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Title: He Knew He Was Right

Author: Anthony Trollope

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5140]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on May 13, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT



CHAPTER I - SHEWING HOW WRATH BEGAN

When Louis Trevelyan was twenty-four years old, he had all the world
before him where to choose; and, among other things, he chose to go to
the Mandarin Islands, and there fell in love with Emily Rowley, the
daughter of Sir Marmaduke, the governor. Sir Marmaduke Rowley, at this
period of his life, was a respectable middle-aged public servant, in
good repute, who had, however, as yet achieved for himself neither an
exalted position nor a large fortune. He had been governor of many
islands, and had never lacked employment; and now, at the age of fifty,
found himself at the Mandarins, with a salary of 3,000 pounds a year,
living in a temperature at which 80 in the shade is considered to be
cool, with eight daughters, and not a shilling saved. A governor at the
Mandarins who is social by nature and hospitable on principle, cannot
save money in the islands even on 3,000 pounds a year when he has eight
daughters. And at the Mandarins, though hospitality is a duty, the
gentlemen who ate Sir Rowley's dinners were not exactly the men whom he
or Lady Rowley desired to welcome to their bosoms as sons-in-law. Nor
when Mr Trevelyan came that way, desirous of seeing everything in the
somewhat indefinite course of his travels, had Emily Rowley, the eldest
of the flock, then twenty years of age, seen as yet any Mandariner who
exactly came up to her fancy. And, as Louis Trevelyan was a remarkably
handsome young man, who was well connected, who had been ninth wrangler
at Cambridge, who had already published a volume of poems, and who
possessed 3,000 pounds a year of his own, arising from various
perfectly secure investments, he was not forced to sigh long in vain.
Indeed, the Rowleys, one and all, felt that providence had been very
good to them in sending young Trevelyan on his travels in that
direction, for he seemed to be a very pearl among men. Both Sir
Marmaduke and Lady Rowley felt that there might be objections to such a
marriage as that proposed to them, raised by the Trevelyan family. Lady
Rowley would not have liked her daughter to go to England, to be
received with cold looks by strangers. But it soon appeared that there
was no one to make objections. Louis, the lover, had no living relative
nearer than cousins. His father, a barrister of repute, had died a
widower, and had left the money which he had made to an only child. The
head of the family was a first cousin who lived in Cornwall on a
moderate, property a very good sort of stupid fellow, as Louis said,
who would be quite indifferent as to any marriage that his cousin might
make. No man could be more independent or more clearly justified in
pleasing himself than was this lover. And then he himself proposed that
the second daughter, Nora, should come and live with them in London.
What a lover to fall suddenly from the heavens into such a dovecote!

'I haven't a penny-piece to give either of them,' said Sir Rowley.

'It is my idea that girls should not have fortunes,' said Trevelyan.
'At any rate, I am quite sure that men should never look for money. A
man must be more comfortable, and, I think, is likely to be more
affectionate, when the money has belonged to himself.'

Sir Rowley was a high-minded gentleman, who would have liked to have
handed over a few thousand pounds on giving up his daughters; but,
having no thousands of pounds to hand over, he could not but admire the
principles of his proposed son-in-law. As it was about time for him to
have his leave of absence, he and sundry of the girls went to England
with Mr Trevelyan, and the wedding was celebrated in London by the Rev.
Oliphant Outhouse, of Saint Diddulph-in-the-East, who had married Sir
Rowley's sister. Then a small house was taken and furnished in Curzon
Street, Mayfair, and the Rowleys went back to the seat of their
government, leaving Nora, the second girl, in charge of her elder
sister.

The Rowleys had found, on reaching London, that they had lighted upon a
pearl indeed. Louis Trevelyan was a man of whom all people said all
good things. He might have been a fellow of his college had he not been
a man of fortune. He might already so Sir Rowley was told have been in
Parliament, had he not thought it to be wiser to wait awhile. Indeed,
he was very wise in many things. He had gone out on his travels thus
young not in search of excitement, to kill beasts, or to encounter he
knew not what novelty and amusement but that he might see men and know
the world. He had been on his travels for more than a year when the
winds blew him to the Mandarins. Oh, how blessed were the winds! And,
moreover, Sir Rowley found that his son-in-law was well spoken of at
the clubs by those who had known him during his university career, as a
man popular as well as wise, not a book-worm, or a dry philosopher, or
a prig. He could talk on all subjects, was very generous, a man sure to
be honoured and respected; and then such a handsome, manly fellow, with
short brown hair, a nose divinely chiselled, an Apollo's mouth, six
feet high, with shoulders and legs and arms in proportion a pearl of
pearls! Only, as Lady Rowley was the first to find out, he liked to
have his own way.

'But his way is such a good way,' said Sir Marmaduke. 'He will be such
a good guide for the girls!'

'But Emily likes her way too,' said Lady Rowley.

Sir Marmaduke argued the matter no further, but thought, no doubt, that
such a husband as Louis Trevelyan was entitled to have his own way. He
probably had not observed his daughter's temper so accurately as his
wife had done. With eight of them coming up around him, how should he
have observed their tempers? At any rate, if there were anything amiss
with Emily's temper, it would be well that she should find her master
in such a husband as Louis Trevelyan.

For nearly two years the little household in Curzon Street went on
well, or if anything was the matter no one outside of the little
household was aware of it. And there was a baby, a boy, a young Louis,
and a baby in such a household is apt to make things go sweetly.

The marriage had taken place in July, and after the wedding tour there
had been a winter and a spring in London; and then they passed a month
or two at the sea-side, after which the baby had been born. And then
there came another winter and another spring. Nora Rowley was with them
in London, and by this time Mr Trevelyan had begun to think that he
should like to have his own way completely. His baby was very nice, and
his wife was clever, pretty, and attractive. Nora was all that an
unmarried sister should be. But but there had come to be trouble and
bitter words. Lady Rowley had been right when she said that her
daughter Emily also liked to have her own way.

'If I am suspected,' said Mrs Trevelyan to her sister one morning, as
they sat together in the little back drawing-room, 'life will not be
worth having.'

'How can you talk of being suspected, Emily?'

'What does he mean then by saying that he would rather not have Colonel
Osborne here? A man older than my own father, who has known me since I
was a baby!'

'He didn't mean anything of that kind, Emily. You know he did not, and
you should not say so. It would be too horrible to think of.'

'It was a great deal too horrible to be spoken, I know. If he does not
beg my pardon, I shall I shall continue to live with him, of course, as
a sort of upper servant, because of baby. But he shall know what I
think and feel.'

