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

CHAPTER XXVII

MR TREVELYAN’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE

 

Trevelyan, when he was left alone, sat for above a couple of hours

contemplating the misery of his position, and endeavouring to teach

himself by thinking what ought to be his future conduct. It never

occurred to him during these thoughts that it would be well that he

should at once take back his wife, either as a matter of duty, or of

welfare, for himself or for her. He had taught himself to believe that

she had disgraced him; and, though this feeling of disgrace made him so

wretched that he wished that he were dead, he would allow himself to

make no attempt at questioning the correctness of his conviction.

Though he were to be shipwrecked for ever, even that seemed to be

preferable to supposing that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he loved

his wife dearly, and, in the white heat of his anger endeavoured to be

merciful to her. When Stanbury accused him of severity, he would not

condescend to defend himself; but he told himself then of his great

mercy. Was he not as fond of his own boy as any other father, and had

he not allowed her to take the child because he had felt that a

mother’s love was more imperious, more craving in its nature, than the

love of a father? Had that been severe? And had he not resolved to

allow her every comfort which her unfortunate position the self-imposed

misfortune of her position would allow her to enjoy? She had come to

him without a shilling; and yet, bad as her treatment of him had been,

he was willing to give enough not only to support her, but her sister

also, with every comfort. Severe! No; that, at least, was an undeserved

accusation. He had been anything but severe. Foolish he might have

been, in taking a wife from a home in which she had been unable to

learn the discretion of a matron; too trusting he had been, and too

generous but certainly not severe. But, of course, as he said to

himself, a young man like Stanbury would take the part of a woman with

whose sister he was in love. Then he turned his thoughts upon Bozzle,

and there came over him a crushing feeling of ignominy, shame, moral

dirt, and utter degradation, as he reconsidered his dealings with that

ingenious gentleman. He was paying a rogue to watch the steps of a man

whom he hated, to pry into the home secrets, to read the letters, to

bribe the servants, to record the movements of this rival, this

successful rival, in his wife’s affections! It was a filthy thing and

yet what could he do? Gentlemen of old, his own grandfather or his

father, would have taken such a fellow as Colonel Osborne by the throat

and have caned him, and afterwards would have shot him, or have stood

to be shot.

 

All that was changed now, but it was not his fault that it was changed.

He was willing enough to risk his life, could any opportunity of

risking it in this cause be obtained for him. But were he to cudgel

Colonel Osborne, he would be simply arrested, and he would then be told

that he had disgraced himself foully by striking a man old enough to be

his father!

 

How was he to have avoided the employment of some such man as Bozzle?

He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury; and what was

the result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attempt

to deny that there had been a correspondence, and that there had been a

visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretended such

blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreed in

condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wanted facts,

not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him; but Bozzle, either

by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He did not doubt but that

Bozzle was right about that letter written only yesterday, and received

on that very morning. His wife, who had probably been complaining of

her wrongs to Stanbury, must have retired from that conversation to her

chamber, and immediately have written this letter to her lover! With

such a woman as that what can be done in these days otherwise than by

the aid of such a one as Bozzle? He could not confine his wife in a

dungeon. He could not save himself from the disgrace of her misconduct

by any rigours of surveillance on his own part. As wives are managed

nowadays, he could not forbid to her the use of the post-office, could

not hinder her from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel, who carried on

his wickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had given

her every chance to amend her conduct; but, if she were resolved on

disobedience, he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts,

however, it was necessary that he should know.

 

And now, what should he do? How should he go to work to make her

understand that she could not write even a letter without his knowing

it; and that if she did either write to the man or see him he would

immediately take the child from her, and provide for her only in such

fashion as the law should demand from him? For himself, and his own

life, he thought that he had determined what he would do. It was

impossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamed to

enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agony to

speak. They who knew of him, knew also of his disgrace, and no longer

asked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and sat

alone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuit

was open to him. He spend his time in thinking of his wife, and of the

disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this, he knew,

was unmanly and shameful, and it was absolutely necessary for him that

he should in some way change it. He would go out of England, and would

travel if only he could so dispose of his wife that she might be safe

from any possible communication with Colonel Osborne. If that could be

effected, nothing that money could do should be spared for her. If that

could not be effected he would remain at home and crush her.

 

That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his wife, which

was as follows:

 

Dear Emily,

 

I have learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you have

corresponded with Colonel Osborne since you have been at Nuncombe

Putney, and also that you have seen him there. This has been done in

direct opposition to my expressed wishes, and I feel myself compelled

to tell you that such conduct is disgraceful to you, and disgracing to

me. I am quite at a loss to understand how you can reconcile to

yourself so flagrant a disobedience of my instructions, and so perverse

a disregard to the opinion of the world at large.

 

But I do not write now for the sake of finding fault with you. It is

too late for me to have any hope that I can do so with good effect,

either as regards your credit or my happiness. Nevertheless, it is my

duty to protect both you and myself from further shame; and I wish to

tell you what are my intentions with that view. In the first place, I

warn you that I keep a watch on you. The doing so is very painful to

me, but it is absolutely necessary. You cannot see Colonel Osborne, or

write to him, without my knowing it. I pledge you my word that in

either case—that is, if you correspond with him or see him—I will at

once take our boy away from you. I will not allow him to remain, even

with a mother, who shall so misconduct herself. Should Colonel Osborne

address a letter to you, I desire that you will put it under an

envelope addressed to me.

 

If you obey my commands on this head I will leave our boy with you nine

months out of every year till he shall be six years old. Such, at

least, is my present idea, though I will not positively bind myself to

adhere to it. And I will allow you 800 pounds per year, for your own

maintenance and that of your sister. I am greatly grieved to find from

my friend Mr Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborne

has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs

Stanbury’s house. I do not wonder that it should be so. I shall

immediately seek for a future home for you, and when I have found one

that is suitable, I will have you conveyed to it.

 

I must now further explain my purposes and I must beg you to remember

that I am driven to do so by your direct disobedience to my expressed

wishes. Should there be any further communication between you and

Colonel Osborne, not only will I take your child away from you, but I