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Read books online » Fiction » He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖

Book online «He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope



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can that be, my dear?’

 

‘Not to others, but to us it can be so. There shall be no word spoken of

the past.’ Again he shook his head. ‘Will it not be best that there

should be no word spoken?’

 

‘“Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,”’ he said, beginning to

quote from a poem which had formerly been frequent in his hands.

 

‘Cannot there be real forgiveness between you and me, between husband

and wife who, in truth, love each other? Do you think that I would tell

you of it again?’ He felt that in all that she said there was an

assumption that she had been right, and that he had been wrong. She was

promising to forgive. She was undertaking to forget. She was willing to

take him back to the warmth of her love, and the comfort of her

kindness but was not asking to be taken back. This was what he could

not and would not endure. He had determined that if she behaved well to

him, he would not be harsh to her, and he was struggling to keep up to

his resolve. He would accuse her of nothing if he could help it. But he

could not say a word that would even imply that she need forget that

she should forgive. It was for him to forgive and he was willing to do

it, if she would accept forgiveness: ‘I will never speak a word,

Louis,’ she said, laying her head upon his shoulder.

 

‘Your heart is still hardened,’ he replied slowly.

 

‘Hard to you?’

 

‘And your mind is dark. You do not see what you have done. In our

religion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but with

repentance.’

 

‘What does that mean?’

 

‘It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms with

joy, I cannot do so, till you have confessed your fault.’

 

‘What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grieve

that it has been so.’

 

‘It is of no use,’ said he. ‘I cannot talk about it. Do you suppose

that it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?’

 

‘What is it that you think, Louis?’ As she had been travelling thither,

she had determined that she would say anything that he wished her to

say, make any admission that might satisfy him. That she could be happy

again as other women are happy, she did not expect; but if it could be

conceded between them that bygones should be bygones, she might live

with him and do her duty, and, at least, have her child with her.

 

Her father had told her that her husband was mad; but she was willing

to put up with his madness on such terms as these. What could her

husband do to her in his madness that he could not do also to the

child? ‘Tell me what you want me to say, and I will say it,’ she said.

 

‘You have sinned against me,’ he said, raising her head gently from his

shoulder.

 

‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘As God is my judge, I never have!’ As she said

this, she retreated and took the sobbing boy again into her arms.

 

He was at once placed upon his guard, telling himself that he saw the

necessity of holding by his child. How could he tell? Might there not

be policemen down from Florence, ready round the house, to seize the

boy and carry him away. Though all his remaining life should be a

torment to him, though infinite plagues should be poured upon his head,

though he should die like a dog, alone, unfriended, and in despair,

while he was fighting this battle of his, he would not give way. ‘That

is sufficient,’ he said. ‘Louey must return now to his own chamber.’

 

‘I may go with him?’

 

‘No, Emily. You cannot go with him now. I will thank you to release

him, that I may take him.’ She still held the little fellow closely

pressed in her arms. ‘Do not reward me for my courtesy by further

disobedience,’ he said.

 

‘You will let me come again?’ To this he made no reply. ‘Tell me that I

may come again.’

 

‘I do not think that I shall remain here long.’

 

‘And I may not stay now?’

 

‘That would be impossible. There is no accommodation for you.’

 

‘I could sleep on the boards beside his cot,’ said Mrs Trevelyan.

 

‘That is my place,’ he replied. ‘You may know that he is not

disregarded. With my own hands I tend him every morning. I take him out

myself. I feed him myself. He says his prayers to me. He learns from

me, and can say his letters nicely. You need not fear for him. No

mother was ever more tender with her child than I am with him.’ Then he

gently withdrew the boy from her arms, and she let her child go, lest

he should learn to know that there was a quarrel between his father and

his mother. ‘If you will excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will not come down to

you again today. My servant will see you to your carriage.’

 

So he left her; and she, with an Italian girl at her heels, got into

her vehicle, and was taken back to Siena. There she passed the night

alone at the inn, and on the next morning returned to Florence by the

railway.

CHAPTER LXXX

‘WILL THEY DESPISE HIM?’

 

Gradually the news of the intended marriage between Mr Glascock and

Miss Spalding spread itself over Florence, and people talked about it

with that energy which subjects of such moment certainly deserve. That

Caroline Spalding had achieved a very great triumph, was, of course,

the verdict of all men and of all women; and I fear that there was a

corresponding feeling that poor Mr Glascock had been triumphed over,

and, as it were, subjugated. In some respects he had been remiss in his

duties as a bachelor visitor to Florence, as a visitor to Florence who

had manifestly been much in want of a wife. He had not given other

girls a fair chance, but had thrown himself down at the feet of this

American female in the weakest possible manner. And then it got about

the town that he had been refused over and over again by Nora Rowley.

It is too probable that Lady Rowley in her despair and dismay had been

indiscreet, and had told secrets which should never have been mentioned

by her. And the wife of the English minister, who had some grudges of

her own, lifted her eyebrows and shook her head and declared that all

the Glascocks at home would be outraged to the last degree. ‘My dear

Lady Rowley,’ she said, ‘I don’t know whether it won’t become a

question with them whether they should issue a commission de lunatico.’

Lady Rowley did not know what a commission de lunatico meant, but was

quite willing to regard poor Mr Glascock as a lunatic. ‘And there is

poor Lord Peterborough at Naples just at death’s door,’ continued the

British Ministers wife. In this she was perhaps nearly correct; but as

Lord Peterborough had now been in the same condition for many months,

as his mind had altogether gone, and as the doctor declared that he

might live in his present condition for a year, or for years, it could

not fairly be said that Mr Glascock was acting without due filial

feeling in engaging himself to marry a young lady. ‘And she such a

creature!’ said Lady Rowley, with emphasis. This the British Minister’s

wife noticed simply by shaking her head. Caroline Spalding was

undoubtedly a pretty girl; but, as the British Minister’s wife said

afterwards, it was not surprising that poor Lady Rowley should be

nearly out of her mind.

 

This had occurred a full week after the evening spent at Mr Spalding’s

house; and even yet Lady Rowley had never been put right as to that

mistake of hers about Wallachia Petrie. That other trouble of hers, and

her eldest daughter’s journey to Siena, had prevented them from going

out; and though the matter had often been discussed between Lady Rowley

and Nora, there had not as yet come between them any proper

explanation. Nora would declare that the future bride was very pretty

and very delightful; and Lady Rowley would throw up her hands in

despair and protest that her daughter was insane. ‘Why should he not

marry whom he likes, mamma?’ Nora once said, almost with indignation.

 

‘Because he will disgrace his family.’

 

‘I cannot understand what you mean, mamma. They are, at any rate, as

good as we are. Mr Spalding stands quite as high as papa does.’

 

‘She is an American,’ said Lady Rowley.

 

‘And her family might say that he is an Englishman,’ said Nora.

 

‘My dear, if you do not understand the incongruity between an English

peer and a Yankee female, I cannot help you. I suppose it is because

you have been brought up within the limited society of a small colony.

If so, it is not your fault. But I had hoped you had been in Europe

long enough to have learned what was what. Do you think, my dear, that

she will look well when she is presented to her Majesty as Lord

Peterborough’s wife?’

 

‘Splendid,’ said Nora.‘she has just the brow for a coronet.’

 

‘Heavens and earth!’ said Lady Rowley, throwing up her hands. ‘And you

believe that he will be proud of her in England?’

 

‘I am sure he will.’

 

‘My belief is that he will leave her behind him, or that they will

settle somewhere in the wilds of America out in Mexico, or

Massachusetts, or the Rocky Mountains. I do not think that he will have

the courage to shew her in London.’

 

The marriage was to take place in the Protestant church at Florence

early in June, and then the bride and bridegroom were to go over the

Alps, and to remain there subject to tidings as to the health of the

old man at Naples. Mr Glascock had thrown up his seat in Parliament,

some month or two ago, knowing that he could not get back to his duties

during the present session, and feeling that he would shortly be called

upon to sit in the other House. He was thus free to use his time and to

fix his days as he pleased; and it was certainly clear to those who

knew him, that he was not ashamed of his American bride. He spent much

of his time at the Spaldings’ house, and was always to be seen with

them in the Casino and at the Opera. Mrs Spalding, the aunt, was, of

course, in great glory. A triumphant, happy, or even simply a splendid

marriage, for the rising girl of a family is a great glory to the

maternal mind. Mrs Spalding could not but be aware that the very air

around her seemed to breathe congratulations into her ears. Her friends

spoke to her, even on indifferent subjects, as though everything was

going well with her, better with her than with anybody else; and there

came upon her in these days a dangerous feeling, that in spite of all

the preachings of the preachers, the next world might perhaps be not

so very much better than this. She was, in fact, the reverse of the

medal of which poor Lady Rowley filled the obverse. And the American

Minister was certainly an inch taller than before, and made longer

speeches, being much more regardless of interruption. Olivia was

delighted

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