He Knew He Was Right. Anthony Trollope
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it no disgrace to apply himself to the second half of an apple pie, and had professed himself to be an ardent admirer of Devonshire cream. “It’s them counter-skippers as turns up their little noses at the victuals as is set before them,” said Mrs. Crocket.
After his dinner Mr. Glascock had returned to the Clock House, and had been sitting there for an hour with Mrs. Stanbury, not much to her delight or to his, when the carriage was driven up to the door.
“He is to go back to Lessboro’ tonight,” said Mrs. Stanbury in a whisper.
“Of course you must see him before he goes,” said Mrs. Trevelyan to her sister. There had, as was natural, been very much said between the two sisters about Mr. Glascock. Nora had abstained from asserting in any decided way that she disliked the man, and had always absolutely refused to allow Hugh Stanbury’s name to be mixed up with the question. Whatever might be her own thoughts about Hugh Stanbury she had kept them even from her sister. When her sister had told her that she had refused Mr. Glascock because of Hugh, she had shown herself to be indignant, and had since that said one or two fine things as to her capacity to refuse a brilliant offer simply because the man who had made it was indifferent to her. Mrs. Trevelyan had learned from her that her suitor had declared his intention to persevere; and here was perseverance with a vengeance! “Of course you must see him,—at once,” said Mrs. Trevelyan. Nora for a few seconds had remained silent, and then had run up to her room. Her sister followed her instantly.
“What is the meaning of it all?” said Priscilla to her mother.
“I suppose he is in love with Miss Rowley,” said Mrs. Stanbury.
“But who is he?”
Then Mrs. Stanbury told all that she knew. She had seen from his card that he was an Honourable Mr. Glascock. She had collected from what he had said that he was an old friend of the two ladies. Her conviction was strong in Mr. Glascock’s favour,—thinking, as she expressed herself, that everything was right and proper,—but she could hardly explain why she thought so.
“I do wish that they had never come,” said Priscilla, who could not rid herself of an idea that there must be danger in having to do with women who had men running after them.
“Of course I’ll see him,” said Nora to her sister. “I have not refused to see him. Why do you scold me?”
“I have not scolded you, Nora; but I do want you to think how immensely important this is.”
“Of course it is important.”
“And so much the more so because of my misfortunes! Think how good he must be, how strong must be his attachment, when he comes down here after you in this way.”
“But I have to think of my own feelings.”
“You know you like him. You have told me so. And only fancy what mamma will feel! Such a position! And the man so excellent! Everybody says that he hasn’t a fault in any way.”
“I hate people without faults.”
“Oh, Nora, Nora, that is foolish! There, there; you must go down. Pray,—pray do not let any absurd fancy stand in your way, and destroy everything. It will never come again, Nora. And, only think; it is all now your own, if you will only whisper one word.”
“Ah!—one word,—and that a falsehood!”
“No,—no. Say you will try to love him, and that will be enough. And you do love him?”
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do. It is only the opposition of your nature that makes you fight against him. Will you go now?”
“Let me be for two minutes by myself,” said Nora, “and then I’ll come down. Tell him that I’m coming.” Mrs. Trevelyan stooped over her, kissed her, and then left her.
Nora, as soon as she was alone, stood upright in the middle of the room and held her hands up to her forehead. She had been far from thinking, when she was considering the matter easily among the hillocks, that the necessity for an absolute decision would come upon her so instantaneously. She had told herself only this morning that it would be wise to accept the man, if he should ever ask a second time;—and he had come already. He had been waiting for her in the village while she had been thinking whether he would ever come across her path again. She thought that it would have been easier for her now to have gone down with a “yes” in her mouth, if her sister had not pressed her so hard to say that “yes.” The very pressure from her sister seemed to imply that such pressure ought to be resisted. Why should there have been pressure, unless there were reasons against her marrying him? And yet, if she chose to take him, who would have a right to complain of her? Hugh Stanbury had never spoken to her a word that would justify her in even supposing that he would consider himself to be illused. All others of her friends would certainly rejoice, would applaud her, pat her on the back, cover her with caresses, and tell her that she had been born under a happy star. And she did like the man. Nay;—she thought she loved him. She withdrew her hands from her brow, assured herself that her lot in life was cast, and with hurrying fingers attempted to smooth her hair and to arrange her ribbons before the glass. She would go to the encounter boldly and accept him honestly. It was her duty to do so. What might she not do for brothers and sisters as the wife of Lord Peterborough of Monkhams? She saw that that arrangement before the glass could be of no service, and she stepped quickly to the door. If he did not like her as she was, he need not ask her. Her mind was made up, and she would do it. But as she went down the stairs to the room in which she knew that he was waiting for her, there came over her a cold feeling of self-accusation,—almost of disgrace. “I do not care,” she said. “I know that I’m right.” She opened the door quickly, that there might be no further doubt, and found that she was alone with him.
“Miss Rowley,” he said, “I am afraid you will think that I am persecuting you.”
“I have no right to think that,” she answered.
“I’ll tell you why I have come. My dear father, who has always been my best friend, is very ill. He is at Naples, and I must go to him. He is very old, you know,—over eighty; and will never live to come back to England. From what I hear, I think it probable that I may remain with him till everything is over.”
“I did not know that he was so old as that.”
“They say that he can hardly live above a month or two. He will never see my wife,—if I can have a wife; but I should like to tell him, if it were possible,—that,—that—”
“I understand you, Mr. Glascock.”
“I told you that I should come to you again, and as I may possibly linger at Naples all the winter, I could not go without seeing you. Miss Rowley, may I hope that you can love me?”
She did not answer him a word, but stood looking away from him with her hands clasped together. Had he asked her whether she would be his wife, it is possible that the answer which she had prepared would have been spoken. But he had put the question in another form. Did she love him? If she could only bring herself to say that she could love him, she might be lady of Monkhams before the next summer had come round.
“Nora,” he said, “do you think that you can love me?”
“No,” she said, and there was something almost of fierceness in the tone of her voice as she answered him.
“And must that be your final answer to me?”
“Mr. Glascock, what can I say?” she replied. “I will tell you the honest truth:—I will tell you everything. I came into this room determined to accept you. But you are so good, and so kind, and so upright, that I cannot tell you a falsehood. I do not love you. I ought not to take what you offer me. If I did, it would be because you are rich, and a lord; and not because I love you. I love some one else. There;—pray, pray do not tell of me; but I do.” Then she flung away from him and hid her face in a corner of the sofa out of the light.
Her lover stood silent, not