He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖

CHAPTER LXXIX

‘I CAN SLEEP ON THE BOARDS’

 

Three days after this there came another carriage to the bottom of the

hill on which Casalunga stood, and a lady got out of it all alone. It

was Emily Trevelyan, and she had come thither from Siena in quest of

her husband and her child. On the previous day Sir Marmaduke’s courier

had been at the house with a note from the wife to the husband, and had

returned with an answer, in which Mrs Trevelyan was told that, if she

would come quite alone, she should see her child. Sir Marmaduke had

been averse to any further intercourse with the man, other than what

might be made in accordance with medical advice, and, if possible, with

government authority. Lady Rowley had assented to her daughter’s wish,

but had suggested that she should at least be allowed to go also at any

rate, as far as the bottom of the hill. But Emily had been very firm,

and Mr Glascock had supported her. He was confident that the man would

do no harm to her, and he was indisposed to believe that any

interference on the part of the Italian Government could be procured in

such a case with sufficient celerity to be of use. He still thought it

might be possible that the wife might prevail over the husband, or the

mother over the father. Sir Marmaduke was at last obliged to yield, and

Mrs Trevelyan went to Siena with no other companion but the courier.

From Siena she made the journey quite alone; and having learned the

circumstances of the house from Mr Glascock, she got out of the

carriage, and walked up the hill. There were still the two men

coopering at the vats, but she did not stay to speak to them. She went

through the big gates, and along the slanting path to the door, not

doubting of her way, for Mr Glascock had described it all to her, making

a small plan of the premises, and even explaining to her the position

of the room in which her boy and her husband slept. She found the door

open, and an Italian maidservant at once welcomed her to the house,

and assured her that the signor would be with her immediately. She was

sure that the girl knew that she was the boy’s mother, and was almost

tempted to ask questions at once as to the state of the household; but

her knowledge of Italian was slight, and she felt that she was so

utterly a stranger in the land that she could dare to trust no one.

Though the heat was great, her face was covered with a thick veil. Her

dress was black, from head to foot, and she was as a woman who mourned

for her husband. She was led into the room which her father had been

allowed to enter through the window; and here she sat, in her husband’s

house, feeling that in no position in the world could she be more

utterly separated from the interests of all around her. In a few

minutes the door was opened, and her husband was with her, bringing the

boy in his hand. He had dressed himself with some care; but it may be

doubted whether the garments which he wore did not make him appear

thinner even and more haggard than he had looked to be in his old

dressing-gown. He had not shaved himself, but his long hair was brushed

back from his forehead, after a fashion quaint and very foreign to his

former ideas of dress. His wife had not expected that her child would

come to her at once, had thought that some entreaties would be

necessary, some obedience perhaps exacted from her, before she would be

allowed to see him; and now her heart was softened, and she was

grateful to her husband. But she could not speak to him till she had

had the boy in her arms. She tore off her bonnet, and then clinging to

the child, covered him with kisses. ‘Louey, my darling! Louey; you

remember mamma?’ The child pressed himself close to his mother’s bosom,

but spoke never a word. He was cowed and overcome, not only by the

incidents of the moment, but by the terrible melancholy of his whole

life. He had been taught to understand, without actual spoken lessons,

that he was to live with his father, and that the former woman-given

happinesses of his life were at an end. In this second visit from his

mother he did not forget her. He recognised the luxury of her love; but

it did not occur to him even to hope that she might have come to rescue

him from the evil of his days. Trevelyan was standing by, the while,

looking on; but he did not speak till she addressed him.

 

‘I am so thankful to you for bringing him to me,’ she said.

 

‘I told you that you should see him,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it might have

been better that I should have sent him by a servant; but there are

circumstances which make me fear to let him out of my sight.’

 

‘Do you think that I did not wish to see you also? Louis, why do you do

me so much wrong? Why do you treat me with such cruelty?’ Then she

threw her arms round his neck, and before he could repulse her before

he could reflect whether it would be well that he should repulse her or

not she had covered his brow and cheeks and lips with kisses. ‘Louis,’

she said; ‘Louis, speak to me!’

 

‘It is hard to speak sometimes,’ he said.

 

‘You love me, Louis?’

 

‘Yes I love you. But I am afraid of you!’

 

‘What is it that you fear? I would give my life for you, if you would

only come back to me and let me feel that you believed me to be true.’

He shook his head, and began to think while she still clung to him. He

was quite sure that her father and mother had intended to bring a mad

doctor down upon him, and he knew that his wife was in her mother’s

hands. Should he yield to her now, should he make her any promise, might

not the result be that he would be shut up in dark rooms, robbed of his

liberty, robbed of what he loved better than his liberty, his power as a

man. She would thus get the better of him and take the child, and the

world would say that in this contest between him and her he had been

the sinning one, and she the one against whom the sin had been done. It

was the chief object of his mind, the one thing for which he was eager,

that this should never come to pass. Let it once be conceded to him

from all sides that he had been right, and then she might do with him

almost as she willed. He knew well that he was ill. When he thought of

his child, he would tell himself that he was dying. He was at some

moments of his miserable existence fearfully anxious to come to terms

with his wife, in order that at his death his boy might not be without

a protector. Were he to die, then it would be better that his child

should be with its mother. In his happy days, immediately after his

marriage, he had made a will, in which he had left his entire property

to his wife for her life, providing for its subsequent descent to his

child or children. It had never even occurred to his poor shattered

brain that it would be well for him to alter his will. Had he really

believed that his wife had betrayed him, doubtless he would have done

so. He would have hated her, have distrusted her altogether, and have

believed her to be an evil thing. He had no such belief. But in his

desire to achieve empire, and in the sorrows which had come upon him in

his unsuccessful struggle, his mind had wavered so frequently, that his

spoken words were no true indicators of his thoughts; and in all his

arguments he failed to express either his convictions or his desires.

When he would say something stronger than he intended, and it would be

put to him by his wife, by her father or mother, or by some friend of

hers, whether he did believe that she had been untrue to him, he would

recoil from the answer which his heart would dictate, lest he should

seem to make an acknowledgment that might weaken the ground upon which

he stood. Then he would satisfy his own conscience by assuring himself

that he had never accused her of such sin. She was still clinging to

him now as his mind was working after this fashion. ‘Louis,’ she said,

‘let it all be as though there had been nothing.’

 

‘How