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

them. I have conquered others by being kind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that should be clean and sweet and gentle⁠—of things that should smell of lavender instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair, feminine women⁠—of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die rather than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my dreams should come true. I ought to have known that it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all the truth. I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me. Well;⁠—I suppose you had better say goodbye to me. What is the good of putting it off?” Then she rose from her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging listlessly by her side.

“God bless you, Winifrid!” he said, putting out his hand to her.

“But He won’t. Why should He⁠—if we are right in supposing that they who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil cursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself now not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I should care nothing for the misery of that girl⁠—nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look here;⁠—will you have this back?” As she asked this she took from out her bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in New York, and held it towards him.

“If you wish it I will⁠—of course,” he said.

“I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing on earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another man⁠—as I may do⁠—he must take me and this together. While I live it shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect for the proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman. Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself because you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love you⁠—oh, with my very heart of hearts.” So speaking she threw herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. “For one moment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here. Oh, Paul, my love;⁠—my love!”

All this to him was simply agony⁠—though as she had truly said it was an agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of her love⁠—without being able even to promise love in return⁠—to be so told while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for another woman⁠—carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. He did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill they were. “There,” she said, smiling through her bitter tears⁠—“there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you must forgive me.”

“No;⁠—but you cut me to the heart.”

“That we can hardly help;⁠—can we? When two persons have made fools of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment. Yours will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr. Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me again. Indeed it will be better that you should not. Goodbye.”

He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while she smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pull her towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsed him, still smiling the while. “No, sir; no; not again; never again, never⁠—never⁠—never again.” By that time she had recovered her hand and stood apart from him. “Goodbye, Paul;⁠—and now go.” Then he turned round and left the room without uttering a word.

She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Then hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain she watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned the corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone upon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that she had loved him with all her heart.

But that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her and was more gracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but still curious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover⁠—and to speak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, she said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each of them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part. On that evening Mrs. Hurtle made herself