He Knew He Was Right - Anthony Trollope (rainbow fish read aloud txt) 📗

to himself not only that he did not believe

her to have been false to him, but that he had never accused her of

such crime. He had demanded from her obedience, and she had been

disobedient. It had been incumbent upon him, so ran his own ideas, as

expressed to himself in these long unspoken soliloquies, to exact

obedience, or at least compliance, let the consequences be what they

might. She had refused to obey or even to comply, and the consequences

were very grievous. But, though he pitied himself with a pity that was

feminine, yet he acknowledged to himself that her conduct had been the

result of his own moody temperament. Every friend had parted from him.

All those to whose counsels he had listened, had counselled him that he

was wrong. The whole world was against him. Had he remained in England,

the doctors and lawyers among them would doubtless have declared him to

be mad. He knew all this, and yet he could not yield. He could not say

that he had been wrong. He could not even think that he had been wrong

as to the cause of the great quarrel. He was one so miserable and so

unfortunate, so he thought, that even in doing right he had fallen into

perdition!

 

He had had two enemies, and between them they had worked his ruin.

These were Colonel Osborne and Bozzle. It may be doubted whether he did

not hate the latter the more strongly of the two. He knew now that

Bozzle had been untrue to him, but his disgust did not spring from that

so much as from the feeling that he had defiled himself by dealing with

the man. Though he was quite assured that he had been right in his

first cause of offence, he knew that he had fallen from bad to worse in

every step that he had taken since. Colonel Osborne had marred his

happiness by vanity, by wicked intrigue, by a devilish delight in doing

mischief; but he, he himself, had consummated the evil by his own

folly. Why had he not taken Colonel Osborne by the throat, instead of

going to a low-born, vile, mercenary spy for assistance? He hated

himself for what he had done, and yet it was impossible that he should

yield.

 

It was impossible that he should yield but it was yet open to him to

sacrifice himself. He could not go back to his wife and say that he was

wrong; but he could determine that the destruction should fall upon him

and not upon her. If he gave up his child and then died—died, alone,

without any friend near him, with no word of love in his ears, in that

solitary and miserable abode which he had found for himself—then it

would at least be acknowledged that he had expiated the injury that he

had done. She would have his wealth, his name, his child to comfort her

and would be troubled no longer by demands for that obedience which she

had sworn at the altar to give him, and which she had since declined to

render to him. Perhaps there was some feeling that the coals of fire

would be hot upon her head when she should think how much she had

received from him and how little she had done for him. And yet he loved

her, with all his heart, and would even yet dream of bliss that might

be possible with her had not the terrible hand of irresistible Fate

come between them and marred it all. It was only a dream now. It could

be no more than a dream. He put out his thin wasted hands and looked at

them, and touched the hollowness of his own cheeks, and coughed that he

might hear the hacking sound of his own infirmity, and almost took

glory in his weakness. It could not be long before the coals of fire

would be heaped upon her head.

 

‘Louey,’ he said at last, addressing the child who had sat for an hour

gazing through the window without stirring a limb or uttering a sound;

‘Louey, my boy, would you like to go back to mamma?’ The child turned

round on the floor, and fixed his eyes on his father’s face, but made

no immediate reply. ‘Louey, dear, come to papa and tell him. Would it

be nice to go back to mamma?’ And he stretched out his hand to the boy.

Louey got up, and approached slowly and stood between his father’s

knees. ‘Tell me, darling, you understand what papa says?’

 

‘Altro!’ said the boy, who had been long enough among Italian servants

to pick up the common words of the language. Of course he would like to

go back. How indeed could it be otherwise?

 

‘Then you shall go to her, Louey.’

 

‘To-day, papa?’

 

‘Not today, nor tomorrow.’

 

‘But the day after?’

 

‘That is sufficient. You shall go. It is not so bad with you that one

day more need be a sorrow to you. You shall go and then you will never

see your father again!’ Trevelyan as he said this drew his hands away

so as not to touch the child. The little fellow had put out his arm,

but seeing his father’s angry gesture had made no further attempt at a

caress. He feared his father from the bottom of his little heart, and

yet was aware that it was his duty to try to love papa. He did not

understand the meaning of that last threat, but slunk back, passing his

untouched toys, to the window, and there seated himself again, filling

his mind with the thought that when two more long long days should have

crept by, he should once more go to his mother.

