He Knew He Was Right

wife who were still young enough not to have outlived the first impulses of their early love! He still stood there guarding the way, and had not even put out his hand to greet her. He was guarding the way lest she should, without his permission, obtain access to her own child! She had not removed her veil, and now she hardly dared to step over the threshold of her husband’s house. At this moment, she perceived that the woman behind was pointing to the room on the left, as the cottage was entered, and Emily at once understood that her boy was there. Then at that moment she heard her son’s voice, as, in his solitude, the child began to cry. “I must go in,” she said; “I will go in;” and rushing on she tried to push aside her husband. Her mother aided her, nor did Trevelyan attempt to stop her with violence, and in a moment she was kneeling at the foot of a small sofa, with her child in her arms. “I had not intended to hinder you,” said Trevelyan, “but I require from you a promise that you will not attempt to remove him.”

“Why should she not take him home with her?” said Lady Rowley.

“Because I will not have it so,” replied Trevelyan. “Because I choose that it should be understood that I am to be the master of my own affairs.”

Mrs. Trevelyan had now thrown aside her bonnet and her veil, and was covering her child with caresses. The poor little fellow, whose mind had been utterly dismayed by the events which had occurred to him since his capture, though he returned her kisses, did so in fear and trembling. And he was still sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and by no means yielding himself with his whole heart to his mother’s tenderness⁠—as she would have had him do. “Louey,” she said, whispering to him, “you know mamma; you haven’t forgotten mamma?” He half murmured some little infantine word through his sobs, and then put his cheek up to be pressed against his mother’s face. “Louey will never, never forget his own mamma; will he, Louey?” The poor boy had no assurances to give, and could only raise his cheek again to be kissed. In the meantime Lady Rowley and Trevelyan were standing by, not speaking to each other, regarding the scene in silence.

She⁠—Lady Rowley⁠—could see that he was frightfully altered in appearance, even since the day on which she had so lately met him in the City. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and his eyes were deep and very bright⁠—and he moved them quickly from side to side, as though ever suspecting something. He seemed to be smaller in stature⁠—withered, as it were, as though he had melted away. And though he stood looking upon his wife and child, he was not for a moment still. He would change the posture of his hands and arms, moving them quickly with little surreptitious jerks, and would shuffle his feet upon the floor, almost without altering his position. His clothes hung about him, and his linen was soiled and worn. Lady Rowley noticed this especially, as he had been a man peculiarly given to neatness of apparel. He was the first to speak. “You have come down here in a cab?” said he.

“Yes⁠—in a cab, from London,” said Lady Rowley.

“Of course you will go back in it? You cannot stay here. There is no accommodation. It is a wretched place, but it suits the boy. As for me, all places are now alike.”

“Louis,” said his wife, springing up from her knees, coming to him, and taking his right hand between both her own, “you will let me take him with me. I know you will let me take him with me.”

“I cannot do that, Emily; it would be wrong.”

“Wrong to restore a child to his mother? Oh, Louis, think of it. What must my life be without him⁠—or you?”

“Don’t talk of me. It is too late for that.”

“Not if you will be reasonable, Louis, and listen to me. Oh, heavens, how ill you are!” As she said this she drew nearer to him, so that her face was almost close to his. “Louis, come back; come back, and let it all be forgotten. It shall be a dream, a horrid dream, and nobody shall speak of it.” He left his hand within hers and stood looking into her face. He was well aware that his life since he had left her had been one long hour of misery. There had been to him no alleviation, no comfort, no consolation. He had not a friend left to him. Even his satellite, the policeman, was becoming weary of him and manifestly suspicious. The woman with whom he was now lodging, and whose resources were infinitely benefited by his payments to her, had already thrown out hints that she was afraid of him. And as he looked at his wife, he knew that he loved her. Everything for him now was hot and dry and poor and bitter. How sweet would it be again to sit with her soft hand in his, to feel her cool brow against his own, to have the comfort of her care, and to hear the music of loving words! The companionship of his wife had once been to him everything in the world; but now, for many months past, he had known no companion. She bade him come to her, and look upon all this trouble as a dream not to be mentioned. Could it be possible that it should be so, and that they might yet be happy together⁠—perhaps in some distant country, where the story of all their misery might not be known? He felt all this truly and with a keen accuracy. If he were mad, he was not all mad. “I will tell you of nothing that is past,” said she, hanging to him, and