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

of that time have resolved to marry a woman whom he must have selected

simply as being the most opposite to Nora of any female human being

that he could find? It was not credible to her; and if it were not

true, there might still be a hope. Nora had met him, and had spoken to

him, and it had seemed that for a moment or two they had spoken as

friends. Lady Rowley, when talking to Mrs Spalding, had watched them

closely; and she had seen that Nora’s eyes had been bright, and that

there had been something between them which was pleasant. Suddenly she

found herself close to Wallachia, and thought that she would trust

herself to a word.

‘Have you been long in Florence?’ asked Lady Rowley in her softest

voice.

‘A pretty considerable time, ma’am, that is, since the fall began.’

What a voice; what an accent; and what words! Was there a man living with

sufficient courage to take this woman to England, and shew her to the

world as Lady Peterborough?

‘Are you going to remain in Italy for the summer?’ continued Lady

Rowley.

‘I guess I shall or, perhaps, locate myself in the purer atmosphere of

the Swiss mountains.’

‘Switzerland in summer must certainly be much pleasanter.’

‘I was thinking at the moment of the political atmosphere,’ said Miss

Petrie; ‘for although, certainly, much has been done in this country in

the way of striking off shackles and treading sceptres under foot,

still, Lady Rowley, there remains here that pernicious thing—a king.

The feeling of the dominion of a single man and that of a single woman

is, for aught I know, worse with me, so clouds the air, that the breath

I breathe fails to fill my lungs.’ Wallachia, as she said this, put

forth her hand, and raised her chin, and extended her arm. She paused,

feeling that justice demanded that Lady Rowley should have a right of

reply. But Lady Rowley had not a word to say, and Wallachia Petrie went

on. ‘I cannot adapt my body to the sweet savours and the soft luxuries

of the outer world with any comfort to my inner self, while the

circumstances of the society around me are oppressive to my spirit.

When our war was raging all around me I was light-spirited as the lark

that mounts through the morning sky.’

‘I should have thought it was very dreadful,’ said Lady Rowley.

‘Full of dread, of awe, and of horror, were those fiery days of

indiscriminate slaughter; but they were not days of desolation, because

hope was always there by our side. There was a hope in which the soul

could trust, and the trusting soul is ever light and buoyant.’

‘I dare say it is,’ said Lady Rowley.

‘But apathy, and serfdom, and kinghood, and dominion, drain the

fountain of its living springs, and the soul becomes like the plummet

of lead, whose only tendency is to hide itself in subaqueous mud and

unsavoury slush.’

Subaqueous mud and unsavoury slush! Lady Rowley repeated the words to

herself as she made good her escape, and again expressed to herself her

conviction that it could not possibly be so. The ‘subaqueous mud and

unsavoury slush,’ with all that had gone before it about the soul, was

altogether unintelligible to her; but she knew that it was American

buncom of a high order of eloquence, and she told herself again and

again that it could not be so. She continued to keep her eyes upon Mr

Glascock, and soon saw him again talking to Nora. It was hardly

possible, she thought, that Nora should speak to him with so much

animation, or he to her, unless there was some feeling between them

which, if properly handled, might lead to a renewal of the old

tenderness. She went up to Nora, having collected the other girls, and

said that the carriage was then waiting for them. Mr Glascock

immediately offered Lady Rowley his arm, and took her down to the hall.

Could it be that she was leaning upon a future son-in-law? There was

something in the thought which made her lay her weight upon him with a

freedom which she would not otherwise have used. Oh! that her Nora

should live to be Lady Peterborough! We are apt to abuse mothers for

wanting high husbands for their daughters but can there be any point in

which the true maternal instinct can shew itself with more affectionate

enthusiasm? This poor mother wanted nothing for herself from Mr

Glascock. She knew very well that it was her fate to go back to the

Mandarins, and probably to die there. She knew also that such men as Mr

Glascock, when they marry beneath themselves in rank and fortune, will

not ordinarily trouble themselves much with their mothers-in-law. There

was nothing desired for herself. Were such a match accomplished, she

might, perhaps, indulge herself in talking among the planters’ wives of

her daughter’s coronet; but at the present moment there was no idea

even of this in her mind. It was of Nora herself, and of Nora’s

sisters, that she was thinking, for them that she was plotting that the

one might be rich and splendid, and the others have some path opened

for them to riches and splendour. Husband-hunting mothers may be

injudicious; but surely they are maternal and unselfish. Mr Glascock

put her into the carriage, and squeezed her hand and then he squeezed

Nora’s hand. She saw it, and was sure of it. ‘I am so glad you are

going to be happy,’ Nora had said to him before this. ‘As far as I have

seen her, I like her so much.’ ‘If you do not come and visit her in her

own house, I shall think you have no spirit of friendship,’ he said. ‘I

will,’ Nora had replied ‘I will.’ This had been said just as Lady

Rowley was coming to them, and on this understanding, on this footing,

Mr Glascock had pressed her hand.

