He Knew He Was Right

and that she had disgraced his name. He was quite unable to look at the whole question between him and his wife from her point of view. He conceived it possible that such a woman as his wife should be told that her conduct would be watched, and that she should be threatened with the Divorce Court, with an effect that should, upon the whole, be salutary. There be men, and not bad men either, and men neither uneducated, or unintelligent, or irrational in ordinary matters, who seem to be absolutely unfitted by nature to have the custody or guardianship of others. A woman in the hands of such a man can hardly save herself or him from endless trouble. It may be that between such a one and his wife, events shall flow on so evenly that no ruling, no constraint is necessary⁠—that even the giving of advice is never called for by the circumstances of the day. If the man be happily forced to labour daily for his living till he be weary, and the wife be laden with many ordinary cares, the routine of life may run on without storms;⁠—but for such a one, if he be without work, the management of a wife will be a task full of peril. The lesson may be learned at last; he may after years come to perceive how much and how little of guidance the partner of his life requires at his hands; and he may be taught how that guidance should be given;⁠—but in the learning of the lesson there will be sorrow and gnashing of teeth. It was so now with this man. He loved his wife. To a certain extent he still trusted her. He did not believe that she would be faithless to him after the fashion of women who are faithless altogether. But he was jealous of authority, fearful of slights, self-conscious, afraid of the world, and utterly ignorant of the nature of a woman’s mind.

He carried the letter with him in his pocket throughout the next morning, and in the course of the day he called upon Lady Milborough. Though he was obstinately bent on acting in accordance with his own views, yet he was morbidly desirous of discussing the grievousness of his position with his friends. He went to Lady Milborough, asking for her advice, but desirous simply of being encouraged by her to do that which he was resolved to do on his own judgment.

“Down⁠—after her⁠—to Nuncombe Putney!” said Lady Milborough, holding up both her hands.

“Yes; he has been there. And she has been weak enough to see him.”

“My dear Louis, take her to Naples at once⁠—at once.”

“It is too late for that now, Lady Milborough.”

“Too late! Oh, no. She has been foolish, indiscreet, disobedient⁠—what you will of that kind. But, Louis, don’t send her away; don’t send your young wife away from you. Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

“I cannot consent to live with a wife with whom neither my wishes nor my word have the slightest effect. I may believe of her what I please, but, think what the world will believe! I cannot disgrace myself by living with a woman who persists in holding intercourse with a man whom the world speaks of as her lover.”

“Take her to Naples,” said Lady Milborough, with all the energy of which she was capable.

“I can take her nowhere, nor will I see her, till she has given proof that her whole conduct towards me has been altered. I have written a letter to her, and I have brought it. Will you excuse me if I ask you to take the trouble to read it?”

Then he handed Lady Milborough the letter, which she read very slowly, and with much care.

“I don’t think I would⁠—would⁠—would⁠—”

“Would what?” demanded Trevelyan.

“Don’t you think that what you say is a little⁠—just a little prone to make⁠—to make the breach perhaps wider?”

“No, Lady Milborough. In the first place, how can it be wider?”

“You might take her back, you know; and then if you could only get to Naples!”

“How can I take her back while she is corresponding with this man?”

“She wouldn’t correspond with him at Naples.”

Trevelyan shook his head and became cross. His old friend would not at all do as old friends are expected to do when called upon for advice.

“I think,” said he, “that what I have proposed is both just and generous.”

“But, Louis, why should there be any separation?”

“She has forced it upon me. She is headstrong, and will not be ruled.”

“But this about disgracing you. Do you think that you must say that?”

“I think I must, because it is true. If I do not tell her the truth, who is there that will do so? It may be bitter now, but I think that it is for her welfare.”

“Dear, dear, dear!”

“I want nothing for myself, Lady Milborough.”

“I am sure of that, Louis.”

“My whole happiness was in my home. No man cared less for going out than I did. My child and my wife were everything to me. I don’t suppose that I was ever seen at a club in the evening once throughout a season. And she might have had anything that she liked⁠—anything! It is hard, Lady Milborough; is it not?”

Lady Milborough, who had seen the angry brow, did not dare to suggest Naples again. But yet, if any word might be spoken to prevent this utter wreck of a home, how good a thing it would be! He had got up to leave her, but she stopped him by holding his hand. “For better, for worse, Louis; remember that.”

“Why has she forgotten it?”

“She is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. And for the boy’s sake! Think of your boy, Louis. Do not send that letter. Sleep on it, Louis, and think of it.”

“I have slept on it.”

“There is no promise in it of forgiveness after a while. It is written as though you intended that