The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

what you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!” Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train which started about an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and of course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle because her attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair⁠—though he would have given all that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some impassable gulf. As he had to be hanged⁠—and this woman’s continued presence would be as bad as death to him⁠—he liked to have his meal well dressed.

He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and the close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;⁠—and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle’s arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. “It is Mrs. Hurtle,” he said, “I must introduce you,” and the introduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. “I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft,” said Roger in a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind.

“I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her.”

“Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now,” she said, “that a few additional will not make much difference.”

“Do you stay long?” asked Roger in the same voice.

“I go back probably on Monday,” said Montague.

“As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to anyone after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?”

“Thank you, madam;⁠—I have dined.”

“Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us.” So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the hotel.

“Is this wise?” demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing.

“You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do.”

“Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?”

“I have told her that I would not. I have told her⁠—.” Then he stopped. He was going on to declare that he had told her that he loved another woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speaking to Roger Carbury.

“What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?”

“I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me.”

“I am not naturally impatient.”

“But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?”

“Yes;⁠—to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter.”

“I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it.”

“Then you should have left her.”

“Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert her in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not desert her.”

“I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would be justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good.”

“She does not think so. She cannot think so.”

“Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don’t know why I should trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that