He Knew He Was Right, Anthony Trollope [children's ebooks free online .TXT] 📗

his wife. Everything must go astray if that be done. I would rather

encounter their mad doctors, one of them after another till they had

made me mad; I would encounter anything rather than that. But, sir, you

neither eat nor drink, and I fear that my speech disturbs you.’

 

It was like enough that it may have done so. Trevelyan, as he had been

speaking, had walked about the room, going from one extremity to the

other with hurried steps, gesticulating with his arms, and every now

and then pushing back with his hands the long hair from off his

forehead. Mr Glascock was in truth very much disturbed. He had come

there with an express object; but, whenever he mentioned the child, the

father became almost rabid in his wrath. ‘I have done very well, thank

you,’ said Mr Glascock. ‘I will not eat any more, and I believe I must

be thinking of going back to Siena.’

 

‘I had hoped you would spend the day with me, Mr Glascock.’

 

‘I am to be married, you see, in two days; and I must be in Florence

early tomorrow. I am to meet my wife, as she will be, and the Rowleys,

and your wife. Upon my word I can’t stay. Won’t you just say a word to

the young woman and let the boy be got ready?’

 

‘I think not; no, I think not.’

 

‘And am I to have had all this journey for nothing? You will have made

a fool of me in writing to me.’

 

‘I intended to be honest, Mr Glascock.’

 

‘Stick to your honesty, and send the boy back to his mother. It will be

better for you, Trevelyan.’

 

‘Better for me! Nothing can be better for me. All must be worst. It

will be better for me, you say; and you ask me to give up the last drop

of cold water wherewith I can touch my parched lips. Even in my hell I

had so much left to me of a limpid stream, and you tell me that it will

be better for me to pour it away. You may take him, Mr Glascock. The

woman will make him ready for you. What matters it whether the fiery

furnace be heated seven times, or only six; in either degree the flames

are enough! You may take him, you may take him!’ So saying, Trevelyan

walked out of the window, leaving Mr Glascock seated in his chair. He

walked out of the window and went down among the olive trees. He did

not go far, however, but stood with his arm round the stem of one of

them, playing with the shoots of a vine with his hand. Mr Glascock

followed him to the window and stood looking at him for a few moments.

But Trevelyan did not turn or move. There he stood gazing at the pale,

cloudless, heat-laden, motionless sky, thinking of his own sorrows, and

remembering too, doubtless, with the vanity of a madman, that he was

probably being watched in his reverie.

 

Mr Glascock was too practical a man not to make the most of the offer

that had been made to him, and he went back among the passages and

called for Catarina. Before long he had two or three women with him,

including her whom he had brought from Florence, and among them Louey

was soon made to appear, dressed for his journey, together with a small

trunk in which were his garments. It was quite clear that the order for

his departure had been given before that scene at the breakfast-table,

and that Trevelyan had not intended to go back on his promise.

Nevertheless Mr Glascock thought it might be as well to hurry his

departure, and he turned back to say the shortest possible word of

farewell to Trevelyan in the garden. But when he got to the window,

Trevelyan was not to be found among the olive trees. Mr Glascock walked

a few steps down the hill, looking for him, but seeing nothing of him,

returned to the house. The elder woman said that her master had not

been there, and Mr Glascock started with his charge. Trevelyan was

manifestly mad, and it was impossible to treat him as a sane man would

have been treated. Nevertheless, Mr Glascock felt much compunction in

carrying the child away without a final kiss or word of farewell from

its father. But it was not to be so. He had got into the carriage with

the child, having the servant seated opposite to him, for he was moved

by some undefinable fear which made him determine to keep the boy close

to him, and he had not, therefore, returned to the driver’s seat when

Trevelyan appeared standing by the roadside at the bottom of the hill.

‘Would you take him away from me without one word!’ said Trevelyan

bitterly.

 

‘I went to look for you, but you were gone,’ said Mr Glascock.

 

