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

Osborne was not to be admitted.

And the servant to whom he had given this order was the cook. There is

no reason why a cook should be less trustworthy in such a matter than

any other servant; and in Mr Trevelyan’s household there was a reason

why she should be more so as she, and she alone, was what we generally

call an old family domestic. She had lived with her master’s mother,

and had known her master when he was a boy. Looking about him,

therefore, for someone in his house to whom he could speak, feeling that

he was bound to convey the order through some medium, he called to him

the ancient cook, and imparted to her so much of his trouble as was

necessary to make the order intelligible. This he did with various

ill-worded assurances to Mrs Prodgers that there really was nothing

amiss. But when Mrs Trevelyan heard what had been done, which she did

from Mrs Prodgers herself, Mrs Prodgers having been desired by her

master to make the communication, she declared to her sister that

everything was now over. She could never again live with a husband who

had disgraced his wife by desiring her own cook to keep a guard upon

her. Had the footman been instructed not to admit Colonel Osborne there

would have been in such instruction some apparent adherence to the

recognised usages of society. If you do not desire either your friend

or your enemy to be received into your house, you communicate your

desire to the person who has charge of the door. But the cook!

 

‘And now, Nora, if it were you, do you mean to say that you would

remain with him?’ asked Mrs Trevelyan.

 

Nora simply replied that anything under any circumstances would be

better than a separation.

 

On the morning of the third day there came the following letter:

 

‘Wednesday, June 1, 12 midnight.

 

Dearest Emily,

 

You will readily believe me when I say that I never in my life was so

wretched as I have been during the last two days. That you and I should

be in the same house together and not able to speak to each other is in

itself a misery, but this is terribly enhanced by the dread lest this

state of things should be made to continue.

 

I want you to understand that I do not in the least suspect you of

having as yet done anything wrong or having even said anything

injurious either to my position as your husband, or to your position as

my wife. But I cannot but perceive that you are allowing yourself to be

entrapped into an intimacy with Colonel Osborne which, if it be not

checked, will be destructive to my happiness and your own. After what

had passed before, you cannot have thought it right to receive letters

from him which I was not to see, or to write letters to him of which I

was not to know the contents. It must be manifest to you that such

conduct on your part is wrong as judged by any of the rules by which a

wife’s conduct can be measured. And yet you have refused even to say

that this shall be discontinued! I need hardly explain to you that if

you persist in this refusal you and I cannot continue to live together

as man and wife. All my hopes and prospects in life will be blighted by

such a separation. I have not as yet been able to think what I should

do in such wretched circumstances. And for you, as also for Nora, such

a catastrophe would be most lamentable. Do, therefore, think of it

well, and write me such a letter as may bring me back to your side.

 

There is only one friend in the world to whom I could endure to talk of

this great grief, and I have been to her and told her everything. You

will know that I mean Lady Milborough. After much difficult

conversation I have persuaded her to see you, and she will call in

Curzon Street tomorrow about twelve. There can be no kinder-hearted,

or more gentle woman in the world than Lady Milborough; nor did any one

ever have a warmer friend than both you and I have in her. Let me

implore you then to listen to her, and be guided by her advice.

 

Pray believe, dearest Emily, that I am now, as ever, your most

affectionate husband, and that I have no wish so strong as that we

should not be compelled to part.

 

Louis Trevelyan.’

 

This epistle was, in many respects, a very injudicious composition.

Trevelyan should have trusted either to the eloquence of his own

written words, or to that of the ambassador whom he was about to

despatch; but by sending both he weakened both. And then there were

certain words in the letter which were odious to Mrs Trevelyan, and

must have been odious to any young wife. He had said that he did not

‘as yet’ suspect her of having done anything wrong. And then, when he

endeavoured to explain to her that a separation would be very injurious

to herself, he had coupled her sister with her, thus seeming to imply

that the injury to be avoided was of a material kind. She had better do

what he told her, as, otherwise, she and her sister would not have a

roof over their head! That was the nature of the threat which his words

were supposed to convey.

 

The matter had become so serious, that Mrs Trevelyan, haughty and

stiff-necked as she was, did not dare to abstain from showing the

letter to her sister. She had no other counsellor, at any rate, till

Lady Milborough came, and the weight of the battle was too great for

her own unaided spirit. The letter had been written late at night, as

was shown by the precision of the date, and had been brought to her

early in the morning. At first she had determined to say nothing about

it to Nora, but she was not strong enough to maintain such a purpose.

