"You allow yourself a liberty of expression, sir, because you are my wife's father," said Trevelyan, "which you would not dare to take in other circ.u.mstances."

"I say that it is a false calumny,--a lie! and I would say so to any man on earth who should dare to slander my child's name."

"Your child, sir! She is my wife;--my wife;--my wife!" Trevelyan, as he spoke, advanced close up to his father-in-law; and at last hissed out his words, with his lips close to Sir Marmaduke's face. "Your right in her is gone, sir. She is mine,--mine,--mine! And you see the way in which she has treated me, Mr. Glasc.o.c.k. Everything I had was hers; but the words of a grey-haired sinner were sweeter to her than all my love. I wonder whether you think that it is a pleasant thing for such a one as I to come out here and live in such a place as this? I have not a friend,--a companion,--hardly a book. There is nothing that I can eat or drink. I do not stir out of the house,--and I am ill;--very ill! Look at me. See what she has brought me to! Mr.

Glasc.o.c.k, on my honour as a man, I never wronged her in a thought or a word."

Mr. Glasc.o.c.k had come to think that his best chance of doing any good was to get Trevelyan into conversation with himself, free from the interruption of Sir Marmaduke. The father of the injured woman could not bring himself to endure the hard words that were spoken of his daughter. During this last speech he had broken out once or twice; but Trevelyan, not heeding him, had clung to Mr. Glasc.o.c.k's arm. "Sir Marmaduke," said he, "would you not like to see the boy?"

"He shall not see the boy," said Trevelyan. "You may see him. He shall not. What is he that he should have control over me?"

"This is the most fearful thing I ever heard of," said Sir Marmaduke.

"What are we to do with him?"

Mr. Glasc.o.c.k 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 embarra.s.sment, thought Sir Marmaduke, out of which it was so impossible to find a clear way.

In the meantime, Mr. Glasc.o.c.k and Trevelyan were visiting the child.

It was evident that the father, let him be ever so mad, had discerned the expediency of allowing some one to see that his son was alive and in health. Mr. Glasc.o.c.k 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. Glasc.o.c.k'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.

Glasc.o.c.k.

"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. Glasc.o.c.k 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. Glasc.o.c.k, 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. Glasc.o.c.k 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. Glasc.o.c.k.

"I can see it all. I will not go back to England, Mr. Glasc.o.c.k. 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. Glasc.o.c.k, 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. Glasc.o.c.k, 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. Glasc.o.c.k, 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. Glasc.o.c.k could not say. It was his idea that Mrs.

Trevelyan should herself go out to Casalunga, and try the force of her own persuasion.

"I believe that he would murder her," said Sir Marmaduke.

"He would not do that. There is a glimmer of sense in all his madness, which will keep him from any actual violence."

CHAPTER LXXIX.

"I CAN SLEEP ON THE BOARDS."

Three days after this there came another carriage to the bottom of the hill on which Casalunga stood, and a lady got out of it all alone. It was Emily Trevelyan, and she had come thither from Siena in quest of her husband and her child. On the previous day Sir Marmaduke's courier had been at the house with a note from the wife to the husband, and had returned with an answer, in which Mrs. Trevelyan was told that, if she would come quite alone, she should see her child. Sir Marmaduke had been averse to any further intercourse with the man, other than what might be made in accordance with medical advice, and, if possible, with government authority.

Lady Rowley had a.s.sented to her daughter's wish, but had suggested that she should at least be allowed to go also,--at any rate, as far as the bottom of the hill. But Emily had been very firm, and Mr.

