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

a large portion of his life

within the tropics, had become at fifty what many people call

quite a middle-aged man. That is to say, he was one from whom the

effervescence and elasticity and salt of youth had altogether passed

away. He was fat and slow, thinking much of his wife and eight

daughters, thinking much also of his dinner. Now Colonel Osborne

was a bachelor, with no burdens but those imposed upon him by his

position as a member of Parliament, a man of fortune to whom the

world had been very easy. It was not therefore said so decidedly

of him as of Sir Marmaduke, that he was a middle-aged man, although

he had probably already lived more than two-thirds of his life.

And he was a good-looking man of his age, bald indeed at the top of

his head, and with a considerable sprinkling of grey hair through

his bushy beard; but upright in his carriage, active, and quick

in his step, who dressed well, and was clearly determined to make

the most he could of what remained to him of the advantages of youth.

Colonel Osborne was always so dressed that no one ever observed

the nature of his garments, being no doubt well aware that no man

after twenty-five can afford to call special attention to his coat,

his hat, his cravat, or his trousers; but nevertheless the matter

was one to which he paid much attention, and he was by no means

lax in ascertaining what his tailor did for him. He always rode a

pretty horse, and mounted his groom on one at any rate as pretty.

He was known to have an excellent stud down in the shires, and had

the reputation of going well with hounds. Poor Sir Marmaduke could

not have ridden a hunt to save either his government or his credit.

When, therefore, Mrs Trevelyan declared to her sister that Colonel

Osborne was a man whom she was entitled to regard with semi-parental

feelings of veneration because he was older than her father, she

made a comparison which was more true in the letter than in the

spirit. And when she asserted that Colonel Osborne had known her

since she was a baby, she fell again into the same mistake. Colonel

Osborne had indeed known her when she was a baby, and had in old

days been the very intimate friend of her father; but of herself

he had seen little or nothing since those baby days, till he had

met her just as she was about to become Mrs Trevelyan; and though

it was natural that so old a friend should come to her and congratulate

her and renew his friendship, nevertheless it was not true that

he made his appearance in her husband’s house in the guise of the

useful old family friend, who gives silver cups to the children and

kisses the little girls for the sake of the old affection which he

has borne for the parents. We all know the appearance of that old

gentleman, how pleasant and dear a fellow he is, how welcome is his

face within the gate, how free he makes with our wine, generally

abusing it, how he tells our eldest daughter to light his candle

for him, how he gave silver cups when the girls were born, and now

bestows tea-services as they get married—a most useful, safe, and

charming fellow, not a year younger-looking or more nimble than

ourselves, without whom life would be very blank. We all know that

man; but such a man was not Colonel Osborne in the house of Mr

Trevelyan’s young bride.

 

Emily Rowley, when she was brought home from the Mandarin Islands

to be the wife of Louis Trevelyan, was a very handsome young woman,

tall, with a bust rather full for her age, with dark eyes eyes that

looked to be dark because her eyebrows and eye-lashes were nearly

black, but which were in truth so varying in colour that you could

not tell their hue. Her brown hair was very dark and very soft;

and the tint of her complexion was brown also, though the colour

of her cheeks was often so bright as to induce her enemies to say

falsely of her that she painted them. And she was very strong,

as are some girls who come from the tropics, and whom a tropical

climate has suited. She could sit on her horse the whole day long,

and would never be weary with dancing at the Government House balls.

When Colonel Osborne was introduced to her as the baby whom he had

known, he thought it would be very pleasant to be intimate with so

pleasant a friend, meaning no harm indeed, as but few men do mean

harm on such occasions, but still, not regarding the beautiful

young woman whom he had seen as one of a generation succeeding to

that of his own, to whom it would be his duty to make himself useful

on account of the old friendship which he bore to her father.

 

It was, moreover, well known in London though not known at all

to Mrs Trevelyan that this ancient Lothario had before this made

himself troublesome in more than one family. He was fond of intimacies

with married ladies, and perhaps was not averse to the excitement

of marital hostility. It must be remembered, however, that the

hostility to which allusion is here made was not the hostility of the

pistol or the horsewhip nor indeed was it generally the hostility

of a word of spoken anger. A young husband may dislike the too-friendly

bearing of a friend, and may yet abstain from that outrage on his

own dignity and on his wife, which is conveyed by a word of suspicion.

