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

“Is she a widow?”⁠—He did not answer this at once. “I suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her.”

“Yes;⁠—she is a widow. She was divorced.”

“Oh, Paul! And she is an American?”

“Yes.”

“And you loved her?”

Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to be interrogated. “If you will allow me I will tell it you all from beginning to end.”

“Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry her you must have loved her.” There was a frown upon Hetta’s brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.

“Yes;⁠—I loved her once; but I will tell you all.” Then he did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. Hetta listened with fair attention⁠—not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. “Had she been divorced then?” asked Hetta⁠—“because I believe they get themselves divorced just when they like.” Simple as the question was he could not answer it. “I could only know what she told me,” he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. “Did you give her up then?” demanded Hetta with stern severity. No⁠—not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and⁠—he had not intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his second return to England⁠—and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin’s lodgings in Islington. “I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me,” he said, “for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you.” He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern.

“But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft⁠—quite the other day.”

Montague had intended to tell all⁠—almost all. There was a something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. “It was on account of her health.”

“Oh;⁠—on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?”

“I did.”

“Was that for her⁠—health?”

“Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?”

“I cannot understand why you deserted her at all,” said Hetta. “You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman⁠—a woman who just says that she was divorced. But that is because I don’t understand American ways. And I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft⁠—for her health. That was only a week ago.”

“It was nearly three weeks,” said Paul in despair.

“Oh;⁠—nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago.”

“No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then.”

“I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you.”

“She wanted then to force me to⁠—to⁠—to⁠—. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you.”

“But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was⁠—divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise.”

“She knows now that it is all over.”

“I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft⁠—because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting here⁠—no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend⁠—very old⁠—and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Goodbye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going⁠—back to Mrs. Hurtle.” All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.

“You don’t mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!”

“I don’t know about quarrelling. I don’t wish to quarrel with anyone. But of course we can’t be friends when you have married⁠—Mrs. Hurtle.”

“Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her.”

“Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when⁠—he would not tell it for he was too kind⁠—but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn’t have been much above a week before you came to me.”

“What does it matter?”

“Oh no; of course not;⁠—nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier.”

“Do you mean to say