She felt that she needed the poor consolation of discussing her

wretchedness. She first declared that she would not see Lady

Milborough. ‘I hate her, and she knows that I hate her, and she ought

not to have thought of coming,’ said Mrs Trevelyan.

 

But she was at last beaten out of this purpose by Nora’s argument, that

all the world would be against her if she refused to see her husband’s

old friend. And then, though the letter was an odious letter, as she

declared a dozen times, she took some little comfort in the fact that

not a word was said in it about the baby. She thought that if she could

take her child with her into any separation, she could endure it, and

her husband would ultimately be conquered.

 

‘Yes; I’ll see her,’ she said, as they finished the discussion. ‘As he

chooses to send her, I suppose I had better see her. But I don’t think

he does much to mend matters when he sends the woman whom he knows I

dislike more than any other in all London.’

 

Exactly at twelve o’clock Lady Milborough’s carriage was at the door.

Trevelyan was in the house at the time and heard the knock at the door.

During those two or three days of absolute wretchedness, he spent most

of his hours under the same roof with his wife and sister-in-law,

though he spoke to neither of them. He had had his doubts as to the

reception of Lady Milborough, and was, to tell the truth, listening

with most anxious ear, when her Ladyship was announced. His wife,

however, was not so bitterly contumacious as to refuse admittance to

his friend, and he heard the rustle of the ponderous silk as the old

woman was shown upstairs. When Lady Milborough reached the

drawing-room, Mrs Trevelyan was alone.

 

‘I had better see her by myself,’ she had said to her sister.

 

Nora had then left her, with one word of prayer that she would be as

little defiant as possible.

 

‘That must depend,’ Emily had said, with a little shake of her head.

 

There had been a suggestion that the child should be with her, but the

mother herself had rejected this.

 

‘It would be stagey,’ she had said, ‘and clap-trap. There is nothing I

hate so much as that.’

 

She was sitting, therefore, quite alone, and as stiff as a man in

armour, when Lady Milborough was shown up to her.

 

And Lady Milborough herself was not at all comfortable as she commenced

the interview. She had prepared many wise words to be spoken, but was

not so little ignorant of the character of the woman with whom she had

to deal, as to suppose that the wise words would get themselves spoken

without interruption. She had known from the first that Mrs Trevelyan

would have much to say for herself, and the feeling that it would be so

became stronger than ever as she entered the room. The ordinary

feelings between the two ladies were cold and constrained, and then

there was silence for a few moments when the Countess had taken her

seat. Mrs Trevelyan had quite determined that the enemy should fire the

first shot.

 

‘This is a very sad state of things,’ said the Countess.

 

‘Yes, indeed, Lady Milborough.’

 

‘The saddest in the world and so unnecessary is it not?’

 

‘Very unnecessary, indeed, as I think.’

 

‘Yes, my dear, yes. But, of course, we must remember.’

 

Then Lady Milborough could not clearly bring to her mind what it was

that she had to remember.

 

‘The fact is, my dear, that all this kind of thing is too monstrous to

be thought of. Goodness, gracious, me; two young people like you and

Louis, who thoroughly love each other, and who have got a baby, to

think of being separated! Of course it is out of the question.’

 

‘You cannot suppose, Lady Milborough, that I want to be separated from

my husband?’

 

‘Of course not. How should it be possible? The very idea is too

shocking to be thought of. I declare I haven’t slept since Louis was

talking to me about it. But, my dear, you must remember, you know,

that a husband has a right to expect some sort of submission from

his wife.’

 

‘He has a right to expect obedience, Lady Milborough.’

 

‘Of course; that is all one wants.’

 

‘And I will obey Mr Trevelyan in anything reasonable.’

 

‘But, my dear, who is to say what is reasonable? That, you see, is

always the difficulty. You must allow that your husband is the person

who ought to decide that.’

 

‘Has he told you that I have refused to obey him, Lady Milborough?’

 

The Countess paused a moment before she replied. ‘Well, yes; I think he

has,’ she said. ‘He asked you to do something about a letter, a letter

to that Colonel Osborne, who is a man, my dear, really to be very much

afraid of; a man who has done a great deal of harm, and you declined.

Now in a matter of that kind of course the husband—’

 

‘Lady Milborough, I must ask you to listen to me. You have listened to

Mr Trevelyan, and I must ask you to listen to me. I am sorry to trouble

you, but as you have come here about this unpleasant business, you must

forgive me if I insist upon it.’

 

‘Of course I will listen to you, my dear.’

 

‘I have never refused to obey my