The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. “Want it!” he said. “Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.”

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him⁠—even if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger⁠—dear Roger, dearest Roger⁠—no; it was not the same thing. “He is as good as gold,” she said⁠—“ever so much better than you are, Paul,” stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.

“Better than anybody I have ever known,” said Montague with all his energy.

“I think he is;⁠—but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don’t, Paul.”

“I do,” said he.

“No⁠—you don’t. You must love me best, but I won’t be called good. I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants.”

“Where should I have been?”

“Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love anyone else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me⁠—and he made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly⁠—but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him.” Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did exist to gild this everyday unholy world, love was the holiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her⁠—seeing that he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said⁠—at least so Hetta thought⁠—and she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be right that it should be told? “Do you know I almost feel that he is like a father to me,” said Hetta, leaning on her lover’s shoulder.

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. “Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again.”

“I cannot believe that.”

“There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. How could I have known?”

“That would be unreasonable.”

“He is unreasonable⁠—about that. It is not reason with him. He always goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him⁠—”

“Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this.”

“But he will never look at it in that way;⁠—and he will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful.”

“If you think, Paul⁠—”

“Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me.” Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:⁠—

My dear Roger⁠—

I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred today. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you.

This was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that it had been implied.

I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should