'If I were you I would forget it.'

'How can I forget it? Nothing that I can do pleases him. He is civil
and kind to you because he is not your master; but you don't know what
things he says to me. Am I to tell Colonel Osborne not to come? Heavens
and earth! How should I ever hold up my head again if I were driven to
do that? He will be here today I have no doubt; and Louis will sit
there below in the library, and hear his step, and will not come up.'

'Tell Richard to say you are not at home.'

'Yes; and everybody will understand why. And for what am I to deny
myself in that way to the best and oldest friend I have? If any such
orders are to be given, let him give them and then see what will come
of it.'

Mrs Trevelyan had described Colonel Osborne truly as far as words went,
in saying that he had known her since she was a baby, and that he was
an older man than her father. Colonel Osborne's age exceeded her
father's by about a month, and as he was now past fifty, he might be
considered perhaps, in that respect, to be a safe friend for a young
married woman. But he was in every respect a man very different from
Sir Marmaduke. Sir Marmaduke, blessed and at the same time burdened as
he was with a wife and eight daughters, and condemned as he had been to
pass a large portion of his life within the tropics, had become at
fifty what many people call quite a middle-aged man. That is to say, he
was one from whom the effervescence and elasticity and salt of youth
had altogether passed away. He was fat and slow, thinking much of his
wife and eight daughters, thinking much also of his dinner. Now Colonel
Osborne was a bachelor, with no burdens but those imposed upon him by
his position as a member of Parliament a man of fortune to whom the
world had been very easy. It was not therefore said so decidedly of him
as of Sir Marmaduke, that he was a middle-aged man, although he had
probably already lived more than two-thirds of his life. And he was a
good-looking man of his age, bald indeed at the top of his head, and
with a considerable sprinkling of grey hair through his bushy beard;
but upright in his carriage, active, and quick in his step, who dressed
well, and was clearly determined to make the most he could of what
remained to him of the advantages of youth. Colonel Osborne was always
so dressed that no one ever observed the nature of his garments, being
no doubt well aware that no man after twenty-five can afford to call
special attention to his coat, his hat, his cravat, or his trousers;
but nevertheless the matter was one to which he paid much attention,
and he was by no means lax in ascertaining what his tailor did for him.
He always rode a pretty horse, and mounted his groom on one at any rate
as pretty. He was known to have an excellent stud down in the shires,
and had the reputation of going well with hounds. Poor Sir Marmaduke
could not have ridden a hunt to save either his government or his
credit. When, therefore, Mrs Trevelyan declared to her sister that
Colonel Osborne was a man whom she was entitled to regard with semi-
parental feelings of veneration because he was older than her father,
she made a comparison which was more true in the letter than in the
spirit. And when she asserted that Colonel Osborne had known her since
she was a baby, she fell again into the same mistake. Colonel Osborne
had indeed known her when she was a baby, and had in old days been the
very intimate friend of her father; but of herself he had seen little
or nothing since those baby days, till he had met her just as she was
about to become Mrs Trevelyan; and though it was natural that so old a
friend should come to her and congratulate her and renew his
friendship, nevertheless it was not true that he made his appearance in
her husband's house in the guise of the useful old family friend, who
gives silver cups to the children and kisses the little girls for the
sake of the old affection which he has borne for the parents. We all
know the appearance of that old gentleman, how pleasant and dear a
fellow he is, how welcome is his face within the gate, how free he
makes with our wine, generally abusing it, how he tells our eldest
daughter to light his candle for him, how he gave silver cups when the
girls were born, and now bestows tea-services as they get married a
most useful, safe, and charming fellow, not a year younger-looking or
more nimble than ourselves, without whom life would be very blank. We
all know that man; but such a man was not Colonel Osborne in the house
of Mr Trevelyan's young bride.

Emily Rowley, when she was brought home from the Mandarin Islands to be
the wife of Louis Trevelyan, was a very handsome young woman, tall,
with a bust rather full for her age, with dark eyes eyes that looked to
be dark because her eye-brows and eye-lashes were nearly black, but
which were in truth so varying in colour, that you could not tell their
hue. Her brown hair was very dark and very soft; and the tint of her
complexion was brown also, though the colour of her cheeks was often so
bright as to induce her enemies to say falsely of her that she painted
them. And she was very strong, as are some girls who come from the
tropics, and whom a tropical climate has suited. She could sit on her
horse the whole day long, and would never be weary with dancing at the
Government House balls. When Colonel Osborne was introduced to her as
the baby whom he had known, he thought it would be very pleasant to be
intimate with so pleasant a friend meaning no harm indeed, as but few
men do mean harm on such occasions but still, not regarding the
beautiful young woman whom he had seen as one of a generation
succeeding to that of his own, to whom it would be his duty to make
himself useful on account of the old friendship which he bore to her
father.

It was, moreover, well known in London though not known at all to Mrs
Trevelyan that this ancient Lothario had before this made himself
troublesome in more than one family. He was fond of intimacies with
married ladies, and perhaps was not averse to the excitement of marital
hostility. It must be remembered, however, that the hostility to which
allusion is here made was not the hostility of the pistol or the
horsewhip nor indeed was it generally the hostility of a word of spoken
anger. A young husband may dislike the too-friendly bearing of a
friend, and may yet abstain from that outrage on his own dignity and on
his wife, which is conveyed by a word of suspicion. Louis Trevelyan
having taken a strong dislike to Colonel Osborne, and having failed to
make his wife understand that this dislike should have induced her to
throw cold water upon the Colonel's friendship, had allowed himself to
speak a word which probably he would have willingly recalled as soon as
spoken. But words spoken cannot be recalled, and many a man and many a
woman who has spoken a word at once regretted, are far too proud to
express that regret. So it was with Louis Trevelyan when he told his
wife that he did not wish Colonel Osborne to come so often to his
house. He had said it with a flashing eye and an angry tone; and though
she had seen the eye flash before, and was familiar with the angry
tone, she had never before felt herself to be insulted by her husband.
As soon as the word had been spoken Trevelyan had left the room and had
gone down among his books. But when he was alone he knew that he had
insulted his wife. He was quite aware that he should have spoken to her
gently, and have explained to her, with his arm round her waist, that
it would be better for both of them that this friend's friendship
should be limited. There is so much in a turn of the eye and in the
tone given to a word when such things have to be said so much more of
importance than in the words themselves. As Trevelyan thought of this,
and remembered what his manner had been, how much anger he had
expressed, how far he had been from having his arm round his wife's
waist as he spoke to her, he almost made up his mind to go upstairs and
to apologise. But he was one to whose nature the giving of any apology
was repulsive. He could not bear to have to own himself to have been
wrong. And then his wife had been most provoking in her manner to him.
When he had endeavoured to make her understand his wishes by certain
disparaging hints which he had thrown out as to Colonel Osborne, saying
that he was a dangerous man, one who did not show his true character, a
snake in the grass, a man without settled principles, and such like,
his wife had taken up the cudgels for her friend, and had openly
declared that she did not believe a word of the things that were
alleged against him. 'But still for all that it is true,' the husband
had said. 'I have no doubt that you think so,' the wife had replied.
'Men do believe evil of one another, very often. But you must excuse me
if I say that I think you are mistaken. I have known Colonel Osborne
much longer than you have done, Louis, and papa has always had the
highest opinion of him.' Then Mr Trevelyan had become very angry, and
had spoken those words which he could not recall. As he walked to and
fro among his books downstairs, he almost felt that he ought to beg his
wife's pardon. He knew his wife well enough to be sure that she would
not forgive him unless he did so. He would do so, he thought, but not
exactly now. A moment would come in which it might be easier than at
present. He would be able to assure her when he went up to dress for
dinner, that he had meant no harm. They were going out to dine at the
house of a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a lady
standing high in the world's esteem, of whom his wife stood a little in
awe; and he calculated that this feeling, if it did not make his task
easy would yet take from it some of its difficulty. Emily would be, not
exactly cowed, by the prospect of Lady Milborough's dinner, but perhaps
a little reduced from her usual self-assertion. He would say a word to
her when he was dressing, assuring her that he had not intended to
animadvert in the slightest degree upon her own conduct.

