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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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will try and make the best

of it. You may trust me that we shall not find it difficult—not, at

least, on the ground of your present fears. I can bear a heavier burden

than you will bring upon me.’

 

‘I know that I ought to prove to you that I am right,’ she said, still

struggling with his hand.

 

‘And I know that you can prove nothing of the kind. Dearest, it is

fixed between us now, and do not let us be so silly as to raise

imaginary difficulties. Of course you would have to marry me, even if

there were cause for such fears. If there were any great cause, still

the game would be worth the candle. There could be no going back, let

the fear be what it might. But there need be no fear if you will only

love me.’ She felt that he was altogether too strong for her that she

had mistaken his character in supposing that she could be more firm

than he. He was so strong that he treated her almost as a child, and yet

she loved him infinitely the better for so treating her. Of course, she

knew now that her objection, whether true or unsubstantial, could not

avail. As he stood with his arm round her, she was powerless to

contradict him in anything. She had so far acknowledged this that she

no longer struggled with him, but allowed her hand to remain quietly

within his. If there was no going back from this bargain that had been

made, why, then, there was no need for combating. And when he stooped

over her and kissed her lips, she had not a word to say. ‘Be good to

me,’ he said, ‘and tell me that I am right.’

 

‘You must be master, I suppose, whether you are right or wrong. A man

always thinks himself entitled to his own way.’

 

‘Why, yes. When he has won the battle, he claims his captive. Now, the

truth is this, I have won the battle, and your friend, Miss Petrie, has

lost it. I hope she will understand that she has been beaten at last

out of the field.’ As he said this, he heard a step behind them, and

turning round saw Wallachia there almost before he could drop his arm.

 

‘I am sorry that I have intruded on you,’ she said very grimly.

 

‘Not in the least,’ said Mr Glascock. ‘Caroline and I have had a little

dispute, but we have settled it without coming to blows.’

 

‘I do not suppose that an English gentleman ever absolutely strikes a

lady,’ said Wallachia Petrie.

 

‘Not except on strong provocation,’ said Mr Glascock. ‘In reference to

wives, a stick is allowed as big as your thumb.’

 

‘I have heard that it is so by the laws of England,’ said Wallachia.

 

‘How can you be so ridiculous, Wally!’ said Caroline. ‘There is nothing

that you would not believe.’

 

‘I hope that it may never be true in your case,’ said Wallachia.

 

A couple of days after this Miss Spalding found that it was absolutely

necessary that she should explain the circumstances of her position to

Nora. She had left Nora with the purpose of performing a very

high-minded action, of sacrificing herself for the sake of her lover,

of giving up all her golden prospects, and of becoming once again the

bosom friend of Wallachia Petrie, with this simple consolation for her

future life, that she had refused to marry an English nobleman because

the English nobleman’s condition was unsuited to her. It would have

been an episode in female life in which pride might be taken, but all

that was now changed. She had made her little attempt, had made it, as

she felt, in a very languid manner, and had found herself treated as a

child for doing so. Of course she was happy in her ill success; of

course she would have been broken-hearted had she succeeded. But,

nevertheless, she was somewhat lowered in her own esteem, and it was

necessary that she should acknowledge the truth to the friend whom she

had consulted. A day or two had passed before she found herself alone

with Nora, but when she did so she confessed her failure at once.

 

‘You told him all, then?’ said Nora.

 

‘Oh yes, I told him all. That is, I could not really tell him. When the

moment came I had no words.’

 

‘And what did he say?’

 

‘He had words enough. I never knew him to be eloquent before.’

 

‘He can speak out if he likes,’ said Nora.

 

‘So I have found with a vengeance. Nobody was ever so put down as I

was. Don’t you know that there are times when it does not seem to be

worth your while to put out your strength against an adversary? So it

was with him. He just told me that he was my master, and that I was to

do as he bade me.’

 

‘And what did you say?’

 

‘I promised to be a good girl,’ said Caroline, ‘and not to pretend to

have any opinion of my own ever again. And so we kissed, and were

friends.’

 

‘I dare say there was a kiss, my dear.’

 

‘Of course there was, and he held me in his arms, and comforted me, and

told me how to behave just as you would do a little girl. It’s all over

now, of course; and if there be a mistake, it is his fault. I feel that

all responsibility is gone from myself, and that for all the rest of my

life I have to do just what he tells me.’

 

‘And what says the divine Wallachia?’

 

‘Poor Wally! She says nothing, but she thinks that I am a castaway and

a recreant. I am a recreant, I know but yet I think that I was right. I

know I could not help myself.’

 

‘Of course you were right, my dear,’ said the sage Nora. ‘If you had

the notion in your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew how

it would be when you spoke to him.’

 

‘You were not so weak when he came to you.’

 

‘That was altogether another thing. It was not arranged in heaven that

I was to become his captive.’

 

After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her influence on her

former friend, but admitted to herself that the evil was done, and that

it could not be remedied. According to her theory of life, Caroline

Spalding had been wrong, and weak—had shewn herself to be

comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked to get her happiness

from soft effeminate pleasures rather than from rational work and the

useful, independent exercise of her own intelligence. In the privacy of

her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed not absolute tears but many

tearful thoughts over her friend. It was to her a thing very terrible

that the chosen one of her heart should prefer the career of an English

lord’s wife to that of an American citizeness, with all manner of

capability for female voting, female speechmaking, female poetising,

and, perhaps, female political action before her. It was a thousand

pities! ‘You may take a horse to water,’ said Wallachia to herself,

thinking of the ever-freshly springing fountain of her own mind, at

which Caroline Spalding would always have been made welcome freely to

quench her thirst ‘but you cannot make him drink if he be not athirst.’

In the future she would have no friend. Never again would she subject

herself to the disgrace of such a failure. But the sacrifice was to be

made, and she knew that it was bootless to waste her words further on

Caroline Spalding. She left Florence before the wedding, and returned

alone to the land of liberty. She wrote a letter to Caroline explaining

her conduct, and Caroline Spalding shewed the letter to her husband as

one that was both loving and eloquent.

 

‘Very loving and eloquent,’ he said. ‘But, nevertheless, one does think

of sour grapes.’

 

‘There I am sure you wrong her,’ said Caroline.

CHAPTER LXXXII

MRS FRENCH’S CARVING KNIFE

 

During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter. Camilla had

sworn that if Mr Gibson did not come to, there should be a tragedy, and

it appeared that she was inclined to keep her word. Immediately after

the receipt of her letter from Mr Gibson she had had an interview with

that gentleman in his lodgings, and had asked him his intentions. He

had taken measures to fortify himself against such an attack; but,

whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken through them. She had

stood before him as he sat in his armchair, and he had been dumb in her

presence. It had perhaps been well for him that the eloquence of her

indignation had been so great that she had hardly been able to pause a

moment for a reply. ‘Will you take your letter back again?’ she had

said. ‘I should be wrong to do that,’ he had lisped out in reply,

‘because it is true. As a Christian minister I could not stand with you

at the altar with a lie in my mouth.’ In no other way did he attempt to

excuse himself but that, twice repeated, filled up all the pause which

she made for him.

 

There never had been such a case before so impudent, so cruel, so

gross, so uncalled for, so unmanly, so unnecessary, so unjustifiable,

so damnable so sure of eternal condemnation! All this she said to him

with loud voice, and clenched fist, and starting eyes regardless

utterly of any listeners on the stairs, or of outside passers in the

street. In very truth she was moved to a sublimity of indignation. Her

low nature became nearly poetic under the wrong inflicted upon her. She

was almost tempted to tear him with her hands, and inflict upon him at

the moment some terrible vengeance which should be told of for ever in

the annals of Exeter. A man so mean as he, so weak, so cowardly, one so

little of a hero that he should dare to do it, and dare to sit there

before her, and to say that he would do it! ‘Your gown shall be torn

off your back, Sir, and the very boys of Exeter shall drag you through

the gutters!’ To this threat he said nothing, but sat mute, hiding his

face in his hands. ‘And now tell me this, sir, is there anything between

you and Bella?’ But there was no voice in reply. ‘Answer my question,

sir. I have a right to ask it.’ Still he said not a word. ‘Listen to

me. Sooner than that you and she should be man and wife, I would stab

her! Yes, I would you poor, paltry, lying, cowardly creature!’ She

remained with him for more than half an hour, and then banged out of

the room, flashing back a look of scorn at him as she went. Martha,

before that day was over, had learned the whole story from Mr Gibson’s

cook, and had told her mistress.

 

‘I did not think he had so much spirit in him,’ was Miss Stanbury’s

answer. Throughout Exeter the great wonder arising from the crisis was

the amount of spirit which had been displayed by Mr Gibson.

 

When he was left alone he shook himself, and began to think that if

there were danger that such interviews might occur frequently, he had

better leave Exeter for good. As he put his hand over his forehead, he

declared to himself that a very little more of that kind of thing would

kill

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