The Way We Live Now Anthony Trollope (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📖

why you shouldn’t⁠—just marry me⁠—because you⁠—like me.”

“Only⁠—just because I don’t. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale.”

“Thanks;⁠—so much!”

“I like you ever so⁠—only marrying a person is different.”

“There’s something in that to be sure.”

“And I don’t mind telling you,” said Marie with an almost solemn expression on her countenance, “because you are good-natured and won’t get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody else;⁠—oh, so much.”

“I supposed that was it.”

“That is it.”

“It’s a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. I’d have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn’t think of it again?”

“I tell you, my lord, I’m⁠—in love.”

“Oh, ah;⁠—yes. So you were saying. It’s an awful bore. That’s all. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket.” And so Nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away⁠—not however without an idea that the marriage would still come off. There was always⁠—so he thought⁠—such a bother about things before they would get themselves fixed. This happened some days after Mr. Broune’s proposal to Lady Carbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she might hear from him⁠—and entrusted her letter to Didon.

XXXVI Mr. Broune’s Perils

Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr. Broune’s proposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her promise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day her letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and she had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be much guided by Hetta’s opinion. In regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only accept it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden. She never said this even to herself⁠—but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta’s comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect. She had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake⁠—having even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. The maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son’s vices; but it might so probably be again secured⁠—by means of her son’s beauty! Hetta had said that Mr. Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the man! And added to all this there was something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that she should burden anyone with the responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr. Broune:⁠—

Dearest Friend,

I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard your career as the most noble which a man’s ambition can achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be described;⁠—and yet with you I would have no reticence. I would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears⁠—with every circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience. The result of it would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.

I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would now become your wife. But I shall never marry again.

Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend,

Matilda Carbury.

About six o’clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr. Broune’s rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone⁠—full of regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which would certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment she was in debt⁠—and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff on which she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the