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

“Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.”

“I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house.”

“Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“She has written to you;⁠—has she not?”

“Yes; she has written to me.”

“And about me?”

“Yes;⁠—about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also.”

“He told me that he would,” whispered Hetta.

“Did he tell you of my answer?”

“No;⁠—he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since.”

“You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion.”

“Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?”

“I did not say so;⁠—but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he⁠—he has been if possible more false than Felix.”

“Oh, Roger, how has he been false?”

Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. “He should have left the place and never have come near you,” said Roger, “when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips.”

How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;⁠—she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. “But, Roger,” she said⁠—“it would have been the same.”

“You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t know it. He was to me as a younger brother⁠—and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won’t forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man’s, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him⁠—”

“Oh, Roger, do not say hatred.”

“My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting⁠—how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me.”

But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. “Roger,” she said, “I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice.”

“If he were unworthy would your heart never change?”

“I think⁠—never. Roger, is he unworthy?”

“How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you.”

“If you thought him worthy you would tell me,” she said, getting up and taking him by the arm.

“No;⁠—I will tell you nothing. Go to someone else, not to me;” and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold.

“Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me⁠—because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;⁠—is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?”

“Ask himself, Hetta.”

“And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is⁠—Mrs. Hurtle?”

“Have you asked him?”

“I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;⁠—but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?”

“There is such a woman certainly.”

“And she has been⁠—a friend of Paul’s?”

“Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither