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

laugh, and had then turned away her face. “Impudent scoundrel!” she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.

A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such uncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him. “What’s all this about?”

She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. “What brings you here, I wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment.”

“My being here doesn’t matter. I can go anywhere without doing much harm. Why are you staying with these people?”

“Ask papa.”

“I don’t suppose he sent you here?”

“That’s just what he did do.”

“You needn’t have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because they are none of them coming up?”

“Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for guessing!”

“Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”

“No;⁠—not a bit.”

“Then I feel ashamed for you.”

“Everybody comes here.”

“No;⁠—everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybody doesn’t make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself.”

“I think as much of myself as ever I did,” said Georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears.

“I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me.”

“What did he say, Dolly?”

“He didn’t say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself is what I can’t understand!”

“I don’t like them⁠—I hate them.”

“Then why do you come and live with them?”

“Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. And if you’re short of money, people will give you credit. And you can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?”

“I shouldn’t mind it⁠—only for the governor.”

“You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?”

“You mean about marrying?”

“I mean altogether,” said the poor girl, unable to be quite as explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and mother, and sister. “Of course I have to think of myself.”

“I don’t see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the short of it is, you oughtn’t to be here. It’s not often I interfere, but when I heard it I thought I’d come and tell you. I shall write to the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better.”

“Don’t write to papa, Dolly!”

“Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. Goodbye.”

As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open⁠—not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden hours⁠—and actually did write a letter to his father.

My Dear Father,

I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte’s house. She ought not to be there. I suppose you don’t know it, but everybody says he’s a swindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year.

Your affectionate son,

Adolphus Longestaffe.

This letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have been instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed⁠—worse than he had thought⁠—or their iniquities would not have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to town. This had come from his son, who had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties.

XXVI Mrs. Hurtle

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and Montague⁠—and also their consolation⁠—are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin’s offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door⁠—at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year⁠—and asked for Mrs. Hurtle. Yes;⁠—Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. “Paul,”