As she went home, Lady Rowley’s mind was full of doubt as to the course

which it was best that she should follow with her daughter. She was not

unaware how great was the difficulty before her. Hugh Stanbury’s name

had not been mentioned since they left London, but at that time Nora

was obstinately bent on throwing herself away upon the ‘penny-a-liner.’

She had never been brought to acknowledge that such a marriage would be

even inappropriate, and had withstood gallantly the expression of her

father’s displeasure. But with such a spirit as Nora’s, it might be

easier to prevail by silence than by many words. Lady Rowley was quite

sure of this: that it would be far better to say nothing further of Hugh

Stanbury. Let the cure come, if it might be possible, from absence and

from her daughter’s good sense. The only question was whether it would

be wise to say any word about Mr Glascock. In the carriage she was not

only forbearing but flattering in her manner to Nora. She caressed her

girl’s hand and spoke to her as mothers know how to speak when they

want to make much of their girls, and to have it understood that those

girls are behaving as girls should behave. There was to be nobody to

meet them tonight, as it had been arranged that Sir Marmaduke and Mrs

Trevelyan should sleep at Siena. Hardly a word had been spoken in the

carriage; but upstairs, in their drawing-room, there came a moment in

which Lucy and Sophie had left them, and Nora was alone with her

mother. Lady Rowley almost knew that it would be most prudent to be

silent; but a word spoken in season, how good it is! And the thing was so

near to her that she could not hold her peace. ‘I must say, Nora,’ she

began, ‘that I do like your Mr Glascock.’

‘He is not my Mr Glascock, mamma,’ said Nora, smiling.

‘You know what I mean, dear.’ Lady Rowley had not intended to utter a

word that should appear like pressure on her daughter at this moment.

She had felt how imprudent it would be to do so. But now Nora seemed to

be leading the way herself to such discourse. ‘Of course, he is not

your Mr Glascock. You cannot eat your cake and have it, nor can you

throw it away and have it.’

‘I have thrown my cake away altogether, and certainly I cannot have

it.’ She was still smiling as she spoke, and seemed to be quite merry

at the idea of regarding Mr Glascock as the cake which she had declined

to eat.

‘I can see one thing quite plainly, dear.’

‘What is that, mamma?’

‘That in spite of what you have done, you can still have your cake

whenever you choose to take it.’

‘Why, mamma, he is engaged to be married!’

‘Mr Glascock?’

‘Yes, Mr Glascock. It’s quite settled. Is it not sad?’

‘To whom is he engaged?’ Lady Rowley’s solemnity as she asked this

question was piteous to behold.

‘To Miss Spalding Caroline Spalding.’

‘The eldest of those nieces?’

‘Yes the eldest.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘Mamma, they both told me so. I have sworn an eternal friendship with

her already.’

‘I did not see you speaking to her.’

‘But I did talk to her a great deal.’

‘And he is really going to marry that dreadful woman?’

‘Dreadful, mamma!’

‘Perfectly awful! She talked to me in a way that I have read about in

books, but which I did not before believe to be possible. Do you mean

that he is going to be married to that hideous old maid, that

bell-clapper?’

‘Oh, mamma, what slander! I think her so pretty.’

‘Pretty!’

‘Very pretty. And, mamma, ought I not to be happy that he should have

been able to make himself so happy? It was quite, quite, quite

impossible that I should have been his wife. I have thought about it

ever so much, and I am so glad of it! I think she is just the girl that

is fit for him.’

Lady Rowley took her candle and went to bed, professing to herself that

she could not understand it. But what did it signify? It was, at any

rate, certain now that the man had put himself out of Nora’s reach, and

if he chose to marry a republican virago, with a red nose, it could now

make no difference to Nora. Lady Rowley almost felt a touch of

satisfaction in reflecting on the future misery of his married life.