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

or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs. Hurtle. Mrs. Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and Mrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of its details⁠—not quite with all⁠—had come round to Lady Carbury’s ears. “What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you.”

“How can he know, mamma?”

“He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house.”

“Has he seen her?”

“I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?”

“Don’t do that, mamma. Don’t write to him.”

“But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true⁠—tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented.”

“Contented, mamma!”

“Satisfied that what we tell you is true.”

“I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can’t be true. I suppose there is something, but it can’t be that.”

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the whole story. “If,” she said, “you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me.” Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague’s life? “You know,” she said, “what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague’s interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us⁠—and also yourself.”

LXVIII Miss Melmotte Declares Her Purpose

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true⁠—even about anyone else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife⁠—and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her⁠—had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends’ feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come⁠—having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man’s faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury⁠—but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte’s message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother’s reply. That might be told in a very few words⁠—“Everything is over!” But it had to be told.

“I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you’ll let me,” she said to her mother at breakfast.

“Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?”

“I don’t hate them, mamma. I certainly don’t hate her. I have a message to take to her⁠—from Felix.”

“A message⁠—from Felix.”

“It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now;⁠—could they, mamma?”

The marriage, in