“She will not break her word, excusing herself, because I am—mad?”
“I am sure that there is nothing of the kind in her mind.”
“Perhaps not now; but such things grow. There is no iniquity, no breach of promise, no treason that a woman will not excuse to herself—or a man either—by the comfortable self-assurance that the person to be injured is—mad. A hound without a friend is not so cruelly treated. The outlaw, the murderer, the perjurer has surer privileges than the man who is in the way, and to whom his friends can point as being—mad!” Mr. Glascock knew or thought that he knew that his host in truth was mad, and he could not, therefore, answer this tirade by an assurance that no such idea was likely to prevail. “Have they told you, I wonder,” continued Trevelyan, “how it was that, driven to force and an ambuscade for the recovery of my own child, I waylaid my wife and took him from her? I have done nothing to forfeit my right as a man to the control of my own family. I demanded that the boy should be sent to me, and she paid no attention to my words. I was compelled to vindicate my own authority; and then, because I claimed the right which belongs to a father, they said that I was—mad! Ay, and they would have proved it, too, had I not fled from my country and hidden myself in this desert. Think of that, Mr. Glascock! Now they have followed me here—not out of love for me; and that man whom they call a governor comes and insults me; and my wife promises to be good to me, and says that she will forgive and forget! Can she ever forgive herself her own folly, and the cruelty that has made shipwreck of my life? They can do nothing to me here; but they would entice me home because there they have friends, and can fee doctors—with my own money—and suborn lawyers, and put me away—somewhere in the dark, where I shall be no more heard of among men! As you are a man of honour, Mr. Glascock—tell me; is it not so?”
“I know nothing of their plans—beyond this, that you wrote me word that you would send them the boy.”
“But I know their plans. What you say is true. I did write you word—and I meant it. Mr. Glascock, sitting here alone from morning to night, and lying down from night till morning, without companionship, without love, in utter misery, I taught myself to feel that I should think more of her than of myself.”
“If you are so unhappy here, come back yourself with the child. Your wife would desire nothing better.”
“Yes;—and submit to her, and her father, and her mother. No—Mr. Glascock; never, never. Let her come to me.”
“But you will not receive her.”
“Let her come in a proper spirit, and I will receive her. She is the wife of my bosom, and I will receive her with joy. But if she is to come to me and tell me that she forgives me—forgives me for the evil that she has done—then, sir, she had better stay away. Mr. Glascock, you are going to be married. Believe me—no man should submit to be forgiven by his wife. Everything must go astray if that be done. I would rather encounter their mad doctors, one of them after another till they had made me mad;—I would encounter anything rather than that. But, sir, you neither eat nor drink, and I fear that my speech disturbs you.”
It was like enough that it may have done so. Trevelyan, as he had been speaking, had walked about the room, going from one extremity to the other with hurried steps, gesticulating with his arms, and every now and then pushing back with his hands the long hair from off his forehead. Mr. Glascock was in truth very much disturbed. He had come there with an express object; but, whenever he mentioned the child, the father became almost rabid in his wrath. “I have done very well, thank you,” said Mr. Glascock. “I will not eat any more, and I believe I must be thinking of going back to Siena.”
“I had hoped you would spend the day with me, Mr. Glascock.”
“I am to be married, you see, in two days; and I must be in Florence early tomorrow. I am to meet my—wife, as she will be, and the Rowleys, and your wife. Upon my word I can’t stay. Won’t you just say a word to the young woman and let the boy be got ready?”
“I think not;—no, I think not.”
“And am I to have had all this journey for nothing? You will have made a fool of me in writing to me.”
“I intended to be honest, Mr. Glascock.”
“Stick to your honesty, and send the boy back to his mother. It will be better for you, Trevelyan.”
“Better for me! Nothing can be better for me. All must be worst. It will be better for me, you say; and you ask me to give up the last drop of cold water wherewith I can touch my parched lips. Even in my hell I had so much left to me of a limpid stream, and you tell me that it will be better for me to pour it away. You may take him, Mr. Glascock. The woman will make him ready for you. What matters it whether the fiery furnace be heated seven times, or only six;—in either degree the flames are enough! You may take him;—you may take him.” So saying, Trevelyan walked out of the window, leaving Mr. Glascock seated in his chair. He walked out of the window and went down among the olive trees. He did not go far, however, but stood with his arm round the stem of one of them, playing with the shoots of a vine with
