He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (books you need to read .txt) 📕

SIR MARMADUKE AT HIS CLUB

Sir Marmaduke had come away from his brother-in-law the parson in much

anger, for Mr Outhouse, with that mixture of obstinacy and honesty

which formed his character, had spoken hard words of Colonel Osborne,

and words which by implication had been hard also against Emily

Trevelyan. He had been very staunch to his niece when attacked by his

niece’s husband; but when his sympathies and assistance were invoked by

Sir Marmaduke it seemed as though he had transferred his allegiance to

the other side. He pointed out to the unhappy father that Colonel

Osborne had behaved with great cruelty in going to Devonshire, that the

Stanburys had been untrue to their trust in allowing him to enter the

house, and that Emily had been ‘indiscreet’ in receiving him. When a

young woman is called indiscreet by her friends it may be assumed that

her character is very seriously assailed. Sir Marmaduke had understood

this, and on hearing the word had become wroth with his brother-in-law.

There had been hot words between them, and Mr Outhouse would not yield

an inch or retract a syllable. He conceived it to be his duty to advise

the father to caution his daughter with severity, to quarrel absolutely

with Colonel Osborne, and to let Trevelyan know that this had been

done. As to the child, Mr Outhouse expressed a strong opinion that the

father was legally entitled to the custody of his boy, and that nothing

could be done to recover the child, except what might be done with the

father’s consent. In fact, Mr Outhouse made himself exceedingly

disagreeable, and sent away Sir Marmaduke with a very heavy heart.

Could it really be possible that his old friend Fred Osborne, who seven

or eight-and-twenty years ago had been potent among young ladies, had

really been making love to his old friend’s married daughter? Sir

Marmaduke looked into himself, and conceived it to be quite out of the

question that he should make love to any one. A good dinner, good wine,

a good cigar, an easy chair, and a rubber of whist—all these things,

with no work to do, and men of his own standing around him—were the

pleasures of life which Sir Marmaduke desired. Now Fred Osborne was an

older man than he, and, though Fred Osborne did keep up a foolish

system of padded clothes and dyed whiskers, still at fifty-two or

fifty-three surely a man might be reckoned safe. And then, too, that

ancient friendship! Sir Marmaduke, who had lived all his life in the

comparative seclusion of a colony, thought perhaps more of that ancient

friendship than did the Colonel, who had lived amidst the blaze of

London life, and who had had many opportunities of changing his

friends. Some inkling of all this made its way into Sir Marmaduke’s

bosom, as he thought of it with bitterness; and he determined that he

would have it out with his friend.

Hitherto he had enjoyed very few of those pleasant hours which he had

anticipated on his journey homewards. He had had no heart to go to his

club, and he had fancied that Colonel Osborne had been a little

backward in looking him up, and providing him with amusement. He had

suggested this to his wife, and she had told him that the Colonel had

been right not to come to Manchester Street. ‘I have told Emily,’ said

Lady Rowley, ‘that she must not meet him, and she is quite of the same

opinion.’ Nevertheless, there had been remissness. Sir Marmaduke felt

that it was so, in spite of his wife’s excuses. In this way he was

becoming sore with everybody, and very unhappy. It did not at all

improve his temper when he was told that his second daughter had

refused an offer from Lord Peterborough’s eldest son. ‘Then she may go

into the workhouse for me,’ the angry father had said, declaring at the

same time that he would never give his consent to her marriage with the

man who ‘did dirty work’ for the Daily Record as he, with his paternal

wisdom, chose to express it. But this cruel phrase was not spoken in

Nora’s hearing, nor was it repeated to her. Lady Rowley knew her

husband, and was aware that he would on occasions change his opinion.

It was not till two or three days after his visit to St. Diddulph’s

that he met Colonel Osborne. The Easter recess was then over, and

Colonel Osborne had just returned to London. They met on the doorsteps

of ‘The Acrobats,’ and the Colonel immediately began with an apology.

‘I have been so sorry to be away just when you are here—upon my word I

have. But I was obliged to go down to the duchess’s. I had promised

early in the winter; and those people are so angry if you put them off.

By George, it’s almost as bad as putting off royalty.’

‘D n the duchess,’ said Sir Marmaduke.

‘With all my heart,’ said the Colonel ‘only I thought it as well that I

should tell you the truth.’

‘What I mean is, that the duchess and her people make no difference to

me. I hope you had a pleasant time; that’s all.’

‘Well yes, we had. One must get away somewhere at Easter. There is no

one left at the club, and there’s no House, and no one asks one to

dinner in town. In fact, if one didn’t go away one wouldn’t know what

to do. There were ever so many people there that I liked to meet. Lady

Glencora was there, and uncommon pleasant she made it. That woman has

more to say for herself than any half-dozen men that I know. And Lord

Cantrip, your chief, was there. He said a word or two to me about you.’

‘What sort of word?’

‘He says he wishes you would read up some blue books, or papers, or

reports, or something of that kind, which he says that some of his

fellows have sent you. It seems that there are some new rules, or

orders, or fashions, which he wants you to have at your finger’s ends.

Nothing could be more civil than he was but he just wished me to

mention this, knowing that you and I are likely to see each other.’

‘I wish I had never come over,’ said Sir Marmaduke.

‘Why so?’

‘They didn’t bother me with their new rules and fashions over there.

When the papers came somebody read them, and that was enough. I could

do what they wanted me to do there.’

‘And so you will here after a bit.’

‘I’m not so sure of that. Those young fellows seem to forget that an

old dog can’t learn new tricks. They’ve got a young brisk fellow there

who seems to think that a man should be an encyclopaedia of knowledge

because he has lived in a colony over twenty years.’

‘That’s the new under-secretary.’

‘Never mind who it is. Osborne, just come up to the library, will you?

I want to speak to you.’

Then Sir Marmaduke, with considerable solemnity, led the way up to the

most deserted room in the club, and Colonel Osborne followed him, well

knowing that something was to be said about Emily Trevelyan.

Sir Marmaduke seated himself on a sofa, and his friend sat close beside

him. The room was quite deserted. It was four o’clock in the afternoon,

and the club was full of men. There were men in the morning-room, and

men in the drawing-room, and men in the card-room, and men in the

billiard-room; but no better choice of a chamber for a conference

intended to be silent and secret could have been made in all London

than that which had induced Sir Marmaduke to take his friend into the

library of ‘The Acrobats.’ And yet a great deal of money had been spent

in providing this library for ‘The Acrobats.’ Sir Marmaduke sat for

awhile silent, and had he sat silent for an hour, Colonel Osborne would

not have interrupted him. Then, at last, he began, with a voice that

was intended to be serious, but which struck upon the ear of his

companion as being affected and unlike the owner of it. ‘This is a very

sad thing about my poor girl,’ said Sir Marmaduke.

‘Indeed it is. There is only one thing to be said about it, Rowley.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The man must be mad.’

‘He is not so mad as to give us any relief by his madness, poor as such

comfort would be. He has got Emily’s child away from her, and I think

it will about kill her. And what is to become of her? As to taking her

back to the islands without her child, it is out of the question. I

never knew anything so cruel in my life.’

‘And so absurd, you know.’

‘Ah that’s just the question. If anybody had asked me, I should have

said that you were the man of all men whom I could have best trusted.’

‘Do you doubt it now?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Do you mean to say that you suspect me and your daughter, too?’

‘No, by heavens! Poor dear. If I suspected her, there would be an end of

all things with me. I could never get over that. No I don’t suspect

her!’ Sir Marmaduke had