HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT. Anthony Trollope
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an order to which obedience had been refused unless under certain stipulations,—an agreement with which would be degradation to him? He had pointed out to his wife her duty, and she had said she would do her duty as pointed out, on condition that he would beg her pardon for having pointed it out! This he could not and would not do. Let the heavens fall,—and the falling of the heavens in this case was a separation between him and his wife,—but he would not consent to such injustice as that!
But what was he to do at this moment,—especially with reference to that note which he had destroyed. At last he resolved to write to his wife, and he consequently did write and send to her the following letter:—
May 4.
Dearest Emily,
If Colonel Osborne should write to you again, it will be better that you should not open his letter. As you know his handwriting, you will have no difficulty in so arranging. Should any further letter come from Colonel Osborne addressed to you, you had better put it under cover to me, and take no notice of it yourself.
I shall dine at the club to-day. We were to have gone to Mrs. Peacock’s in the evening. You had better write a line to say that we shall not be there. I am very sorry that Nora should lose her evening. Pray think very carefully over what I have asked of you. My request to you is, that you shall give me a promise that you will not willingly see Colonel Osborne again. Of course you will understand that this is not supposed to extend to accidental meetings, as to which, should they occur,—and they would be sure to occur,—you would find that they would be wholly unnoticed by me.
But I must request that you will comply with my wish in this matter. If you will send for me, I will go to you instantly, and after one word from you to the desired effect, you will find that there will be no recurrence by me to a subject so hateful. As I have done, and am doing what I think to be right, I cannot stultify myself by saying that I think I have been wrong.
Yours always, dearest Emily,
With the most thorough love,
Louis Trevelyan.
This letter he himself put on his wife’s dressingroom table, and then he went out to his club.
Chapter VI.
Shewing How Reconciliation Was Made
“Look at that,” said Mrs. Trevelyan, when her sister came into her room about an hour before dinnertime. Nora read the letter, and then asked her sister what she meant to do. “I have written to Mrs. Peacock. I don’t know what else I can do. It is very hard upon you,—that you should have been kept at home. But I don’t suppose Mr. Glascock would have been at Mrs. Peacock’s.”
“And what else will you do, Emily?”
“Nothing;—simply live deserted and forlorn till he shall choose to find his wits again. There is nothing else that a woman can do. If he chooses to dine at his club every day, I can’t help it. We must put off all the engagements, and that will be hard upon you.”
“Don’t talk about me. It is too terrible to think that there should be such a quarrel.”
“What can I do? Have I been wrong?”
“Simply do what he tells you, whether it is wrong or right. If it’s right, it ought to be done, and if it’s wrong, it will not be your fault.”
“That’s very easily said, and it sounds logical; but you must know it’s unreasonable.”
“I don’t care about reason. He is your husband, and if he wishes it you should do it. And what will be the harm? You don’t mean to see Colonel Osborne any more. You have already said that he’s not to be admitted.”
“I have said that nobody is to be admitted. Louis has driven me to that. How can I look the servant in the face and tell him that any special gentleman is not to be admitted to see me? Oh dear! oh dear! have I done anything to deserve it? Was ever so monstrous an accusation made against any woman! If it were not for my boy, I would defy him to do his worst.”
On the day following, Nora again became a messenger between the husband and wife, and before dinnertime a reconciliation had been effected. Of course the wife gave way at last; and of course she gave way so cunningly that the husband received none of the gratification which he had expected in her surrender. “Tell him to come,” Nora had urged. “Of course he can come if he pleases,” Emily had replied. Then Nora had told Louis to come, and Louis had demanded whether, if he did so, the promise which he had exacted would be given. It is to be feared that Nora perverted the truth a little; but if ever such perversion may be forgiven, forgiveness was due to her. If they could only be brought together, she was sure that there would be a reconciliation. They were brought together, and there was a reconciliation.
“Dearest Emily, I am so glad to come to you,” said the husband, walking up to his wife in their bedroom, and taking her in his arms.
“I have been very unhappy, Louis, for the last two days,” said she, very gravely,—returning his kiss, but returning it somewhat coldly.
“We have both been unhappy, I am sure,” said he. Then he paused that the promise might be made to him. He had certainly understood that it was to be made without reserve,—as an act on her part which she had fully consented to perform. But she stood silent, with one hand on the dressing-table, looking away from him, very beautiful, and dignified too, in her manner; but not, as far as he could judge, either repentant or submissive. “Nora said that you would make me the promise which I ask from you.”
“I cannot think, Louis, how you can want such a promise from me.”
“I think it right to ask it; I do indeed.”
“Can you imagine that I shall ever willingly see this gentleman again after what has occurred? It will be for you to tell the servant. I do not know how I can do that. But, as a matter of course, I will encourage no person to come to your house of whom you disapprove. It would be exactly the same of any man or of any woman.”
“That is all that I ask.”
“I am surprised that you should have thought it necessary to make any formal request in the matter. Your word was quite sufficient. That you should find cause of complaint in Colonel Osborne’s coming here is of course a different thing.”
“Quite a different thing,” said he.
“I cannot pretend to understand either your motives or your fears. I do not understand them. My own self-respect prevents me from supposing it to be possible that you have attributed an evil thought to me.”
“Indeed, indeed, I never have,” said the husband.
“That I can assure you I regard as a matter of course,” said the wife.
“But you know, Emily, the way in which the world talks.”
“The world! And do you regard the world, Louis?”
“Lady Milborough, I believe, spoke to yourself.”
“Lady Milborough! No, she did not speak to me. She began to do so, but I was careful to silence her at once. From you, Louis, I am bound to hear whatever you may choose to say to me; but I will not hear from any other lips a single word that may be injurious to your honour.” This she said very quietly, with much dignity, and he felt that he had better not answer her. She had given him the promise which he had demanded, and he began to fear that if he pushed the matter further she might go back even from that amount of submission. So he kissed her again, and had the boy brought into the room, and by the time that he went to dress for dinner he was able, at any rate, to seem to be well pleased.
“Richard,” he said to the servant, as soon as he was downstairs, “when Colonel Osborne calls again, say that your mistress is—not at home.”