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

she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. “I have not sent it, you know,” she said. “I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work.”

“It hurts me more than the other,” he replied.

“Nay, I would not hurt you⁠—not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why⁠—why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?”

“I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind.”

“But it will be when you have left me;⁠—and was when you were with me at the seaside. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon.” But though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. “I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go.” She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. “Tell me one thing. When you spoke of⁠—compensation, did you mean⁠—money?”

“No; indeed no.”

“I hope not;⁠—I hope not that. Well, there;⁠—go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle.” She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

“And am I to keep the other?” he asked.

“No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed.” But she took it and restored it to her pocketbook.

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

“Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken.” And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. “Mrs. Pipkin,” she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; “everything is over between me and Mr. Montague.” She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.

“Lord a’ mercy,” said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

“As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I’m not going to be married to him.”

“And why not?⁠—and he such a nice young man⁠—and quiet too.”

“As to the why not, I don’t know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him.”

“I’m well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle.”

“And now I’m no longer engaged to him. That’s all.”

“Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all.” Mrs. Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.

“We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back⁠—not together. And there’s an end of it.”

“I’m sure it’s not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn’t come off, it never is the lady’s fault.”

“There’s an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won’t say anything more about it.”

“And are you going to leave, ma’am?” said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment’s notice. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle⁠—a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

“We’ll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin.” Then Mrs. Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.

LII The Results of Love and Wine

Two, three, four, and even five o’clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte’s hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money⁠—and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him⁠—and even that was