Luncheon was served, and the two ladies went down into the dining-room.
Mr Trevelyan did not appear. There was nothing in itself singular in
that, as he was accustomed to declare that luncheon was a meal too much
in the day, and that a man should eat nothing beyond a biscuit between
breakfast and dinner. But he would sometimes come in and eat his
biscuit standing on the hearth-rug, and drink what he would call half a
quarter of a glass of sherry. It would probably have been well that he
should have done so now; but he remained in his library behind the
dining-room, and when his wife and his sister-in-law had gone upstairs,
he became anxious to learn whether, Colonel Osborne would come on that
day, and, if so, whether he would be admitted. He had been told that
Nora Rowley was to be called for by another lady, a Mrs Fairfax, to go
out and look at pictures. His wife had declined to join Mrs Fairfax's
party, having declared that, as she was going to dine out, she would
not leave her baby all the afternoon. Louis Trevelyan, though he strove
to apply his mind to an article which he was writing for a scientific
quarterly review, could not keep himself from anxiety as to this
expected visit from Colonel Osborne. He was not in the least jealous.
He swore to himself fifty times over that any such feeling on his part
would be a monstrous injury to his wife. Nevertheless he knew that he
would be gratified if on that special day Colonel Osborne should be
informed that his wife was not at home. Whether the man were admitted
or not, he would beg his wife's pardon; but he could, he thought, do so
with more thorough efficacy and affection if she should have shown a
disposition to comply with his wishes on this day.

'Do say a word to Richard,' said Nora to her sister in a whisper as
they were going upstairs after luncheon.

'I will not,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'May I do it?'

'Certainly not, Nora. I should feel that I were demeaning myself were I
to allow what was said to me in such a manner to have any effect upon
me.'

'I think you are so wrong, Emily. I do indeed.'

'You must allow me to be the best judge what to do in my own house, and
with my own husband.'

'Oh, yes; certainly.'

'If he gives me any command I will obey it. Or if he had expressed his
wish in any other words I would have complied. But to be told that he
would rather not have Colonel Osborne here! If you had seen his manner
and heard his words, you would not have been surprised that I should
feel it as I do. It was a gross insult and it was not the first.'

As she spoke the fire flashed from her eye, and the bright red colour
of her cheek told a tale of her anger which her sister well knew how to
read. Then there was a knock at the door, and they both knew that
Colonel Osborne was there. Louis Trevelyan, sitting in his library,
also knew of whose coming that knock gave notice.



CHAPTER II - COLONEL OSBORNE

It has been already said that Colonel Osborne was a bachelor, a man of
fortune, a member of Parliament, and one who carried his half century
of years lightly on his shoulders. It will only be necessary to say
further of him that he was a man popular with those among whom he
lived, as a politician, as a sportsman, and as a member of society. He
could speak well in the House, though he spoke but seldom, and it was
generally thought of him that he might have been something
considerable, had it not suited him better to be nothing at all. He was
supposed to be a Conservative, and generally voted with the
conservative party; but he could boast that he was altogether
independent, and on an occasion would take the trouble of proving
himself to be so. He was in possession of excellent health; had all
that the world could give; was fond of books, pictures, architecture,
and china; had various tastes, and the means of indulging them, and was
one of those few men on whom it seems that every pleasant thing has
been lavished. There was that little slur on his good name to which
allusion has been made; but those who knew Colonel Osborne best were
generally willing to declare that no harm was intended, and that the
evils which arose were always to be attributed to mistaken jealousy. He
had, his friends said, a free and pleasant way with women which women
like a pleasant way of free friendship; that there was no more, and
that the harm which had come had always come from false suspicion. But
there were certain ladies about the town good, motherly, discreet women
who hated the name of Colonel Osborne, who would not admit him within
their doors, who would not bow to him in other people's houses, who
would always speak of him as a serpent, a hyena, a kite, or a shark.
Old Lady Milborough was one of these, a daughter of a friend of hers
having once admitted the serpent to her intimacy.

'Augustus Poole was wise enough to take his wife abroad,' said old Lady
Milborough, discussing about this time with a gossip of hers the danger
of Mrs Trevelyan's position, 'or there would have been a breakup there;
and yet there never was a better girl in the world than Jane Marriott.'

The reader may be quite certain that Colonel Osborne had no
premeditated evil intention when he allowed himself to become the
intimate friend of his old friend's daughter. There was nothing
fiendish in his nature. He was not a man who boasted of his conquests.
He was not a ravening wolf going about seeking whom he might devour,
and determined to devour whatever might come in his way; but he liked
that which was pleasant; and of all pleasant things the company of a
pretty clever woman was to him the pleasantest. At this exact period of
his life no woman was so pleasantly pretty to him, and so agreeably
clever, as Mrs Trevelyan.

