all.’ At this Marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. ‘Ah, yes; that is all very well — while it lasts; but you care for no friend.’ From which Felix had judged that Madame Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his club from Marie. ‘Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after lunch.’ This was in his possession when his mother visited him in his bedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest. But he would not tell her of his intention, because he had drunk too much wine, and was sulky.
At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Square and asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking — even after he had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the door — he intended to ask for Mr Melmotte; but at the last his courage failed him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. There he found Madame Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and — Lord Nidderdale. Marie looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been with her father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, and endeavoured to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale continued his flirtation with Miss Longestaffe — a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of the house. ‘We know what brings you here,’ she said.
‘I came on purpose to see you.’
‘I’m sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn’t expect to find me here.’
‘Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose. It’s a great institution; isn’t it?’
‘It’s an institution you mean to belong to — permanently.’
‘No, indeed. I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they talk of going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn’t pass. That fellow there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because you’re here. I don’t think you’ll like it a bit, you know.’
‘I don’t suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale.’
After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one of the windows for a few seconds. ‘Papa is downstairs in the book-room,’ she said. ‘Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was out.’ It was evident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for him. ‘You go down,’ she continued, ‘and ask the man to show you into the book-room.’
‘Shall I come up again?’
‘No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon.’ Now Sir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that Madame Didon was Madame Melmotte’s own woman, commonly called Didon by the ladies of the family. ‘Or send it by post — under cover to her. That will be better. Go at once, now.’ It certainly did seem to Sir Felix that the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, just shaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.
In a few moments he found himself with Mr Melmotte in the chamber which had been dignified with the name of the book-room. The great financier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here, generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall. It may be supposed that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices of money and funds for the New York, Paris, and London Exchanges. But on this occasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. ‘How do you do, Sir Felix?’ he said. ‘I suppose you want the ladies.’
‘I’ve just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I’d look in on you as I came down.’ It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronet had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at once resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. He believed that he should thrive best by res............