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

device of his own, he got her

into the back room and whispered to her that he wanted to say a few

words in private to her sister.

 

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mrs Trevelyan, smiling.

 

‘I dare say you may guess what they are,’ said he. ‘I don’t know what

chance I may have?’

 

‘I can tell you nothing about that,’ she replied, ‘as I know nothing.

But you have my good wishes.’

 

And then she went.

 

It may be presumed that gradually some idea of Mr Glascock’s intention

had made its way into Nora’s mind by the time that she found herself

alone with that gentleman. Why else had he brought into the room with

him that manifest air of a purpose? Why else had he taken the very

strong step of sending the lady of the house out of her own

drawing-room? Nora, beginning to understand this, put herself into an

attitude of defence. She had never told herself that she would refuse

Mr Glascock. She had never acknowledged to herself that there was

another man whom she liked better than she liked Mr Glascock. But had

she ever encouraged any wish for such an interview, her feelings at

this moment would have been very different from what they were. As it

was, she would have given much to postpone it, so that she might have

asked herself questions, and have discovered whether she could

reconcile herself to do that which, no doubt, all her friends would

commend her for doing. Of course, it was clear enough to the mind of

the girl that she had her fortune to make, and that her beauty and

youth were the capital on which she had to found it. She had not lived

so far from all taint of corruption as to feel any actual horror at the

idea of a girl giving herself to a man not because the man had already,

by his own capacities in that direction, forced her heart from her but

because he was one likely to be at all points a good husband. Had all

this affair concerned any other girl, any friend of her own, and had

she known all the circumstances of the case, she would have had no

hesitation in recommending that other girl to marry Mr Glascock. A girl

thrown out upon the world without a shilling must make her hay while

the sun shines. But, nevertheless, there was something within her bosom

which made her long for a better thing than this. She had dreamed, if

she had not thought, of being able to worship a man; but she could

hardly worship Mr Glascock. She had dreamed, if she had not thought, of

leaning upon a man all through life with her whole weight, as though

that man had been specially made to be her staff, her prop, her

support, her wall of comfort and protection. She knew that if she were

to marry Mr Glascock and become Lady Peterborough, in due course she

must stand a good deal by her own strength, and live without that

comfortable leaning. Nevertheless, when she found herself alone with

the man, she by no means knew whether she would refuse him or not. But

she knew that she must pluck up courage for an important moment, and

she collected herself, braced her muscles, as it were, for a fight, and

threw her mind into an attitude of contest.

 

Mr Glascock, as soon as the door was shut behind Mrs Trevelyan’s back,

took a chair and placed it close beside the head of the sofa on which

Nora was sitting. ‘Miss Rowley,’ he said, ‘you and I have known each

other now for some months, and I hope you have learned to regard me as

a friend.’

 

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Nora, with some spirit.

 

‘It has seemed to me that we have met as friends, and I can most truly

say for myself, that I have taken the greatest possible pleasure in

your acquaintance. It is not only that I admire you very much,’ he

looked straight before him as he said this, and moved about the point

of the stick which he was holding in both his hands ‘it is not only

that, perhaps not chiefly that, though I do admire you very much; but

the truth is, that I like everything about you.’

 

Nora smiled, but she said nothing. It was better, she thought, to let

him tell his story; but his mode of telling it was not without its

efficacy. It was not the simple praise which made its way with her but

a certain tone in the words which seemed to convince her that they were

true. If he had really found her, or fancied her to be what he said,

there was a manliness in his telling her so in the plainest words that

pleased her much.

 

‘I know,’ continued he, ‘that this is a very bald way of telling, of

pleading my cause; but I don’t know whether a bald way may not be the

best, if it can only make itself understood to be true. Of course, Miss

Rowley, you know what I mean. As I said before, you have all those

things which not only make me love you, but which make me like you

also. If you think that you can love me, say so; and, as long as I

live, I will do my best to make you happy as my wife.’

 

There was a clearness of expression in this, and a downright surrender

of himself, which so flattered her and so fluttered her that she was

almost reduced to the giving of herself up because she could not reply

to such an appeal in language less courteous than that of agreement.