When Louis Trevelyan heard on the stairs the step of the dangerous man,
he got up from his chair as though he too would have gone into the
drawing-room, and it would perhaps have been well had he done so. Could
he have done this, and kept his temper with the man, he would have
paved the way for an easy reconciliation with his wife. But when he
reached the door of his room, and had placed his hand upon the lock, he
withdrew again. He told himself he withdrew because he would not allow
himself to be jealous; but in truth he did so because he knew he could
not have brought himself to be civil to the man he hated. So he sat
down, and took up his pen, and began to cudgel his brain about the
scientific article. He was intent on raising a dispute with some
learned pundit about the waves of sound but he could think of no other
sound than that of the light steps of Colonel Osborne as he had gone
upstairs. He put down his pen, and clenched his fist, and allowed a
black frown to settle upon his brow. 'What right had the man to come
there, unasked by him, and disturb his happiness? And then this poor
wife of his, who knew so little of English life, who had lived in the
Mandarin Islands almost since she had been a child, who had lived in
one colony or another almost since she had been born, who had had so
few of those advantages for which he should have looked in marrying a
wife, how was the poor girl to conduct herself properly when subjected
to the arts and practised villanies of this viper? And yet the poor
girl was so stiff in her temper, had picked up such a trick of
obstinacy in those tropical regions, that Louis Trevelyan felt that he
did not know how to manage her. He too had heard how Jane Marriott had
been carried off to Naples after she had become Mrs Poole. Must he too
carry off his wife to Naples in order to place her out of the reach of
this hyena? It was terrible to him to think that he must pack up
everything and run away from such a one as Colonel Osborne. And even
were he to consent to do this, how could he explain it all to that very
wife for whose sake he would do it? If she got a hint of the reason she
would, he did not doubt, refuse to go. As he thought of it, and as that
visit upstairs prolonged itself, he almost thought it would be best for
him to be round with her! We all know what a husband means when he
resolves to be round with his wife. He began to think that he would not
apologise at all for the words he had spoken but would speak them again
somewhat more sharply than before. She would be very wrathful with him;
there would be a silent enduring indignation, which, as he understood
well, would be infinitely worse than any torrent of words. But was he,
a man, to abstain from doing that which he believed to be his duty
because he was afraid of his wife's anger? Should he be deterred from
saying that which he conceived it would be right that he should say,
because she was stiff-necked? No. He would not apologise, but would
tell her again that it was necessary, both for his happiness and for
hers, that all intimacy with Colonel Osborne should be discontinued.

He was brought to this strongly marital resolution by the length of the
man's present visit; by that and by the fact that, during the latter
portion of it, his wife was alone with Colonel Osborne. Nora had been
there when the man came, but Mrs Fairfax had called, not getting out of
her carriage, and Nora had been constrained to go down to her. She had
hesitated a moment, and Colonel Osborne had observed and partly
understood the hesitation. When he saw it, had he been perfectly
well-minded in the matter, he would have gone too. But he probably told
himself that Nora Rowley was a fool, and that in such matters it was
quite enough for a man to know that he did not intend any harm.

'You had better go down, Nora,' said Mrs Trevelyan; 'Mrs Fairfax will
be ever so angry if you keep her waiting.'

Then Nora had gone and the two were alone together. Nora had gone, and
Trevelyan had heard her as she was going and knew that Colonel Osborne
was alone with his wife.

'If you can manage that it will be so nice,' said Mrs Trevelyan,
continuing the conversation.

'My dear Emily,' he said, 'you must not talk of my managing it, or you
will spoil it all.'

He had called them both Emily and Nora when Sir Marmaduke and Lady
Rowley were with them before the marriage, and, taking the liberty of a
very old family friend, had continued the practice. Mrs Trevelyan was
quite aware that she had been so called by him in the presence of her
husband and that her husband had not objected. But that was now some
months ago, before baby was born; and she was aware also that he had
not called her so latterly in presence of her husband. She thoroughly
wished that she knew how to ask him not to do so again; but the matter
was very difficult, as she could not make such a request without
betraying some fear on her husband's part. The subject which they were
now discussing was too important to her to allow her to dwell upon this
trouble at the moment, and so she permitted him to go on with his
speech.

'If I were to manage it, as you call it which I can't do at all it
would be a gross job.'

'That's all nonsense to us, Colonel Osborne. Ladies always like
political jobs, and think that they and they only make politics
bearable. But this would not be a job at all. Papa could do it better
than anybody else. Think how long he has been at it!'

The matter in discussion was the chance of an order being sent out to
Sir Marmaduke to come home from his islands at the public expense, to
give evidence, respecting colonial government in general, to a
committee of the House of Commons which was about to sit on the
subject. The committee had been voted, and two governors were to be
brought home for the purpose of giving evidence. What arrangement could
be so pleasant to a governor living in the Mandarin Islands, who had
had a holiday lately, and who could but ill afford to take any holidays
at his own expense? Colonel Osborne was on this committee, and,
moreover, was on good terms at the Colonial Office. There were men in
office who would be glad to do Colonel Osborne a service, and then if
this were a job, it would be so very little of a job! Perhaps Sir
Marmaduke might not be the very best man for the purpose. Perhaps the
government of the Mandarins did not afford the best specimen of that
colonial lore which it was the business of the committee to master. But
then two governors were to come, and it might be as well to have one of
the best sort, and one of the second best. No one supposed that
excellent old Sir Marmaduke was a paragon of a governor, but then he
had an infinity of experience! For over twenty years he had been from
island to island, and had at least steered clear of great scrapes.

'We'll try it, at any rate,' said the Colonel.

'Do, Colonel Osborne. Mamma would come with him, of course?'

'We should leave him to manage all that. It's not very likely that he
would leave Lady Rowley behind.'

'He never has. I know he thinks more of mamma than he ever does of
himself. Fancy having them here in the autumn! I suppose if he came for
the end of the session, they wouldn't send him back quite at once?'

'I rather fancy that our foreign and colonial servants know how to
stretch a point when they find themselves in England.'

'Of course they do, Colonel Osborne; and why shouldn't they? Think of
all that they have to endure out in those horrible places. How would
you like to live in the Mandarins?'

'I should prefer London, certainly.'

'Of course you would; and you mustn't begrudge papa a month or two when
he comes. I never cared about your being in parliament before, but I
shall think so much of you now if you can manage to get papa home.'

There could be nothing more innocent than this nothing more innocent at
any rate as regarded any offence against Mr Trevelyan. But just then
there came a word which a little startled Mrs Trevelyan, and made her
feel afraid that she was doing wrong.

'I must make one stipulation with you, Emily,' said the Colonel.

'What is that?'

'You must not tell your husband.'

