Books: He Knew He Was Right

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'I know nothing of their plans beyond this, that you wrote me word that
you would send them the boy.'

'But I know their plans. What you say is true. I did write you word and
I meant it. Mr Glascock, sitting here alone from morning to night, and
lying down from night till morning, without companionship, without
love, in utter misery, I taught myself to feel that I should think more
of her than of myself.'

'If you are so unhappy here, come back yourself with the child. Your
wife would desire nothing better.'

'Yes and submit to her, and her father, and her mother. No Mr Glascock;
never, never. Let her come to me.'

'But you will not receive her.'

'Let her come in a proper spirit, and I will receive her. She is the
wife of my bosom, and I will receive her with joy. But if she is to
come to me and tell me that she forgives me forgives me for the evil
that she has done then, sir, she had better stay away. Mr Glascock, you
are going to be married. Believe me no man should submit to be forgiven
by his wife. Everything must go astray if that be done. I would rather
encounter their mad doctors, one of them after another ill 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 to-morrow. 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 road-side 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 severe food in the
mornings were sins against the plainest rules of life. And the three
Rowley girls went, Nora officiating as one of the bridesmaids. But Mrs
Trevelyan was left with her boy, and during the day she was forced to
resolve what should be the immediate course of her life. Two days after
the wedding her family would return to England. It was open to her to
go with them, and to take her boy with her. But a few days since how
happy she would have been could she have been made to believe that such
a mode of returning would be within her power! But now she felt that
she might not return and leave that poor, suffering wretch behind her.
As she thought of him she tried to interrogate herself in regard to her
feelings. Was it love, or duty, or compassion which stirred her? She
had loved him as fondly as any bright young woman loves the man who is
to take her away from everything else, and make her a part of his house
and of himself. She had loved him as Nora now loved the man whom she
worshipped and thought to be a god, doing godlike work in the dingy
recesses of the D. R. office. Emily Trevelyan was forced to tell
herself that all that was over with her. Her husband had shown himself
to be weak, suspicious, unmanly by no means like a god. She had learned
to feel that she could not trust her comfort in his hands that she
could never know what his thoughts of her might be. But still he was
her husband, and the father of her child; and though she could not dare
to look forward to happiness in living with him, she could understand
that no comfort would be possible to her, were she to return to England
and to leave him to perish alone at Casalunga. Fate seemed to have
intended that her life should be one of misery, and she must bear it as
best she might.

The more she thought of it, however, the greater seemed to be her
difficulties. What was she to do when her father and mother should have
left her? She could not go to Casalunga if her husband would not give
her entrance; and if she did go, would it be safe for her to take her
boy with her? Were she to remain in Florence she would be hardly nearer
to him for any useful purpose than in England; and even should she
pitch her tent at Siena, occupying there' some desolate set of huge
apartments in a deserted palace, of what use could she be to him? Could
she stay there if he desired her to go; and was it probable that he
would be willing that she should be at Siena while he was living at
Casalunga no more than two leagues distant? How should she begin her
work; and if he repulsed her, how should she then continue it?

But during these wedding hours she did make up her mind as to what she
would do for the present. She would certainly not leave Italy while her
husband remained there. She would for a while keep her rooms in
Florence, and there should her boy abide. But from time to time twice a
week perhaps she would go down to Siena and Casalunga, and there form
her plans in accordance with her husband's conduct. She was his wife,
and nothing should entirely separate her from him, now that he so
sorely wanted her aid.

