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

“That was not the reason.”

“What;⁠—can there be more reason than that⁠—better reason than that? Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to⁠—hate me.”

“Listen to me, Winifrid.”

“No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love⁠—some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough⁠—too little like the dolls of your own country! What were your⁠—other reasons? Let me hear your⁠—other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies.”

The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle. His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. “We know too little of each other,” he said.

“What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one⁠—who perhaps was loved once.”

He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he was all at sea. “I wish to hear nothing,” he said.

“Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman⁠—after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?”

“I do not think that I am mean.”

“No;⁠—a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is⁠—this lady?”

He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta Carbury’s name. He had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. “I can not name her.”

“And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have⁠—changed your affections? That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away⁠—without a pang, without a scruple?”

“I did not say so.”

“And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?”

“I hope not.”

“Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir.”

“I did say so.”

“Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me.”

“I cannot marry you.”

“Then, sir, are you not a liar?” It would have taken him long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs. Hurtle. He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence. “Oh, Paul,” she said, changing at once into softness⁠—“I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also?”

“No,” said he. “I have given no promise.”

“But she loves you?”

“She has never said so.”

“You have told her of your love?”

“Never.”

“There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me⁠—some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?”

“I suppose it is,” said Paul.

“Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do;⁠—live for you as I do? Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no friend⁠—not a single friend⁠—unless you are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you.”

“You have told the woman of the house?”

“Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealymouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here? I am here because you have promised to