'Oh, dear! and why not?'

'I am sure you are sharp enough to see why you should not. A word of
this repeated at any club would put an end at once to your project, and
would be very damaging to me. And, beyond that, I wouldn't wish him to
know that I had meddled with it at all. I am very chary of having my
name connected with anything of the kind; and, upon my word, I wouldn't
do it for any living human being but yourself. You'll promise me,
Emily?'

She gave the promise, but there were two things in the matter, as it
stood at present, which she did not at all like. She was very averse to
having any secret from her husband with Colonel Osborne; and she was
not at all pleased at being told that he was doing for her a favour
that he would not have done for any other living human being. Had he
said so to her yesterday, before those offensive words had been spoken
by her husband, she would not have thought much about it. She would
have connected the man's friendship for herself with his very old
friendship for her father, and she would have regarded the assurance as
made to the Rowleys in general, and not to herself in particular. But
now, after what had occurred, it pained her to be told by Colonel
Osborne that he would make, specially on her behalf, a sacrifice of his
political pride which he would make for no other person living. And
then, as he had called her by her Christian name, as he had exacted the
promise, there had been a tone of affection in his voice that she had
almost felt to be too warm. But she gave the promise; and when he
pressed her hand at parting, she pressed his again, in token of
gratitude for the kindness to be done to her father and mother.

Immediately afterwards Colonel Osborne went away, and Mrs Trevelyan was
left alone in her drawing-room. She knew that her husband was still
downstairs, and listened for a moment to hear whether he would now come
up to her. And he, too, had heard the Colonel's step as he went, and
for a few moments had doubted whether or no he would at once go to his
wife. Though he believed himself to be a man very firm of purpose, his
mind had oscillated backwards and forwards within the last quarter of
an hour between those two purposes of being round with his wife, and of
begging her pardon for the words which he had already spoken. He
believed that he would best do his duty by that plan of being round
with her; but then it would be so much pleasanter at any rate, so much
easier, to beg her pardon. But of one thing he was quite certain, he
must by some means exclude Colonel Osborne from his house. He could not
live and continue to endure the feelings which he had suffered while
sitting downstairs at his desk, with the knowledge that Colonel Osborne
was closeted with his wife upstairs. It might be that there was nothing
in it. That his wife was innocent he was quite sure. But nevertheless,
he was himself so much affected by some feeling which pervaded him in
reference to this man, that all his energy was destroyed., and his
powers of mind and body were paralysed. He could not, and would not,
stand it. Rather than that, he would follow Mr Poole, and take his wife
to Naples. So resolving, he put his hat on his head and walked out of
the house. He would have the advantage of the afternoon's consideration
before he took either the one step or the other.

As soon as he was gone Emily Trevelyan went upstairs to her baby. She
would not stir as long as there had been a chance of his coming to her.
She very much wished that he would come, and had made up her mind, in
spite of the fierceness of her assertion to her sister, to accept any
slightest hint at an apology which her husband might offer to her. To
this state of mind she was brought by the consciousness of having a
secret from him, and by a sense not of impropriety on her own part, but
of conduct which some people might have called improper in her mode of
parting from the man against whom her husband had warned her. The
warmth of that hand-pressing, and the affectionate tone in which her
name had been pronounced, and the promise made to her, softened her
heart towards her husband. Had he gone to her now and said a word to
her in gentleness all might have been made right. But he did not go to
her.

'If he chooses to be cross and sulky, he may be cross and sulky,' said
Mrs Trevelyan to herself as she went up to her baby.

'Has Louis been with you?' Nora asked, as soon as Mrs Fairfax had
brought her home.

'I have not seen him since you left me,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'I suppose he went out before Colonel Osborne?'

'No, indeed. He waited till Colonel Osborne had gone, and then he went
himself; but he did not come near me. It is for him to judge of his own
conduct, but I must say that I think he is very foolish.'

This the young wife said in a tone which clearly indicated that she had
judged her husband's conduct, and had found it to be very foolish
indeed.

'Do you think that papa and mamma will really come?' said Nora,
changing the subject of conversation.

'How can I tell? How am I to know? After all that has passed I am
afraid to say a word lest I should be accused of doing wrong. But
remember this, Nora, you are not to speak of it to any one.'

'You will tell Louis?'

'No; I will tell no one.'

'Dear, dear Emily; pray do not keep anything secret from him.'

'What do you mean by secret? There isn't any secret. Only in such
matters as that about politics no gentleman likes to have his name
talked about!'

A look of great distress came upon Nora's face as she heard this. To
her it seemed to be very bad that there should be a secret between her
sister and Colonel Osborne to be kept from her brother-in-law.

'I suppose you will suspect me next?' said Mrs Trevelyan, angrily.

'Emily, how can you say anything so cruel?'

'You look as if you did.'

'I only mean that I think it would be wiser to tell all this to Louis.'

'How can I tell him Colonel Osborne's private business, when Colonel
Osborne has desired me not to do so. For whose sake is Colonel Osborne
doing this? For papa's and mamma's! I suppose Louis won't be jealous,
because I want to have papa and mamma home. It would not be a bit less
unreasonable than the other.'



CHAPTER III - LADY MILBOROUGH'S DINNER PARTY

Louis Trevelyan went down to his club in Pall Mall, the Acrobats, and
there heard a rumour that added to his anger against Colonel Osborne.
The Acrobats was a very distinguished club, into which it was now
difficult for a young man to find his way, and almost impossible for a
man who was no longer young, and therefore known to many. It had been
founded some twenty years since with the idea of promoting muscular
exercise and gymnastic amusements; but the promoters had become fat and
lethargic, and the Acrobats spent their time mostly in playing whist,
and in ordering and eating their dinners. There were supposed to be, in
some out-of-the-way part of the building, certain poles and sticks and
parallel bars with which feats of activity might be practised, but no
one ever asked for them now-a-days, and a man, when he became an
Acrobat, did so with a view either to the whist or the cook, or
possibly to the social excellences of the club. Louis Trevelyan was an
Acrobat as was also Colonel Osborne.

'So old Rowley is coming home,' said one distinguished Acrobat to
another in Trevelyan's hearing.

'How the deuce is he managing that? He was here a year ago?'

'Osborne is getting it done. He is to come as a witness for this
committee. It must be no end of a lounge for him. It doesn't count as
leave, and he has every shilling paid for him, down to his cab-fares
when he goes out to dinner. There's nothing like having a friend at
Court.'

