He Knew He Was Right

whispered a few words to Sir Marmaduke, and then declared that he was ready to be taken to the child. “And he will remain here?” asked Trevelyan. A pledge was then given by Sir Marmaduke that he would not force his way farther into the house, and the two other men left the chamber together. Sir Marmaduke, as he paced up and down the room alone, perspiring at every pore, thoroughly uncomfortable and ill at ease, thought of all the hard positions of which he had ever read, and that his was harder than them all. Here was a man married to his daughter, in possession of his daughter’s child, manifestly mad⁠—and yet he could do nothing to him! He was about to return to the seat of his government, and he must leave his own child in this madman’s power! Of course, his daughter could not go with him, leaving her child in this madman’s hands. He had been told that even were he to attempt to prove the man to be mad in Italy, the process would be slow; and, before it could be well commenced, Trevelyan would be off with the child elsewhere. There never was an embarrassment, thought Sir Marmaduke, out of which it was so impossible to find a clear way.

In the meantime, Mr. Glascock and Trevelyan were visiting the child. It was evident that the father, let him be ever so mad, had discerned the expediency of allowing someone to see that his son was alive and in health. Mr. Glascock did not know much of children, and could only say afterwards that the boy was silent and very melancholy, but clean, and apparently well. It appeared that he was taken out daily by his father in the cool hours of the morning, and that his father hardly left him from the time that he was taken up till he was put to bed. But Mr. Glascock’s desire was to see Trevelyan alone, and this he did after they had left the boy. “And now, Trevelyan,” he said, “what do you mean to do?”

“To do?”

“In what way do you propose to live? I want you to be reasonable with me.”

“They do not treat me reasonably.”

“Are you going to measure your own conduct by that of other people? In the first place, you should go back to England. What good can you do here?” Trevelyan shook his head, but remained silent. “You cannot like this life.”

“No, indeed. But whither can I go now that I shall like to live?”

“Why not home?”

“I have no home.”

“Why not go back to England? Ask your wife to join you, and return with her. She would go at a word.” The poor wretch again shook his head. “I hope you think that I speak as your friend,” said Mr. Glascock.

“I believe you do.”

“I will say nothing of any imprudence; but you cannot believe that she has been untrue to you?” Trevelyan would say nothing to this, but stood silent waiting for Mr. Glascock to continue. “Let her come back to you⁠—here; and then, as soon as you can arrange it, go to your own home.”

“Shall I tell you something?” said Trevelyan.

“What is it?”

He came up close to Mr. Glascock, and put his hand upon his visitor’s shoulder. “I will tell you what she would do at once. I dare say that she would come to me. I dare say that she would go with me. I am sure she would. And directly she got me there, she would⁠—say that I was⁠—mad! She⁠—my wife, would do it! He⁠—that furious, ignorant old man below, tried to do it before. His wife said that I was mad.” He paused a moment, as though waiting for a reply; but Mr. Glascock had none to make. It had not been his object, in the advice which he had given, to entrap the poor fellow by a snare, and to induce him so to act that he should deliver himself up to keepers; but he was well aware that wherever Trevelyan might be, it would be desirable that he should be placed for awhile in the charge of some physician. He could not bring himself at the spur of the moment to repudiate the idea by which Trevelyan was actuated. “Perhaps you think that she would be right?” said Trevelyan.

“I am quite sure that she would do nothing that is not for the best,” said Mr. Glascock.

“I can see it all. I will not go back to England, Mr. Glascock. I intend to travel. I shall probably leave this and go to⁠—to⁠—to Greece, perhaps. It is a healthy place, this, and I like it for that reason; but I shall not stay here. If my wife likes to travel with me, she can come. But⁠—to England I will not go.”

“You will let the child go to his mother?”

“Certainly not. If she wants to see the child, he is here. If she will come⁠—without her father⁠—she shall see him. She shall not take him from hence. Nor shall she return to live with me, without full acknowledgment of her fault, and promises of an amended life. I know what I am saying, Mr. Glascock, and have thought of these things perhaps more than you have done. I am obliged to you for coming to me; but now, if you please, I would prefer to be alone.”

Mr. Glascock, seeing that nothing further could be done, joined Sir Marmaduke, and the two walked down to their carriage at the bottom of the hill. Mr. Glascock, as he went, declared his conviction that the unfortunate man was altogether mad, and that it would be necessary to obtain some interference on the part of the authorities for the protection of the child. How this could be done, or whether it could be done in time to intercept a further flight on the part of Trevelyan, Mr. Glascock could not say. It was his idea that Mrs. Trevelyan should herself go out