CHAPTER LXXXV.

BREAKFAST IN BERKELEY SQUARE.

Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the

performance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say,

disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all

its circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening,

and Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with

unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord

drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now

knew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were

to become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for

the City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery,

everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had

pretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet he

had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord "his

dear boy" before the whole House.

And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If

he had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the

girl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had

quarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and

had confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite of

a little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good

fellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes

generally? He was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothing

of which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that she

deserved well at his hands. Though at this moment he hated the father

most bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had

been pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly

feeling for the girl. Of course he could not marry her now. That was

manifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others,

had known that she was to be married for her money, and now that

bubble had been burst. But he felt that he owed it to her, as to a

comrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personal

explanation with herself. He arranged in his own mind the sort of

speech that he would make to her. "Of course you know it can't be.

It was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and now

it turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and we

should have nothing to live upon. It's out of the question. But, upon

my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think

we should have got on uncommon well together." That was the kind of

speech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find

for himself the opportunity of making it. He thought that he must put

it all into a letter. But then that would be tantamount to a written

confession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared

that Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great man

himself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of such

an admission.

Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he saw

Dolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte,

the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody.

Dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a sense

of his own importance. "I wonder whether it's true," he was saying to

Lord Grasslough. "He has an appointment to meet me and my governor

at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore

yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep

his appointment, you know, if he's in prison."

"You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that," said

Grasslough.

"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has

been. He had no more right than you have to give up the property.

Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to

speak to him since he cut up so rough the other night."

In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grasslough

asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about

Melmotte, the latter answered out loud, "Yes;--I left him in the

House half an hour ago."

"People are saying that he has been arrested."

"I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when

I left the House." Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly

Longestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. "I suppose you were about

right the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understand

what it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both

of us."

"Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "I think

you're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel.

Suppose we have a rubber of whist."

Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had

tried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, and

that he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall.

"By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.

"I am very glad I was not there," said Nidderdale. It was three

o'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte was

lying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at

breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square.

From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a few

hundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with

his father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that

something might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage.

The Marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in

which he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. He

could be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the

ladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the most

part, found it impossible to live with him. But his eldest son had

endured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been

treated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means

of his own extreme good humour. What did a few hard words matter?

If his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all

that meant. As long as his father would make fair allowance for his

own peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father's

roughness. All this was based on his grand theory of live and let

live. He expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion,

and he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it.

He was a little late himself, and he found his father already

buttering his toast. "I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment

sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it."

"You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't

earn the money." Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of

tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.

"I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord.

"Not particular." The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth at

him. "The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that."

"I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne.

Well;--what have you got to say about all this?"

"What have you got to say?"

"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."

"I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own

that. I suppose the whole thing is over?"

"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own

money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour

in the House on the preceding evening. "What the devil does that

matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man

himself."

"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now."

"And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is

hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be

choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"

"I shall scrape 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?"

[Illustration: "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

any one else. There always is some one 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. The Marquis thought that his son

had better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good can

you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've

got to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are."

But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to

this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her

abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any

rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him,

and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he

could get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. "I

couldn't refuse her," he said over and over again. "I couldn't bring

myself to do it. Oh, no;--I shall certainly go."

"You'll get into a mess if you do."

"Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at

once. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would

be abominable." Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the

butler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half

an hour.

"Don't you go and make a fool of yourself," his father said to him

when he was alone. "This is just one of those times when a man may

ruin himself by being soft-hearted." Nidderdale simply shook his head

as he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.