CHAPTER LXXXVII - MR GLASCOCK'S MARRIAGE COMPLETED

The Glascock marriage was a great affair in Florence so much so, that
there were not a few who regarded it as a strengthening of peaceful
relations between the United States and the United Kingdom, and who
thought that the Alabama claims and the question of naturalisation
might now be settled with comparative ease. An English lord was about
to marry the niece of an American Minister to a foreign court. The
bridegroom was not, indeed, quite a lord as yet, but it was known to
all men that he must be a lord in a very short time, and the bride was
treated with more than usual bridal honours because she belonged to a
legation. She was not, indeed, an ambassador's daughter, but the niece
of a daughterless ambassador, and therefore almost as good as a
daughter. The wives and daughters of other ambassadors, and the
ambassadors themselves, of course, came to the wedding; and as the
palace in which Mr Spalding had apartments stood alone, in a garden,
with a separate carriage entrance, it seemed for all wedding purposes
as though the whole palace were his own. The English Minister came, and
his wife although she had never quite given over turning up her nose at
the American bride whom Mr Glascock had chosen for himself. It was such
a pity, she said, that such a man as Mr Glascock should marry a young
woman from Providence, Rhode Island. Who in England would know anything
of Providence, Rhode Island? And it was so expedient, in her
estimation, that a man of family should strengthen himself by marrying
a woman of family. It was so necessary, she declared, that a man when
marrying should remember that his child would have two grandfathers,
and would be called upon to account for four great-grandfathers.
Nevertheless Mr Glascock was Mr Glascock; and, let him marry whom he
would, his wife would be the future Lady Peterborough. Remembering
this, the English Minister's wife gave up the point when the thing was
really settled, and benignly promised to come to the breakfast with all
the secretaries and attaches belonging to the legation, and all the
wives and daughters thereof. What may a man not do, and do with eclat,
if he be heir to a peer and have plenty of money in his pocket?

Mr and Mrs Spalding were covered with glory on the occasion; and
perhaps they did not bear their glory as meekly as they should have
done. Mrs Spalding laid herself open to some ridicule from the British
Minister's wife because of her inability to understand with absolute
clearness the condition of her niece's husband in respect to his late
and future seat in Parliament, to the fact of his being a commoner and
a nobleman at the same time, and to certain information which was
conveyed to her, surely in a most unnecessary manner, that if Mr
Glascock were to die before his father her niece would never become
Lady Peterborough, although her niece's son, if she had one, would be
the future lord. No doubt she blundered, as was most natural; and then
the British Minister's wife made the most of the blunders; and when
once Mrs Spalding ventured to speak of Caroline as her ladyship, not to
the British Minister's wife, but to the sister of one of the
secretaries, a story was made out of it which was almost as false as it
was ill-natured. Poor Caroline was spoken of as her ladyship backward
and forwards among the ladies of the legation in a manner which might
have vexed her had she known anything about it; but nevertheless, all
the ladies prepared their best flounces to go to the wedding. The time
would soon come when she would in truth be a 'ladyship,' and she might
be of social use to any one of the ladies in question.

But Mr Spalding was, for the time, the most disturbed of any of the
party concerned. He was a tall, thin, clever Republican of the North
very fond of hearing himself talk, and somewhat apt to take advantage
of the courtesies of conversation for the purpose of making
unpardonable speeches. As long as there was any give and take going on
in the melee of words he would speak quickly and with energy, seizing
his chances among others; but the moment he had established his right
to the floor as soon as he had won for himself the position of having
his turn at the argument, he would dole out his words with considerable
slowness, raise his hand for oratorical effect, and proceed as though
Time were annihilated. And he would go further even than this, for
fearing by experience the escape of his victims he would catch a man by
the button-hole of his coat, or back him ruthlessly into the corner of
a room, and then lay on to him without quarter. Since the affair with
Mr Glascock had been settled, he had talked an immensity about England
not absolutely taking honour to himself because of his intended
connection with a lord, but making so many references to the
aristocratic side of the British constitution as to leave no doubt on
the minds of his hearers as to the source of his arguments. In old
days, before all this was happening, Mr Spalding, though a courteous
man in his personal relations, had constantly spoken of England with
the bitter indignation of the ordinary American politician. England
must be made to disgorge. England must be made to do justice. England
must be taught her place in the world. England must give up her claims.
In hot moments he had gone further, and had declared that England must
be whipped. He had been specially loud against that aristocracy of
England which, according to a figure of speech often used by him, was
always feeding on the vitals of the people. But now all this was very
much changed. He did not go the length of expressing an opinion that
the House of Lords was a valuable institution; but he discussed
questions of primogeniture and hereditary legislation, in reference to
their fitness for countries which were gradually emerging from feudal
systems, with an equanimity, an impartiality, and a perseverance which
soon convinced those who listened to him where he had learned his
present lessons, and why. 'The conservative nature of your
institutions, sir,' he said to poor Sir Marmaduke at the Baths of Lucca
a very few days before the marriage, 'has to be studied with great care
before its effects can be appreciated in reference to a people who,
perhaps, I may be allowed to say, have more in their composition of
constitutional reverence than of educated intelligence.' Sir Marmaduke,
having suffered before, had endeavoured to bolt; but the American had
caught him and pinned him, and the Governor of the Mandarins was
impotent in his hands. 'The position of the great peer of Parliament is
doubtless very splendid, and may be very useful,' continued Mr
Spalding, who was intending to bring round his argument to the evil
doings of certain scandalously extravagant young lords, and to offer a
suggestion that in such cases a committee of aged and respected peers
should sit and decide whether a second son, or some other heir should
not be called to the inheritance both of the title and the property.
But Mrs Spalding had seen the sufferings of Sir Marmaduke, and had
rescued him. 'Mr Spalding,' she had said, 'it is too late for politics,
and Sir Marmaduke has come out here for a holiday.' Then she took her
husband by the arm, and led him away helpless.

