The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

but now supported her face on her two hands with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him intently. But one would have said that there was only love in her eyes;⁠—love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the occasion. “Stop, my dear,” she said. “Must the purpose be told tonight?”

“Why not tonight?”

“Paul, I am not well;⁠—I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs. Pipkin is not very charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet tonight. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past⁠—then carry out your purpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;⁠—then drop your purpose for tonight. Try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort.”

Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. “I will not harass you, if you are ill,” he said.

“I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy⁠—what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?” Paul suggested Brighton. “That is full of people; is it not?⁠—a fashionable place?”

“Not at this time of the year.”

“But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;⁠—not that any place can be very far from here.” Paul, in his John Bull displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four hours. “Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima Thule;⁠—not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place⁠—except Southend?”

“There is Cromer in Norfolk⁠—perhaps ten hours.”

“Is Cromer by the sea?”

“Yes;⁠—what we call the sea.”

“I mean really the sea, Paul?”

“If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn’t do perhaps.”

“Ah⁠—now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?”

“Well, yes;⁠—I think it is. I was there once, but I don’t remember much. There’s Ramsgate.”

“Mrs. Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don’t think I should like Ramsgate.”

“There’s the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty.”

“That’s the Queen’s place. There would not be room for her and me too.”

“Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance.”

“And sea?”

“Sea enough for anything. If you can’t see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, I don’t see why a hundred miles isn’t as good as a thousand.”

“A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend it isn’t a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;⁠—would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?”

“A small little place.”

“Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for me.”

“They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small.”

“Paul,” said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, “if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft.” Then she rose up and came to him, and took his arm. “You will take me down, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself.” She had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. “You will do that for old acquaintance sake?” For a moment or two he made no answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was endeavouring to think;⁠—but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way through it. “I don’t think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that,” she said.

“No;” he replied. “I will take you down. When will you go?” He had cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.

“When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs. Pipkin’s baby. Can you be ready in ten minutes?⁠—because I could.” Paul shook his head and laughed. “I’ve named a time and that doesn’t suit. Now, sir, you name another, and I’ll promise it shall suit.” Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs. Hurtle. Should she meet him at the railway station?