 

Trevelyan had tried his best to be soft and gentle to his child. All

that he had said to his wife of his treatment of the boy had been true

to the letter. He had spared no personal trouble, he had done all that

he had known how to do, he had exercised all his intelligence to

procure amusement for the boy, but Louey had hardly smiled since he had

been taken from his mother. And now that he was told that he was to go

and never see his father again, the tidings were to him simply tidings

of joy. ‘There is a curse upon me,’ said Trevelyan; ‘it is written down

in the book of my destiny that nothing shall ever love me!’

 

He went out from the house, and made his way down by the narrow path

through the olives and vines to the bottom of the hill in front of the

villa. It was evening now, but the evening was very hot, and though the

olive trees stood in long rows, there was no shade. Quite at the bottom

of the hill there was a little sluggish muddy brook, along the sides of

which the reeds grew thickly and the dragon-flies were playing on the

water. There was nothing attractive in the spot, but he was weary, and

sat himself down on the dry hard bank which had been made by repeated

clearing of mud from the bottom of the little rivulet. He sat watching

the dragon-flies as they made their short flights in the warm air, and

told himself that of all God’s creatures there was not one to whom less

power of disporting itself in God’s sun was given than to him. Surely

it would be better for him that he should die, than live as he was now

living without any of the joys of life. The solitude of Casalunga was

intolerable to him, and yet there was no whither that he could go and

find society. He could travel if he pleased. He had money at command,

and, at any rate as yet, there was no embargo on his personal liberty.

But how could he travel alone even if his strength might suffice for

the work? There had been moments in which he had thought that he would

be happy in the love of his child, that the companionship of an infant

would suffice for him if only the infant would love him. But all such

dreams as that were over. To repay him for his tenderness, his boy was

always dumb before him. Louey would not prattle as he had used to do.

He would not even smile, or give back the kisses with which his father

had attempted to win him. In mercy to the boy he would send him back to

his mother—in mercy to the boy if not to the mother also. It was in

vain that he should look for any joy in any quarter. Were he to return

to England, they would say that he was mad!

 

He lay there by the brook-side till the evening was far advanced, and

then he arose and slowly returned to the house. The labour of ascending

the hill was so great to him that he was forced to pause and hold by

the olive trees as he slowly performed his task. The perspiration came

in profusion from his pores, and he found himself to be so weak that he

must in future regard the brook as being beyond the tether of his daily

exercise. Eighteen months ago he had been a strong walker, and the

snow-bound paths of Swiss mountains had been a joy to him. He paused as

he was slowly dragging himself on, and looked up at the wretched,

desolate, comfortless abode which he called his home. Its dreariness

was so odious to him that he was half-minded to lay himself down where

he was, and let the night air come upon him and do its worst. In such

case, however, some Italian doctor would be sent down who would say

that he was mad. Above all the things, and to the last, he must save

himself from that degradation.

 

When he had crawled up to the house, he went to his child, and found

that the woman had put the boy to bed. Then he was angry with himself

in that he himself had not seen to this, and kept up his practice of

attending the child to the last. He would, at least, be true to his

resolution, and prepare for the boy’s return to his mother. Not knowing

how otherwise to manage it, he wrote that night the following note to

Mr Glascock:

 

‘Casalunga,

 

Thursday night.

 

My Dear Sir,

 

Since you last were considerate enough to call upon me I have resolved

to take a step in my affairs which, though it will rob me of my only

remaining gratification, will tend to lessen the troubles under which

Mrs Trevelyan is labouring. If she desires it, as no doubt she does, I

will consent to place our boy again in her custody, trusting to her

sense of honour to restore him to me should I demand it. In my present

unfortunate position I cannot suggest that she should come for the boy.

I am unable to support the excitement occasioned by her presence. I

will, however, deliver up my darling either to you, or to any messenger

sent by you whom I can trust. I beg heartily to apologise for the

trouble I am giving you, and to subscribe myself yours very faithfully.

 

Louis Trevelyan

 

The Hon. C. Glascock.

 

P.S. It is as well, perhaps, that I should explain that I must decline

to receive any visit from Sir Marmaduke Rowley. Sir Marmaduke has

insulted me grossly on each occasion on which I have seen him since his

return home.’