In spite of these drawbacks to the success if ought can be said to be a
drawback on success of which the successful one is unconscious the
marriage was prepared with great splendour, and everybody who was
anybody in Florence was to be present. There were only to be four
bridesmaids, Caroline herself having strongly objected to a greater
number. As Wallachia Petrie had fled at the first note of preparation
for these trivial and unpalatable festivities, another American young
lady was found; and the sister of the English secretary of legation,
who had so maliciously spread that report about her 'ladyship,' gladly
agreed to be the fourth.

As the reader will remember, the whole party from the Baths of Lucca
reached Florence only the day before the marriage, and Nora at the
station promised to go up to Caroline that same evening. 'Mr Glascock
will tell me about the little boy,' said Caroline; 'but I shall be so
anxious to hear about your sister.' So Nora crossed the bridge after
dinner, and went up to the American Minister's palatial residence.
Caroline was then in the loggia, and Mr Glascock was with her; and for
a while they talked about Emily Trevelyan and her misfortunes. Mr
Glascock was clearly of opinion that Trevelyan would soon be either in
an asylum or in his grave. 'I could not bring myself to tell your
sister so,' he said; 'but I think your father should be told or your
mother. Something should be done to put an end to that fearful
residence at Casalunga.' Then by degrees the conversation changed
itself to Nora's prospects; and Caroline, with her friend's hand in
hers, asked after Hugh Stanbury.

'You will not mind speaking before him will you?' said Caroline,
putting her hand on her own lover's arm.

'Not unless he should mind it,' said Nora, smiling.

She had meant nothing beyond a simple reply to her friend's question,
but he took her words in a different sense, and blushed as he
remembered his visit to Nuncombe Putney.

'He thinks almost more of your happiness than he does of mine,' said
Caroline; 'which isn't fair, as I am sure that Mr Stanbury will not
reciprocate the attention. And now, dear, when are we to see you?'

'Who on earth can say?'

'I suppose Mr Stanbury would say something only he is not here.'

'And papa won't send my letter,' said Nora.

'You are sure that you will not go out to the Islands with him?'

'Quite sure,' said Nora. 'I have made up my mind so far as that.'

'And what will your sister do?'

'I think she will stay. I think she will say good-bye to papa and mamma
here in Florence.'

'I am quite of opinion that she should not leave her husband alone in
Italy,' said Mr Glascock.

'She has not told us with certainty,' said Nora; 'but I feel sure that
she will stay. Papa thinks she ought to go with them to London.'

'Your papa seems to have two very intractable daughters,' said
Caroline.

'As for me,' declared Nora, solemnly, 'nothing shall make me go back to
the Islands unless Mr Stanbury should tell me to do so.'

'And they start at the end of July?'

'On the last Saturday.'

'And what will you do then, Nora?'

'I believe there are casual wards that people go to.'

'Casual wards!' said Caroline.

'Miss Rowley is condescending to poke her fun at you,' said Mr
Glascock.

'She is quite welcome, and shall poke as much as she likes; only we
must be serious now. If it be necessary, we will get back by the end of
July won't we, Charles?'

'You will do nothing of the kind,' said Nora. 'What! give up your
honeymoon to provide me with board and lodgings! How can you suppose
that I am so selfish or so helpless? I would go to my aunt, Mrs
Outhouse.'