Such was the secrecy of Colonel Osborne's secret! He had been so chary
of having his name mentioned in connection with a political job, that
he had found it necessary to impose on his young friend the burden of a
secret from her husband, and yet the husband heard the whole story told
openly at his club on the same day! There was nothing in the story to
anger Trevelyan had he not immediately felt that there must be some
plan in the matter between his wife and Colonel Osborne, of which he
had been kept ignorant. Hitherto, indeed, his wife, as the reader
knows, could not have told him. He had not seen her since the matter
had been discussed between her and her friend. But he was angry because
he first learned at his club that which he thought he ought to have
learned at home.

As soon as he reached his house he went at once to his wife's room, but
her maid was with her, and nothing could be said at that moment. He
then dressed himself, intending to go to Emily as soon as the girl had
left her; but the girl remained was, as he believed, kept in the room
purposely by his wife, so that he should have no moment of private
conversation. He went downstairs, therefore, and found Nora standing by
the drawing-room fire.

'So you are dressed first today?' he said. 'I thought your turn always
came last.'

'Emily sent Jenny to me first today because she thought you would be
home, and she didn't go up to dress till the last minute.'

This was intended well by Nora, but it did not have the desired effect.
Trevelyan, who had no command over his own features, frowned, and
showed that he was displeased. He hesitated a moment, thinking whether
he would ask Nora any question as to this report about her father and
mother; but, before he had spoken, his wife was in the room.

'We are all late, I fear,' said Emily.

'You, at any rate, are the last,' said her husband.

'About half a minute,' said the wife.

Then they got into the hired brougham which was standing at the door.

Trevelyan, in the sweet days of his early confidence with his wife, had
offered to keep a carriage for her, explaining to her that the luxury,
though costly, would not be beyond his reach. But she had persuaded him
against the carriage, and there had come to be an agreement that
instead of the carriage there should always be an autumn tour. 'One
learns something from going about; but one learns nothing from keeping
a carriage,' Emily had said. Those had been happy days, in which it had
been intended that everything should always be rose-coloured. Now he
was meditating whether, in lieu of that autumn tour, it would not be
necessary to take his wife away to Naples altogether, so that she might
be removed from the influence of of of of no, not even to himself would
he think of Colonel Osborne as his wife's lover. The idea was too
horrible! And yet, how dreadful was it that he should have, for any
reason, to withdraw her from the influence of any man!

Lady Milborough lived ever so far away, in Eccleston Square but
Trevelyan did not say a single word to either of his companions during
the journey. He was cross and vexed, and was conscious that they knew
that he was cross and vexed. Mrs Trevelyan and her sister talked to
each other the whole way, but they did so in that tone which clearly
indicates that the conversation is made up, not for any interest
attached to the questions asked or the answers given, but because it is
expedient that there should not be silence. Nora said something about
Marshall and Snellgrove and tried to make believe that she was very
anxious for her sister's answer. And Emily said something about the
opera at Covent Garden, which was intended to show that her mind was
quite at ease. But both of them failed altogether, and knew that they
failed. Once or twice Trevelyan thought that he would say a word in
token, as it were, of repentance. Like the naughty child who knew that
he was naughty, he was trying to be good. But he could not do it. The
fiend was too strong within him. She must have known that there was a
proposition for her father's return through Colonel Osborne's
influence. As that man at the club had heard it, how could she not have
known it? When they got out at Lady Milborough's door he had spoken to
neither of them.

There was a large dull party, made up mostly of old people. Lady
Milborough and Trevelyan's mother had been bosom friends, and Lady
Milborough had on this account taken upon herself to be much interested
in Trevelyan's wife. But Louis Trevelyan himself, in discussing Lady
Milborough with Emily, had rather turned his mother's old friend into
ridicule, and Emily had, of course, followed her husband's mode of
thinking. Lady Milborough had once or twice given her some advice on
small matters, telling her that this or that air would be good for her
baby, and explaining that a mother during a certain interesting portion
of her life, should refresh herself with a certain kind of malt liquor.
Of all counsel on such domestic subjects Mrs Trevelyan was impatient as
indeed it was her nature to be in all matters, and consequently,
authorized as she had been by her husband's manner of speaking of his
mother's friend, she had taken a habit of quizzing Lady Milborough
behind her back, and almost of continuing the practice before the old
lady's face. Lady Milborough, who was the most affectionate old soul
alive, and good-tempered with her friends to a fault, had never
resented this, but had come to fear that Mrs Trevelyan was perhaps a
little flighty. She had never as yet allowed herself to say anything
worse of her young friend's wife than that. And she would always add
that that kind of thing would cure itself as the nursery became full.
It must be understood therefore that Mrs Trevelyan was not anticipating
much pleasure from Lady Milborough's party, and that she had accepted
the invitation as a matter of duty.

There was present among the guests a certain Honourable Charles
Glascock, the eldest son of Lord Peterborough, who made the affair more
interesting to Nora than it was to her sister. It had been whispered
into Nora's ears, by more than one person and among others by Lady
Milborough, whose own daughters were all married that she might if she
thought fit become the Honourable Mrs Charles Glascock. Now, whether
she might think fit, or whether she might not, the presence of the
gentleman under such circumstances, as far as she was concerned, gave
an interest to the evening. And as Lady Milborough took care that Mr
Glascock should take Nora down to dinner, the interest was very great.
Mr Glascock was a good-looking man, just under forty, in Parliament,
heir to a peerage, and known to be well off in respect to income. Lady
Milborough and Mrs Trevelyan had told Nora Rowley that should
encouragement in that direction come in her way, she ought to allow
herself to fall in love with Mr Glascock. A certain amount of
encouragement had come in her way, but she had not as yet allowed
herself to fall in love with Mr Glascock.

It seemed to her that Mr Glascock was quite conscious of the advantages
of his own position, and that his powers of talking about other matters
than those with which he was immediately connected were limited. She
did believe that he had in truth paid her the compliment of falling in
love with her, and this is a compliment to which few girls are
indifferent. Nora might perhaps have tried to fall in love with Mr
Glascock, had she not been forced to make comparisons between him and
another. This other one had not fallen in love with her, as she well
knew; and she certainly had not fallen in love with him. But still the
comparison was forced upon her, and it did not result in favour of Mr
Glascock. On the present occasion Mr Glascock as he sat next to her
almost proposed to her.

'You have never seen Monkhams?' he said. Monkhams was his father's
seat, a very grand place in Worcestershire. Of course he knew very well
that she had never seen Monkhams. How should she have seen it?

'I have never been in that part of England at all,' she replied.

'I should so like to show you Monkhams. The oaks there are the finest
in the kingdom. Do you like oaks?'

