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

made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr. Melmotte’s money, till her very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger’s conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine forever because a girl could not love him⁠—a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!

“Hetta,” he said, “put your arm here.” She gave him her arm. “I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me.”

“He doesn’t do any harm, I suppose?”

“He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere.” So, thought Henrietta, it isn’t about love this time; it’s only about the Church. “He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn’t under any circumstances say as to his. I didn’t quite like your hearing it.”

“I don’t think he’ll do me any harm. I’m not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it. It’s their business.”

“Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house.”

“I liked him;⁠—only I didn’t like his saying stupid things about the bishop.”

“And I like him.” Then there was a pause. “I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs.”

“His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money.”

“I meant about the Melmottes.”

“No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything.”

“I wonder whether she has accepted him.”

“I think she very nearly did accept him in London.”

“I can’t quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does the necessity of money.”

“Felix is so disposed to be extravagant.”

“Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests.”

“Mamma thinks more of him than of anything,” said Hetta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.

“I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion,”⁠—this he said, looking up to Hetta and smiling⁠—“I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel.”

“I felt that there was something unpleasant.”

“And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things.”

“I think you are so good⁠—and so kind.” As she said this she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him.

“I have been angry with myself,” he said, “and so I am making you my father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your mother.”

“I do understand you; but don’t think there is any fault to confess.”

“You will not exact any penance?” She only looked at him and smiled. “I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can’t congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general.”

“Will that be a penance?”

“If you could look into my mind you’d find that it would. I’m full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn’t he throw his cigar on the path? Didn’t he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?”

“But then he was travelling all the Saturday night.”

“Whose fault was that? But don’t you see it is the triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday;⁠—and therefore I must do penance.”

There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did not wish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend⁠—as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making love to her, how happy could she be! But his determination still held good. “And now,” said he, altering his tone altogether, “I must speak about myself.” Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. “No,” he said; “do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends.”

“Always friends!” she said.

“Yes;⁠—always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. I will not