Louis Trevelyan having taken a strong dislike to Colonel Osborne,

and having failed to make his wife understand that this dislike

should have induced her to throw cold water upon the Colonel’s

friendship, had allowed himself to speak a word which probably he

would have willingly recalled as soon as spoken. But words spoken

cannot be recalled, and many a man and many a woman who has spoken

a word at once regretted, are far too proud to express that regret.

So it was with Louis Trevelyan when he told his wife that he did

not wish Colonel Osborne to come so often to his house. He had said

it with a flashing eye and an angry tone; and though she had seen

the eye flash before, and was familiar with the angry tone, she

had never before felt herself to be insulted by her husband. As

soon as the word had been spoken Trevelyan had left the room and

had gone down among his books. But when he was alone he knew that

he had insulted his wife. He was quite aware that he should have

spoken to her gently, and have explained to her, with his arm

round her waist, that it would be better for both of them that this

friend’s friendship should be limited. There is so much in a turn

of the eye and in the tone given to a word when such things have to

be said, so much more of importance than in the words themselves.

As Trevelyan thought of this, and remembered what his manner had

been, how much anger he had expressed, how far he had been from

having his arm round his wife’s waist as he spoke to her, he almost

made up his mind to go upstairs and to apologise. But he was one

to whose nature the giving of any apology was repulsive. He could

not bear to have to own himself to have been wrong. And then his

wife had been most provoking in her manner to him. When he had

endeavoured to make her understand his wishes by certain disparaging

hints which he had thrown out as to Colonel Osborne, saying that

he was a dangerous man, one who did not show his true character,

a snake in the grass, a man without settled principles, and such

like, his wife had taken up the cudgels for her friend, and had

openly declared that she did not believe a word of the things that

were alleged against him. ‘But still for all that it is true,’

the husband had said. ‘I have no doubt that you think so,’ the wife

had replied. ‘Men do believe evil of one another, very often. But

you must excuse me if I say that I think you are mistaken. I have

known Colonel Osborne much longer than you have done, Louis, and

papa has always had the highest opinion of him.’ Then Mr Trevelyan

had become very angry, and had spoken those words which he could

not recall. As he walked to and fro among his books downstairs,

he almost felt that he ought to beg his wife’s pardon. He knew his

wife well enough to be sure that she would not forgive him unless he

did so. He would do so, he thought, but not exactly now. A moment

would come in which it might be easier than at present. He would

be able to assure her when he went up to dress for dinner, that

he had meant no harm. They were going out to dine at the house of

a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a lady standing

high in the world’s esteem, of whom his wife stood a little in awe;

and he calculated that this feeling, if it did not make his task

easy would yet take from it some of its difficulty. Emily would

be, not exactly cowed, by the prospect of Lady Milborough’s dinner,

but perhaps a little reduced from her usual self-assertion. He would

say a word to her when he was dressing, assuring her that he had

not intended to animadvert in the slightest degree upon her own

conduct.

 

Luncheon was served, and the two ladies went down into the dining-room.

Mr Trevelyan did not appear. There was nothing in itself singular

in that, as he was accustomed to declare that luncheon was a meal

too much in the day, and that a man should eat nothing beyond a

biscuit between breakfast and dinner. But he would sometimes come

in and eat his biscuit standing on the hearth-rug, and drink what

he would call half a quarter of a glass of sherry. It would probably

have been well that he should have done so now; but he remained

in his library behind the dining-room, and when his wife and his

sister-in-law had gone upstairs, he became anxious to learn whether,

Colonel Osborne would come on that day, and, if so, whether he would

be admitted. He had been told that Nora Rowley was to be called

for by another lady, a Mrs Fairfax, to go out and look at pictures.

His wife had declined to join Mrs Fairfax’s party, having declared

that, as she was going to dine out, she would not leave her baby

all the afternoon. Louis Trevelyan, though he strove to apply his

mind to an article which he was writing for a scientific quarterly

review, could not keep himself from anxiety as to this expected visit

from Colonel Osborne. He was not in the least jealous. He swore to

himself fifty times over that any such feeling on his part would

be a monstrous injury to his wife. Nevertheless he knew that he

would be gratified if on that special day Colonel Osborne should

be informed that his wife was not at home. Whether the man were

admitted or not, he would beg his wife’s pardon; but he could, he

thought, do so with more thorough efficacy and affection if she

should have shown a disposition to comply with his wishes on this

day.

 

‘Do say a word to Richard,’