'Who does not like oaks? But we have none in the islands, and nobody
has ever seen so few as I have.'

'I'll show you Monkhams some day. Shall I? Indeed I hope that some day
I may really show you Monkhams.'

Now when an unmarried man talks to a young lady of really showing her
the house in which it will be his destiny to live, he can hardly mean
other than to invite her to live there with him. It must at least be
his purpose to signify that, if duly encouraged, he will so invite her.
But Nora Rowley did not give Mr Glascock much encouragement on this
occasion.

'I'm afraid it is not likely that anything will ever take me into that
part of the country,' she said. There was something perhaps in her tone
which checked Mr Glascock, so that he did not then press the
invitation.

When the ladies were upstairs in the drawing-room, Lady Milborough
contrived to seat herself on a couch intended for two persons only,
close to Mrs Trevelyan. Emily, thinking that she might perhaps hear
some advice about Guinness's stout, prepared herself to be saucy. But
the matter in hand was graver than that. Lady Milborough's mind was
uneasy about Colonel Osborne.

'My dear,' said she, 'was not your father very intimate with that
Colonel Osborne?'

'He is very intimate with him, Lady Milborough.'

'Ah, yes; I thought I had heard so. That makes it of course natural
that you should know him.'

'We have known him all our lives,' said Emily, forgetting probably that
out of the twenty-three years and some months which she had hitherto
lived, there had been a consecutive period of more than twenty years in
which she had never seen this man whom she had known all her life.

'That makes a difference, of course; and I don't mean to say anything
against him.'

'I hope not, Lady Milborough, because we are all especially fond of
him.' This was said with so much of purpose, that poor, dear old Lady
Milborough was stopped in her good work. She knew well the terrible
strait to which Augustus Poole had been brought with his wife, although
nobody supposed that Poole's wife had ever entertained a wrong thought
in her pretty little heart. Nevertheless he had been compelled to break
up his establishment, and take his wife to Naples, because this horrid
Colonel would make himself at home in Mrs Poole's drawing-room in
Knightsbridge. Augustus Poole, with courage enough to take any man by
the beard, had taking by the beard been possible, had found it
impossible to dislodge the Colonel. He could not do so without making a
row which would have been disgraceful to himself and injurious to his
wife; and therefore he had taken Mrs Poole to Naples. Lady Milborough
knew the whole story, and thought that she foresaw that the same thing
was about to happen in the drawing-room in Curzon Street. When she
attempted to say a word to the wife, she found herself stopped. She
could not go on in that quarter after the reception with which the
beginning of her word had been met. But perhaps she might succeed
better with the husband. After all, her friendship was with the
Trevelyan side, and not with the Rowleys.

'My dear Louis,' she said, 'I want to speak a word to you. Come here.'
And then she led him into a distant corner, Mrs Trevelyan watching her
all the while, and guessing why her husband was thus carried away. 'I
just want to give you a little hint, which I am sure I believe is quite
unnecessary,' continued Lady Milborough. Then she paused, but Trevelyan
would not speak. She looked into his face, and saw that it was black.
But the man was the only child of her dearest friend, and she
persevered. 'Do you know I don't quite like that Colonel Osborne coming
so much to your house.' The face before her became still blacker, but
still the man said nothing. 'I dare say it is a prejudice on my part,
but I have always disliked him. I think he is a dangerous friend what I
call a snake in the grass. And though Emily's high good sense, and love
for you, and general feelings on' such a subject, are just what a
husband must desire Indeed, I am quite sure that the possibility of
anything wrong has never entered into her head. But it is the very
purity of her innocence which makes the danger. He is a bad man, and I
would just say a word to her, if I were you, to make her understand
that his coming to her of a morning is not desirable. Upon my word, I
believe there is nothing he likes so much as going about and making
mischief between men and their wives.'

Thus she delivered herself; and Louis Trevelyan, though he was sore and
angry, could not but feel that she had taken the part of a friend. All
that she had said had been true; all that she had said to him he had
said to himself more than once. He too hated the man. He believed him
to be a snake in the grass. But it was intolerably bitter to him that
he should be warned about his wife's conduct by any living human being;
that he, to whom the world had been so full of good fortune that he,
who had in truth taught himself to think that he deserved so much good
fortune, should be made the subject of care on behalf of his friend,
because of danger between himself and his wife! On the spur of the
moment he did not know what answer to make. 'He is not a man whom I
like myself,' he said.

'Just be careful, Louis, that is all,' said Lady Milborough, and then
she was gone.

To be cautioned about his wife's conduct cannot be pleasant to any man,
and it was very unpleasant to Louis Trevelyan. He, too, had been asked
a question about Sir Marmaduke's expected visit to England after the
ladies had left the room. All the town had heard of it except himself.
He hardly spoke another word that evening till the brougham was
announced; and his wife had observed his silence. When they were seated
in the carriage, he together with his wife and Nora Rowley, he
immediately asked a question about Sir Marmaduke. 'Emily,' he said, 'is
there any truth in a report I hear that your father is coming home?' No
answer was made, and for a moment or two there was silence. 'You must
have heard of it, then?' he said. 'Perhaps you can tell me, Nora, as
Emily will not reply. Have you heard anything of your father's coming?'

'Yes; I have heard of it,' said Nora slowly.

'And why have I not been told?'

'It was to be kept a secret,' said Mrs Trevelyan boldly.

'A secret from me; and everybody else knows it! And why was it to be a
secret?'

'Colonel Osborne did not wish that it should be known,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'And what has Colonel Osborne to do between you and your father in any
matter with which I may not be made acquainted? I will have nothing
more between you and Colonel Osborne. You shall not see Colonel
Osborne. Do you hear me?'

'Yes, I hear you, Louis.'

'And do you mean to obey me? By G-- , you shall obey me. Remember this,
that I lay my positive order upon you, that you shall not see Colonel
Osborne again. You do not know it, perhaps, but you are already
forfeiting your reputation as an honest woman, and bringing disgrace
upon me by your familiarity with Colonel Osborne.'

'Oh, Louis, do not say that!' said Nora.

'You had better let him speak it all at once,' said Emily.

'I have said what I have got to say. It is now only necessary that you
should give me your solemn assurance that you will obey me.'

'If you have said all that you have to say, perhaps you will listen to
me,' said his wife.

'I will listen to nothing till you have given me your promise.'

'Then I certainly shall not give it you.'

'Dear Emily, pray, pray do what he tells you,' said Nora.

