The Way We Live Now (World's Classics Series). Anthony Trollope
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be aware of the cause of Roger’s uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments.
“I don’t like hearing my Church ill-spoken of,” said Roger.
“You wouldn’t like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it,” said the priest.
“And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended,” said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham look his departure and walked away to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.
The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin’s manner towards him. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother’s doings; how fretted he was by her mother’s conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore, — in pity, — she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy.
“Hetta,” he said after breakfast, “come out into the garden awhile.”
“Are not you going to the men?”
“Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it.” She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury; — and, up to this time, she had hardly 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 for ever 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.