Glasc.o.c.k had supported her. He was confident that the man would do no harm to her, and he was indisposed to believe that any interference on the part of the Italian Government could be procured in such a case with sufficient celerity to be of use. He still thought it might be possible that the wife might prevail over the husband, or the mother over the father. Sir Marmaduke was at last obliged to yield, and Mrs. Trevelyan went to Siena with no other companion but the courier. From Siena she made the journey quite alone; and having learned the circ.u.mstances of the house from Mr. Glasc.o.c.k, she got out of the carriage, and walked up the hill. There were still the two men coopering at the vats, but she did not stay to speak to them. She went through the big gates, and along the slanting path to the door, not doubting of her way;--for Mr. Glasc.o.c.k had described it all to her, making a small plan of the premises, and even explaining to her the position of the room in which her boy and her husband slept. She found the door open, and an Italian maid-servant at once welcomed her to the house, and a.s.sured her that the signor would be with her immediately. She was sure that the girl knew that she was the boy's mother, and was almost tempted to ask questions at once as to the state of the household; but her knowledge of Italian was slight, and she felt that she was so utterly a stranger in the land that she could dare to trust no one. Though the heat was great, her face was covered with a thick veil. Her dress was black, from head to foot, and she was as a woman who mourned for her husband. She was led into the room which her father had been allowed to enter through the window; and here she sat, in her husband's house, feeling that in no position in the world could she be more utterly separated from the interests of all around her. In a few minutes the door was opened, and her husband was with her, bringing the boy in his hand. He had dressed himself with some care; but it may be doubted whether the garments which he wore did not make him appear thinner even and more haggard than he had looked to be in his old dressing-gown. He had not shaved himself, but his long hair was brushed back from his forehead, after a fashion quaint and very foreign to his former ideas of dress. His wife had not expected that her child would come to her at once,--had thought that some entreaties would be necessary, some obedience perhaps exacted from her, before she would be allowed to see him; and now her heart was softened, and she was grateful to her husband. But she could not speak to him till she had had the boy in her arms. She tore off her bonnet, and then clinging to the child, covered him with kisses. "Louey, my darling! Louey; you remember mamma?" The child pressed himself close to the mother's bosom, but spoke never a word. He was cowed and overcome, not only by the incidents of the moment, but by the terrible melancholy of his whole life. He had been taught to understand, without actual spoken lessons, that he was to live with his father, and that the former woman-given happinesses of his life were at an end. In this second visit from his mother he did not forget her. He recognised the luxury of her love; but it did not occur to him even to hope that she might have come to rescue him from the evil of his days. Trevelyan was standing by, the while, looking on; but he did not speak till she addressed him.

"I am so thankful to you for bringing him to me," she said.

"I told you that you should see him," he said. "Perhaps it might have been better that I should have sent him by a servant; but there are circ.u.mstances which make me fear to let him out of my sight."

"Do you think that I did not wish to see you also? Louis, why do you do me so much wrong? Why do you treat me with such cruelty?"

Then she threw her arms round his neck, and before he could repulse her,--before he could reflect whether it would be well that he should repulse her or not,--she had covered his brow and cheeks and lips with kisses. "Louis," she said; "Louis, speak to me!"

"It is hard to speak sometimes," he said.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It is hard to speak sometimes."]

"You love me, Louis?"

"Yes;--I love you. But I am afraid of you!"

"What is it that you fear? I would give my life for you, if you would only come back to me and let me feel that you believed me to be true." He shook his head, and began to think,--while she still clung to him. He was quite sure that her father and mother had intended to bring a mad doctor down upon him, and he knew that his wife was in her mother's hands. Should he yield to her now,--should he make her any promise,--might not the result be that he would be shut up in dark rooms, robbed of his liberty, robbed of what he loved better than his liberty,--his power as a man. She would thus get the better of him and take the child, and the world would say that in this contest between him and her he had been the sinning one, and she the one against whom the sin had been done. It was the chief object of his mind, the one thing for which he was eager, that this should never come to pa.s.s. Let it once be conceded to him from all sides that he had been right, and then she might do with him almost as she willed. He knew well that he was ill. When he thought of his child, he would tell himself that he was dying. He was at some moments of his miserable existence fearfully anxious to come to terms with his wife, in order that at his death his boy might not be without a protector. Were he to die, then it would be better that his child should be with its mother. In his happy days, immediately after his marriage, he had made a will, in which he had left his entire property to his wife for her life, providing for its subsequent descent to his child,--or children. It had never even occurred to his poor shattered brain that it would be well for him to alter his will.

Had he really believed that his wife had betrayed him, doubtless he would have done so. He would have hated her, have distrusted her altogether, and have believed her to be an evil thing. He had no such belief. But in his desire to achieve empire, and in the sorrows which had come upon him in his unsuccessful struggle, his mind had wavered so frequently, that his spoken words were no true indicators of his thoughts; and in all his arguments he failed to express either his convictions or his desires. When he would say something stronger than he intended, and it would be put to him by his wife, by her father or mother, or by some friend of hers, whether he did believe that she had been untrue to him, he would recoil from the answer which his heart would dictate, lest he should seem to make an acknowledgment that might weaken the ground upon which he stood. Then he would satisfy his own conscience by a.s.suring himself that he had never accused her of such sin. She was still clinging to him now as his mind was working after this fashion. "Louis," she said, "let it all be as though there had been nothing."

"How can that be, my dear?"

"Not to others;--but to us it can be so. There shall be no word spoken of the past." Again he shook his head. "Will it not be best that there should be no word spoken?"