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

be no more praise in the Breakfast Table⁠—and, equally of course, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more she thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve months ago.

On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta’s coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her broken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr. Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first chapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should even look at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin’s friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop’s wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent. It was all “leather or prunello,” as she said to herself;⁠—it was all vanity⁠—and vanity⁠—and vanity! What real enjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like;⁠—but she had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation⁠—but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr. Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more novels⁠—and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!

The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very wretched. “I shall give up this house,” she said. “I can’t afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don’t in the least know where to go, but I don’t think that it much signifies. Any place will be the same to me now.”

“I don’t see why you should say that.”

“What does it matter?”

“You wouldn’t think of going out of London.”

“Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest.”

“I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see you,” said Mr. Broune plaintively.

“So shall I⁠—very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn’t want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to.”

“I want you,” said Mr. Broune, very quietly.

“Ah⁠—that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good as goodness;⁠—nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?”

“When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly, because of your son’s position. That has been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced myself⁠—not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I have quite convinced myself⁠—that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours.”

This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at first brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept his place in his armchair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her countenance. “Well,” he said; “what do you think of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son.”

“That was the reason,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“But I shall love you better still for accepting me now⁠—if you will accept me.”

The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son’s career;⁠—there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been