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

thinking of the manner in which he had been brought home by her from

Italy, and of the story she had told him of her mode of inducing him to

come. Hugh Stanbury had been her partner in that struggle, and would

probably be received, if not with sullen silence, then with some

attempt at rebuke. But Hugh did see Dr. Nevill, and learned from him

that it was hardly possible that Trevelyan should live many hours. ‘He

has worn himself out,’ said the doctor, ‘and there is nothing left in

him by which he can lay hold of life again.’ Of Nora her brother-in-law

took but little notice, and never again referred in her hearing to the

great trouble of his life. He said to her a word or two about Monkhams,

and asked a question now and again as to Lord Peterborough, whom,

however, he always called Mr Glascock; but Hugh Stanbury’s name was

never mentioned by him. There was a feeling in his mind that at the

very last he had been duped in being brought to England, and that

Stanbury had assisted in the deception. To his wife he would whisper

little petulant regrets for the loss of the comforts of Casalunga, and

would speak of the air of Italy and of Italian skies and of the Italian

sun, as though he had enjoyed at his Sienese villa all the luxuries

which climate can give, and would have enjoyed them still had he been

allowed to remain there. To all this she would say nothing. She knew

now that he was failing quickly, and there was only one subject on

which she either feared or hoped to hear him speak. Before he left her

for ever and ever would he tell her that he had not doubted her faith?

She had long discussions with Nora on the matter, as though all the

future of her life depended on it. It was in vain that Nora tried to

make her understand that if hereafter the spirit of her husband could

know anything of the troubles of his mortal life, could ever look back

to the things which he had done in the flesh, then would he certainly

know the truth, and all suspicion would be at an end. And if not, if

there was to be no such retrospect, what did it matter now, for these

few last hours before the coil should be shaken off, and all doubt and

all sorrow should be at an end? But the wife, who was soon to be a

widow, yearned to be acquitted in this world by him to whom her guilt

or her innocence had been matter of such vital importance. ‘He has

never thought it,’ said Nora.

‘But if he would say so! If he would only look it! It will be all in

all to me as long as I live in this world.’ And then, though they had

determined between themselves in spoken words never to regard him again

as one who had been mad, in all their thoughts and actions towards him

they treated him as though he were less responsible than an infant. And

he was mad mad though every doctor in England had called him sane. Had

he not been mad he must have been a fiend or he could not have

tortured, as he had done, the woman to whom he owed the closest

protection which one human being can give to another.

During these last days and nights she never left him. She had done her

duty to him well, at any rate since the time when she had been enabled

to come near him in Italy. It may be that in the first days of their

quarrel, she had not been regardful, as she should have been, of a

husband’s will, that she might have escaped this tragedy by submitting

herself to the man’s wishes, as she had always been ready to submit

herself to his words. Had she been able always to keep her neck in the

dust under his foot, their married life might have been passed without

outward calamity, and it is possible that he might still have lived.

But if she erred, surely she had been scourged for her error with

scorpions. As she sat at his bedside watching him, she thought of her

wasted youth, of her faded beauty, of her shattered happiness, of her

fallen hopes. She had still her child, but she felt towards him that she

herself was so sad a creature, so sombre, so dark, so necessarily

wretched from this time forth till the day of her death, that it would

be better for the boy that she should never be with him. There could be

nothing left for her but garments dark with woe, eyes red with weeping,

hours sad from solitude, thoughts weary with memory. And even yet, if he

would only now say that he did not believe her to have been guilty, how

great would be the change in her future life!

Then came an evening in which he seemed to be somewhat stronger than he

had been. He had taken some refreshment that had been prepared for him,

and, stimulated by its strength, had spoken a word or two both to Nora

and to his wife. His words had been of no especial interest alluding to

some small detail of his own condition, such as are generally the

chosen topics of conversation with invalids. But he had been pronounced

to be better, and Nora spoke to him cheerfully, when he was taken into

the next room by the man who was always at hand to move him. His wife

followed him, and soon afterwards returned, and bade Nora good night.

She would sit by her husband, and Nora was to go to the room below,

that she might receive her lover there. He was expected out that

evening, but Mrs Trevelyan said that she would not see him. Hugh came

and went, and Nora took herself to her chamber. The hours of the night

went on, and Mrs Trevelyan was still sitting by her husband’s bed. It

was still September, and the weather was very warm. But the windows had

been all closed since an hour before sunset. She was sitting there

thinking, thinking, thinking. Dr. Nevill had told her that the time now

was very near. She was not thinking now how very near it might be, but

whether there might yet be time for him to say that one word to her.

‘Emily,’ he said, in the lowest whisper.

‘Darling!’ she answered, turning round and touching him with her hand.

‘My feet are cold. There are no clothes on them.’

She took a thick shawl and spread it double across the bottom of the

bed, and put her hand upon his arm. Though it was clammy with

perspiration, it was chill, and she brought the warm clothes up close

round his shoulders. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘If I could sleep, I

shouldn’t mind.’ Then he was silent again, and her thoughts went

harping on, still on the same subject. She told herself that if ever

that act of justice were to be done for her, it must be done that

night. After a while she turned round over him ever so gently, and saw

that his large eyes were open and fixed upon the wall.

She was kneeling now on the chair close by the bed-head, and her hand

was on the rail of the bedstead supporting her. ‘Louis,’ she said, ever

so softly.

‘Well.’

‘Can you say one word for your wife, dear, dear, dearest husband?’

‘What word?’

‘I have not been a harlot to you, have I?’

‘What name is that?’

‘But what a thing, Louis! Kiss my hand, Louis, if you believe me.’ And

very gently she laid the tips of her fingers on his lips. For a moment

or two she waited, and the kiss did not come. Would he spare her in

this the last moment left to him either for justice or for mercy? For a

moment or two the bitterness of her despair was almost unendurable. She

had time to think that were she once to withdraw her hand, she would be

condemned for ever and that it must be withdrawn. But at length the

lips moved, and with struggling ear she could hear the sound of the

tongue within, and the verdict of the dying man had been given in her

favour. He never spoke a word more either to annul it or to enforce it.

Some time after that she crept into Nora’s room. ‘Nora,’ she said,

waking the sleeping girl, ‘it is all over.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘It is all over. Mrs Richards is there. It is better than an hour since

now. Let me come in.’ She got into her sister’s bed, and there she told

the tale of her tardy triumph. ‘He declared to me at last that he

trusted me,’ she said, almost believing that real words had come from

his lips to that effect. Then she fell into a flood of tears, and after

a while she also slept.