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

gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club⁠—but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah⁠—when would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at the club;⁠—or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day⁠—thinking of it. As regarded her son himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey⁠—having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother’s intended journey. He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. “Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all,” Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o’clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. “Yes; he has come back,” said Lady Carbury, brokenhearted by her troubles. “It was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him.” After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son’s bedside, determined that he should speak to her.

“Felix,” she said⁠—“speak to me, Felix.⁠—I know that you are awake.” He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself, further under the bedclothes. “You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o’clock.”

“All right,” he said at last.

“What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother.”

“I am so sick, mother.”

“You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?”

“At the club.⁠—You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me.” Sam was the page.

“I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?”

“It hasn’t come off.”

“But how has it not come off?”

“I didn’t get away. What’s the good of asking?”

“You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had discovered it.”

“Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don’t see what’s the use of anything. I won’t get up to dinner. I’d rather stay here.”

“You must have something to eat, Felix.”

“Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I’m so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can’t talk now. If he’ll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I’ll tell you all about it then.”

“Where is the money, Felix?”

“I paid it for the ticket,” said he, with both his hands up to his head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

“Is he ill, mamma?” Hetta asked.

“Yes, my dear.”

“Had you not better send for a doctor?”

“No, my dear. He will be better tomorrow.”

“Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything.”

“I can’t,” said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. “Don’t ask. What’s the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell⁠—except that I am ruined.”

“Has he done anything, mamma?”

“No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don’t talk about it