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

pleased, and be as good a lover at the end as ever;⁠—whereas she was ruined by his defection. He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourning would not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin’s solitary lodgings at Islington.

“So he was Mr. Montague’s partner⁠—was he now?” asked Mrs. Pipkin a day or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr. Fisker had called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin so much. “To my thinking now he’s a nicer man than Mr. Montague.” Mrs. Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she might be anxious to secure the other;⁠—perhaps felt, too, that it might be well to praise an American at the expense of an Englishman.

“There’s no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin.”

“And that’s true, too, Mrs. Hurtle.”

“Mr. Montague is a gentleman.”

“I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle.”

“And Mr. Fisker is⁠—an American citizen.” Mrs. Hurtle when she said this was very far gone in tenderness.

“Indeed now!” said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understand the meaning of her friend’s last remark.

“Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him.” Mrs. Pipkin’s apron was immediately at her eyes. “I must go some day, you know.”

“I suppose you must. I couldn’t hope as you’d stay here always. I wish I could. I never shall forget the comfort it’s been. There hasn’t been a week without everything settled; and most ladylike⁠—most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your pocket.” All this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.

“Mr. Fisker isn’t in any way a special friend of mine. But I hear that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as well join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer company just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first of September.” As this was said about the middle of August there was still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin. A fortnight gained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England on business, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly be further delay. Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication to Mrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle had desired to say. “By the by, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to call tomorrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes.” She had feared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be a little scene at the door when the gentleman came.

“Mr. Montague;⁠—oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle⁠—of course. I’ll see to it myself.” Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed⁠—feeling that she had made a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr. Montague, if, after all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.

On the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with almost more than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk, nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as though she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write a word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course she was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself absolute quiescence.

She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him. She had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She had no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she at this moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she was about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not know that she had anything else to say. Then came the knock at the door. Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort to be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door was opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself. Mrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at the keyhole. “I thought you would come and see me once again before I went,” said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. “Sit there opposite, so that we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble to you.”

“Of course I came when you left word for me to do so.”

“I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own.”

“I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know that.”

“I know nothing of the kind;⁠—but as you are here we will not quarrel as to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she forgiven your sins?”

“We are friends⁠—if you mean that.”

“Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell her that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was. She was ready to believe anyone who would say a good word for you. Perhaps I wasn’t just the person to do it, but I believe even I was sufficient to serve the turn.”

“Did you say a good word for me?”

“Well; no;” replied Mrs. Hurtle. “I will not boast that I did. I do not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good of you. What could I say of good? But I told