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

one constable to Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave⁠—not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood⁠—and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. He was the offender;⁠—for aught that any of them yet knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.

Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs. Pipkin’s door. Ruby was still loud with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover⁠—who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. But from Mrs. Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes;⁠—the girl lived there and was⁠—respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl’s proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl’s improper lover. And John Crumb’s name was given. “I’m John Crumb of Bungay,” said he, “and I ain’t afeared of nothin’ nor nobody. And I ain’t a been a drinking; no, I ain’t. Mauled ’un! In course I’ve mauled ’un. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is engaged to be my wife.”

“No, I ain’t,” shouted Ruby.

“But she is,” persisted John Crumb.

“Well then, I never will,” rejoined Ruby.

John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his heart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance how it all was, but that Mr. Crumb had better come along with him⁠—just for the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay made not the slightest objection.

“Miss Ruggles,” said Mrs. Hurtle, “if that young man doesn’t conquer you at last you can’t have a heart in your bosom.”

“Indeed and I have then, and I don’t mean to give it him if it’s ever so. He’s been and killed Sir Felix.” Mrs. Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs. Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the three women all went to bed.

LXXII “Ask Himself.”

Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta’s mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague’s connection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta’s cousin and acting as though he were Hetta’s brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague’s entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man’s word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;⁠—but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale⁠—which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man⁠—that man, who in seeking the girl’s love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta’s⁠—but with the distinct understanding that he and the child’s father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul’s letter and that from Lady Carbury⁠—but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul’s perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a