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

as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her. And she⁠—as she had told him that she loved him⁠—would be true to him through everything! In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. “I promised to give you a message,” she said.

“It’s all of no use now,” said Felix.

“But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you.”

“But what’s the good of it? A man can’t marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her.”

“She wants you to let her know what⁠—what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her.”

“How can I tell her? I don’t suppose they would let her receive a letter.”

“Shall I write to her;⁠—or shall I see her?”

“Just as you like. I don’t care.”

“Felix, you are very heartless.”

“I don’t suppose I’m much worse than other men;⁠—or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her.”

“I never put you up to it.”

“Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her.”

“Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!”

“Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn’t melt in other men’s mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am⁠—and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague.” Hetta blushed, but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as truehearted as Paul Montague. “I suppose you’d be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington.”

“Mr. Montague⁠—engaged⁠—to marry⁠—an American widow! I don’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it if it’s any concern of yours, for it’s true. And it’s true too that he travelled about with her forever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There’s no mistake about it.”

“I don’t believe it,” repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke⁠—or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. “Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?”

“What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there tomorrow, and show you the woman. There,” said he, “that’s where she is;”⁠—and he wrote Mrs. Hurtle’s name down on a scrap of paper.

“It is not true,” said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. “I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way.”

“Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,” said Felix, jumping up. “If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington.”

“I do not believe it,” said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment.

“By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it’s true? I know you’d believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you.”

“Roger Carbury will not say so?”

“Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it⁠—and has seen the woman.”

“How can you know? Has Roger told you?”

“I do know, and that’s enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her.”

“I do not believe a word of it,” said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother’s manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife?

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall