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

of your own for her. Is not that so? And when I came home she was

staying with her uncle, because you had put her away. And what was the

meaning of her being sent down into Devonshire? What has she done? I am

her father, and I expect to have an answer.’

‘You shall have an answer, certainly.’

‘And a true one. I will have no hocus-pocus, no humbug, no Jesuitry.’

‘Have you come here to insult me, Sir Marmaduke? Because, if so, there

shall be an end to this interview at once.’

‘There shall not be an end—by G—, no, not till I have heard what is the

meaning of all this. Do you know what people are saying of you: that you

are mad, and that you must be locked up, and your child taken away from

you, and your property?’

‘Who are the people that say so? Yourself and, perhaps, Lady Rowley?

Does my wife say so? Does she think that I am mad? She did not think so

on Thursday, when she prayed that she might be allowed to come back and

live with me.’

‘And you would not let her come?’

‘Pardon me,’ said Trevelyan. ‘I would wish that she should, come but it

must be on certain conditions.’

‘What I want to know is why she was turned out of your house?’

‘She was not turned out.’

‘What has she done that she should be punished?’ urged Sir Marmaduke,

who was unable to arrange his questions with the happiness which had

distinguished Major Magruder. ‘I insist upon knowing what it is that

you lay to her charge. I am her father, and I have a right to know. She

has been barbarously, shamefully illused, and by G I will know.’

‘You have come here to bully me, Sir Marmaduke Rowley.’

‘I have come here, sir, to do the duty of a parent to his child; to

protect my poor girl against the cruelty of a husband who in an

unfortunate hour was allowed to take her from her home. I will know the

reason why my daughter has been treated as though—as though—as though—’

‘Listen to me for a minute,’ said Trevelyan.

‘I am listening.’

‘I will tell you nothing; I will answer you not a word.’

‘You will not answer me?’

‘Not when you come to me in this fashion. My wife is my wife, and my

claim to her is nearer and closer than is yours, who are her father.

She is the mother of my child, and the only being in the world except

that child whom I love. Do you think that with such motives on my part

for tenderness towards her, for loving care, for the most anxious

solicitude, that I can be made more anxious, more tender, more loving

by coarse epithets from you? I am the most miserable being under the

sun because our happiness has been interrupted, and is it likely that

such misery should be cured by violent words and gestures? If your

heart is wrung for her, so is mine. If she be much to you, she is more

to me. She came here the other day, almost as a stranger, and I thought

that my heart would have burst beneath its weight of woe. What can you

do that can add an ounce to the burden that I bear? You may as well

leave me or at least be quiet.’

Sir Marmaduke had stood and listened to him, and he, too, was so struck

by the altered appearance of the man that the violence of his

indignation was lessened by the pity which he could not suppress. When

Trevelyan spoke of his wretchedness, it was impossible not to believe

him. He was as wretched a being to look at as it might have been

possible to find. His contracted cheeks, and lips always open, and eyes

glowing in their sunken caverns, told a tale which even Sir Marmaduke,

who was not of nature quick in deciphering such stories, could not fail

to read. And then the twitching action of the man’s hands, and the

restless shuffling of his feet, produced a nervous feeling that if some

remedy were not applied quickly, some alleviation given to the misery

of the suffering wretch, human power would be strained too far, and the

man would break to pieces or else the mind of the man. Sir Marmaduke,

during his journey in the cab, had resolved that, old as he was, he

would, take this sinner by the throat, this brute who had striven to

stain his daughter’s name—and would make him there and then

acknowledge his own brutality. But it was now very manifest to Sir

Marmaduke that there could be no taking by the throat in this case. He

could not have brought himself to touch the poor, weak, passionate

creature before him. Indeed, even the fury of his words was stayed, and

after that last appeal he stormed no more. ‘But what is to be the end

of it?’ he said.

‘Who can tell? Who can say? She can tell. She can put an end to it all.

She has but to say a word, and I will devote my life to her. But that

word must be spoken.’ As he said this, he dashed his hand upon the

table, and looked up with an air that would have been comic with its

assumed magnificence had it not been for the true tragedy of the

occasion.

‘You had better, at any rate, let her have her child for the present.’

‘No, my boy shall go with me. She may go, too, if she pleases, but my

boy shall certainly go with me. If I had put her from me, as you said

just now, it might have been otherwise. But she shall be as welcome to

me as flowers in May, as flowers in May! She shall be as welcome to me

as the music of heaven.’

Sir Marmaduke felt that he had nothing more to urge. He had altogether

abandoned that idea of having his revenge at the cost of the man’s

throat, and was quite convinced that reason could have no power with

him. He was already thinking that he would go away, straight to his

lawyer, so that some step might be taken at once to stop, if possible,

the taking away of the boy to America, when the lock of the door was

gently turned, and the landlady entered the room.

‘You will excuse me, sir,’ said the woman, ‘but if you be anything to

this gentleman—’

‘Mrs Fuller, leave the room,’ said Trevelyan. ‘I and the gentleman are

engaged.’

‘I see you be engaged, and I do beg pardon. I ain’t one as would

intrude wilful, and, as for listening, or the likes of that, I scorn

it. But if this gentleman be anything to you, Mr Trevelyan—’

‘I am his wife’s father,’ said Sir Marmaduke.

‘Like enough. I was thinking perhaps so. His lady was down here on

Thursday, as sweet a lady as any gentleman need wish to stretch by his

side.’

‘Mrs Fuller,’ said Trevelyan, marching up towards her, ‘I will not have

this, and I desire that you will retire from my room.’

But Mrs Fuller escaped round the table, and would not be banished. She

got round the table, and came closely opposite to Sir Marmaduke. ‘I

don’t want to say nothing out of my place, sir,’ said she, ‘but

something ought to be done. He ain’t fit to be left to hisself, not

alone, not as he is at present. He ain’t, indeed, and I wouldn’t be

doing my duty if I didn’t say so. He has them sweats at night as’d be

enough to kill any man; and he eats nothing, and he don’t do nothing;

and as for that poor little boy as is now in my own bed upstairs, if it

wasn’t that I and my Bessy is fond of children, I don’t know what would

become of that boy.’

Trevelyan, finding it impossible to get rid of her, had stood quietly,

while he listened to her.‘she has been good to my child,’ he said. ‘I

acknowledge it. As for myself, I have not been well. It is true. But I

am told that travel will set me on my feet again. Change of air will do

it.’ Not long since he had been urging the wretchedness of his own

bodily health as a reason why his wife should yield to him; but now,

when his sickness was brought as a charge against him, was adduced as a

reason why his friends should interfere, and look after him and concern

themselves in his affairs, he saw at once that it was necessary that he

should make little of his ailments.

‘Would it not be best, Trevelyan, that you should come with me to a

doctor?’ said Sir Marmaduke.

‘No no. I have my own doctor. That is, know the course which I should

follow. This place, though it is good for the boy, has disagreed with

me, and my life has not been altogether pleasant—I may say, by no

means pleasant. Troubles have told upon me, but change of air will mend

it all.’

‘I wish you would come with me, at once, to London. You shall come

back, you know. I will not detain you.’

‘Thank you no. I will not trouble you’. That will do, Mrs Fuller. You

have intended to do your duty, no doubt, and now you can go.’ Whereupon

Mrs Fuller did go. ‘I am obliged for your care, Sir Marmaduke, but I

can really do very well without troubling you.’

‘You cannot suppose, Trevelyan, that we can allow things to go on like

this.’

‘And what do you mean to do?’

‘Well I shall take advice. I shall go to a lawyer and to a doctor, and

perhaps to the Lord Chancellor, and all that kind of thing. We can’t

let things go on like this.’

‘You can do as you please,’ said Trevelyan, ‘but as you have threatened

me, I must ask you to leave me.’

Sir Marmaduke could do no more, and could say no more, and he took his

leave, shaking hands with the man, and speaking to him with a courtesy

which astonished himself. It was impossible to maintain the strength of

his indignation against a poor creature who was so manifestly unable to

guide himself. But when he was in London he drove at once to the house

of Dr Trite Turbury, and remained there till the doctor returned from

his round of visits. According to the great authority, there was much

still to be done before even the child could be rescued out of the

father’s hands. ‘I can’t act without the lawyers,’ said Dr Turbury. But

he explained to Sir Marmaduke what steps should be taken in such a

matter.

Trevelyan, in the mean time, clearly understanding that hostile

measures would now be taken against him, set his mind to work to think

how best he might escape at once to America with his boy.’