‘No, sir, I was not gone. I am here. It is the last time that I shall

ever gladden my eyes with his brightness. Louey, my love, will you come

to your father?’ Louey did not seem to be particularly willing to leave

the carriage, but he made no loud objection when Mr Glascock held him

up to the open space above the door. The child had realised the fact

that he was to go, and did not believe that his father would stop him

now; but he was probably of opinion that the sooner the carriage began

to go on the better it would be for him. Mr Glascock, thinking that his

father intended to kiss him over the door, held him by his frock; but

the doing of this made Trevelyan very angry. ‘Am I not to be trusted

with my own child in my arms?’ said he. ‘Give him to me, sir. I begin

to doubt now whether I am right to deliver him to you.’ Mr Glascock

immediately let go his hold of the boy’s frock and leaned back in the

carriage. ‘Louey will tell papa that he loves him before he goes?’ said

Trevelyan. The poor little fellow murmured something, but it did not

please his father, who had him in his arms. ‘You are like the rest of

them, Louey,’ he said; ‘because I cannot laugh and be gay, all my love

for you is nothing—nothing! You may take him. He is all that I have, all

that I have, and I shall never see him again!’ So saying he handed the

child into the carriage, and sat himself down by the side of the road

to watch till the vehicle should be out of sight. As soon as the last

speck of it had vanished from his sight, he picked himself up, and

dragged his slow footsteps back to the house.

 

Mr Glascock made sundry attempts to amuse the child, with whom he had

to remain all that night at Siena; but his efforts in that line were

not very successful. The boy was brisk enough, and happy, and social by

nature; but the events, or rather the want of events of the last few

months, had so cowed him, that he could not recover his spirits at the

bidding of a stranger. ‘If I have any of my own,’ said Mr Glascock to

himself, ‘I hope they will be of a more cheerful disposition.’

 

As we have seen, he did not meet Caroline at the station, thereby

incurring his lady-love’s displeasure for the period of half-a-minute;

but he did meet Mrs Trevelyan almost at the door of Sir Marmaduke’s

lodgings. ‘Yes, Mrs Trevelyan; he is here.’

 

‘How am I ever to thank you for such goodness?’ said she. ‘And Mr

Trevelyan—you saw him?’

 

‘Yes I saw him.’

 

Before he could answer her further she was upstairs, and had her child

in her arms. It seemed to be an age since the boy had been stolen from

her in the early spring in that unknown, dingy street near Tottenham

Court Road. Twice she had seen her darling since that, twice during his

captivity; but on each of these occasions she had seen him as one not

belonging to herself, and had seen him under circumstances which had

robbed the greeting of almost all its pleasure. But now he was her own

again, to take whither she would, to dress and to undress, to feed, to

coax, to teach, and to caress. And the child lay up close to her as she

hugged him, putting up his little cheek to her chin, and burying

himself happily in her embrace. He had not much as yet to say, but she

could feel that he was contented.

 

Mr Glascock had promised to wait for her a few minutes, even at the risk

of Caroline’s displeasure, and Mrs Trevelyan ran down to him as soon as

the first craving of her mother’s love was satisfied. Her boy would at

any rate be safe with her now, and it was her duty to learn something

of her husband. It was more than her duty, if only her services might be

of avail to him. ‘And you say he was well?’ she asked. She had taken Mr

Glascock apart, and they were alone together, and he had determined

that he would tell her the truth.

 

‘I do not know that he is ill, though he is pale and altered beyond

belief.’

 

‘Yes I saw that.’

 

‘I never knew a man so thin and haggard.’

 

‘My poor Louis!’

 

‘But that is not the worst of it.’

 

‘What do you mean, Mr Glascock?’

 

‘I mean that his mind is astray, and that he should not be left alone.

There is no knowing what he might do. He is so much more alone there

than he would be in England. There is not a soul who could interfere.’

 

‘Do you mean that you think that he is in danger from himself?’

 

‘I would not say so, Mrs Trevelyan; but who can tell? I am sure of this,

that he should not be left alone. If it were only because of the misery

of his life, he should not be left alone.’

 

‘But what can I do? He would not even see papa.’

 

‘He would see you.’

 

‘But he would not let me guide him in anything. I have been to him

twice, and he breaks out as if I were a bad woman.’

 

‘Let him break out. What does it matter?’

 

‘Am I to own to a falsehood, and such a falsehood?’

 

‘Own to anything, and you will conquer him at once. That is what I

think. You will excuse what I say, Mrs Trevelyan.’

 

‘Oh, Mr Glascock, you have been such a friend! What should we have done

without you!’

 

‘You cannot take to heart the words that come from a disordered reason.

In truth, he believes no ill of you.’

 

‘But he says so.’

 

‘It is hard to know what he says. Declare that you will submit to him,

and I think that he will be softened towards you. Try to bring him back

to his own country. It may be that were he to die there, alone, the

memory of his loneliness would be heavy with you in after days.’ Then,

having so spoken, he rushed off, declaring, with a forced laugh, that

Caroline Spalding would never forgive him.

 

The next day was the day of the wedding, and Emily Trevelyan was left

all alone. It was of course out of the question that she should join

any party the purport of which was to be festive. Sir Marmaduke went

with some grumbling, declaring that wine and