After a moment or two she found herself remaining silent, with a

growing feeling that silence would be taken as conveying consent. There

floated quickly across her brain an idea of the hardness of a woman’s

lot, in that she should be called upon to decide her future fate for

life in half a minute. He had had weeks to think of this, weeks in which

it would have been almost unmaidenly in her so to think of it as to

have made up her mind to accept the man. Had she so made up her mind,

and had he not come to her, where would she have been then? But he had

come to her. There he was, still poking about with his stick, waiting

for her, and she must answer him. And he was the eldest son of a peer,

an enormous match for her, very proper in all respects; such a man,

that if she should accept him, everybody around her would regard her

fortune in life as miraculously successful. He was not such a man that

anyone would point at her and say ‘there; see another of them who has

sold herself for money and a title!’ Mr Glascock was not an Apollo, not

an admirable Crichton; but he was a man whom any girl might have

learned to love. Now he had asked her to be his wife, and it was

necessary that she should answer him. He sat there waiting for her very

patiently, still poking about the point of his stick.

 

Did she really love him? Though she was so pressed by consideration of

time, she did find a moment in which to ask herself the question. With

a quick turn of an eye she glanced at him, to see what he was like. Up

to this moment, though she knew him well, she could have given no

details of his personal appearance. He was a better-looking man than

Hugh Stanbury, so she told herself with a passing thought; but he lacked,

he lacked; what was it that he lacked? Was it youth, or spirit, or

strength; or was it some outward sign of an inward gift of mind? Was it

that he was heavy while Hugh was light? Was it that she could find no

fire in his eye, while Hugh’s eyes were full of flashing? Or was it

that for her, especially for her, Hugh was the appointed staff and

appropriate wall of protection? Be all that as it might, she knew at

the moment that she did love, not this man, but that other who was

writing articles for the Daily Record. She must refuse the offer that

was so brilliant, and give up the idea of reigning as queen at

Monkhams.

 

‘Oh, Mr Glascock,’ she said, ‘I ought to answer you more quickly.’

 

‘No, dearest; not more quickly than suits you. Nothing ever in this

world can be more important both to you and to me. If you want more

time to think of it, take more time.’

 

‘No, Mr Glascock; I do not. I don’t know why I should have paused. Is

not the truth best?’

 

‘Yes certainly the truth is best.’

 

‘I do not love you. Pray, pray understand me.’

 

‘I understand it too well, Miss Rowley.’ The stick was still going, and

the eyes more intently, fixed than ever on something opposite.

 

‘I do like you; I like you very much. And I am so grateful! I cannot

understand why such a man as you should want to make me your wife.’

 

‘Because I love you better than all the others; simply that. That

reason, and that only, justifies a man in wanting to marry a girl.’

What a good fellow he was, and how flattering were his words! Did he

not deserve what he wanted, even though it could not be given without a

sacrifice? But yet she did not love him. As she looked at him again she

could not there recognise her staff. And she looked at him she was more

than ever convinced that that other staff ought to be her staff. ‘May I

come again after a month, say?’ he asked, when there had been another

short period of silence.

 

‘No, no. Why should you trouble yourself? I am not worth it.’

 

‘It is for me to judge of that, Miss Rowley.’

 

‘All the same, I know that I am not worth it. And I could not tell you

to do that.’

 

‘Then I will wait, and come again without your telling me.’

 

‘Oh, Mr Glascock, I did not mean that; indeed I did not. Pray do not

think that. Take what I say as final. I like you more than I can say;

and I feel a gratitude to you that I cannot express, which I shall never

forget. I have never known any one who has seemed to be so good as you.

But It is just what I said before.’ And then she fairly burst into

tears.

 

‘Miss Rowley,’ he said, very slowly, ‘pray do not think that I want to

ask any question which it might embarrass you to answer. But my

happiness is so greatly at stake; and, if you will allow me to say so,

your happiness, too, is so greatly concerned, that it is most important

that we should not come to a conclusion too quickly. If I thought that

your heart were vacant I would wait patiently. I have been thinking of

you as my possible wife for weeks past, for months past. Of course you

have not had such thoughts about me.’ As he said this she almost loved

him for his considerate goodness. ‘It has sometimes seemed to me odd

that girls should love men in such a hurry. If your heart be free, I

will wait. And if you esteem me, you can see, and try whether you

cannot learn to love me.’

 

‘I do esteem you.’

 

‘It depends on that question, then?’ he