'She has yet to learn that it is her duty to do as I tell her,' said
Trevelyan. 'And because she is obstinate, and will not learn from those
who know better than herself what a woman may do, and what she may not,
she will ruin herself, and destroy my happiness.'

'I know that you have destroyed my happiness by your unreasonable
jealousy,' said the wife. 'Have you considered what I must feel in
having such words addressed to me by my husband? If I am fit to be told
that I must promise not to see any man living, I cannot be fit to be
any man's wife.' Then she burst out into an hysterical fit of tears,
and in this condition she got out of the carriage, entered her house,
and hurried up to her own room.

'Indeed, she has not been to blame,' said Nora to Trevelyan on the
staircase.

'Why has there been a secret kept from me between her and this man; and
that too, after I had cautioned her against being intimate with him? I
am sorry that she should suffer; but it is better that she should
suffer a little now, than that we should both suffer much by-and-by.'

Nora endeavoured to explain to him the truth about the committee, and
Colonel Osborne's promised influence, and the reason why there was to
be a secret. But she was too much in a hurry to get to her sister to
make the matter plain, and he was too much angered to listen to her. He
shook his head when she spoke of Colonel Osborne's dislike to have his
name mentioned in connection with the matter. 'All the world knows it,'
he said with scornful laughter.

It was in vain that Nora tried to explain to him that though all the
world might know it, Emily herself had only heard of the proposition as
a thing quite unsettled, as to which nothing at present should be
spoken openly. It was in vain to endeavour to make peace on that night.
Nora hurried up to her sister, and found that the hysterical tears had
again given place to anger. She would not see her husband, unless he
would beg her pardon; and he would not see her unless she would give
the promise he demanded. And the husband and wife did not see each
other again on that night.



CHAPTER IV - HUGH STANBURY

It has been already stated that Nora Rowley was not quite so well
disposed as perhaps she ought to have been, to fall in love with the
Honourable Charles Glascock, there having come upon her the habit of
comparing him with another gentleman whenever this duty of falling in
love with Mr Glascock was exacted from her. That other gentleman was
one with whom she knew that it was quite out of the question that she
should fall in love, because he had not a shilling in the world; and
the other gentleman was equally aware that it was not open to him to
fall in love with Nora Rowley for the same reason. In regard to such
matters Nora Rowley had been properly brought up, having been made to
understand by the best and most cautious of mothers, that in that
matter of falling in love it was absolutely necessary that bread and
cheese should be considered. 'Romance is a very pretty thing,' Lady
Rowley had been wont to say to her daughters, 'and I don't think life
would be worth having without a little of it. I should be very sorry to
think that either of my girls would marry a man only because he had
money. But you can't even be romantic without something to eat and
drink.' Nora thoroughly understood all this, and being well aware that
her fortune in the world, if it ever was to be made at all, could only
be made by marriage, had laid down for herself certain hard lines lines
intended to be as fast as they were hard. Let what might come to her in
the way of likings and dislikings, let the temptation to her be ever so
strong, she would never allow her heart to rest on a man who, if he
should ask her to be his wife, would not have the means of supporting
her. There were many, she knew, who would condemn such a resolution as
cold, selfish, and heartless. She heard people saying so daily. She
read in books that it ought to be so regarded. But she declared to
herself that she would respect the judgment neither of the people nor
of the books. To be poor alone, to have to live without a husband, to
look forward to a life in which there would be nothing of a career,
almost nothing to do, to await the vacuity of an existence in which she
would be useful to no one, was a destiny which she could teach herself
to endure, because it might probably be forced upon her by necessity.
Were her father to die there would hardly be bread for that female
flock to eat. As it was, she was eating the bread of a man in whose
house she was no more than a visitor. The lot of a woman; as she often
told herself, was wretched, unfortunate, almost degrading. For a woman
such as herself there was no path open to her energy, other than that
of getting a husband. Nora Rowley thought of all this till she was
almost sick of the prospect of her life especially sick of it when she
was told with much authority by the Lady Milboroughs of her
acquaintance, that it was her bounden duty to fall in love with Mr
Glascock. As to falling in love with Mr Glascock, she had not as yet
quite made up her mind. There was so much to be said on that side of
the question, if such falling in love could only be made possible. But
she had quite made up her mind that she would never fall in love with a
poor man. In spite, however, of all that, she felt herself compelled to
make comparisons between Mr Glascock and one Mr Hugh Stanbury, a
gentleman who had not a shilling.

Mr Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend of Louis
Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan's successes, a
bigger man than his friend. Stanbury had not taken so high a degree as
Trevelyan indeed had not gone out in honours at all. He had done little
for the credit of his college, and had never put himself in the way of
wrapping himself up for life in the scanty lambswool of a fellowship.
But he had won for himself reputation as a clever speaker, as a man who
had learned much that college tutors do not profess to teach, as a
hard-headed, ready-witted fellow, who, having the world as an oyster
before him, which it was necessary that he should open, would certainly
find either a knife or a sword with which to open it.

Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had entered
himself at Lincoln's Inn. Now, at the time of our story, he was a
barrister of four years' standing, but had never yet made a guinea. He
had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was beginning
to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as he knew well,
that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers of four years'
standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he did not see his
way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorney in the world, arid
could not conceive how any attorney Should ever be induced to apply to
him for legal aid. He had done his work of learning his trade about as
well as other young men, but had had no means of distinguishing himself
within his reach. He went the Western Circuit because his aunt, old
Miss Stanbury, lived at Exeter, but, as he declared of himself, had he
had another aunt living at York, he would have had nothing whatsoever
to guide him in his choice. He sat idle in the courts, and hated
himself for so sitting. So it had been with him for two years without
any consolation or additional burden from other employment than that of
his profession. After that, by some chance, he had become acquainted
with the editor of the Daily Record, and by degrees had taken to the
writing of articles. He had been told by all his friends, and
especially by Trevelyan, that if he did this, he might as well sell his
gown and wig. He declared, in reply, that he had no objection to sell
his gown and wig. He did not see how he should ever make more money out
of them than he would do by such sale. But for the articles which he
wrote, he received instant payment, a process which he found to be most
consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan, as warm to
him as a blanket in winter.

Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken upon himself
to be very angry. He professed that he did not think much of the trade
of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking from the highest
to almost the lowest business by which an educated man and a gentleman
could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply replied that he saw some
bread on the one side, but none on the other; and that bread from some
side was indispensable to him. Then there had come to be that famous
war between Great Britain and the republic of Patagonia, and Hugh
Stanbury had been sent out as a special correspondent by the editor and
proprietor of the Daily Record. His letters had been much read, and had
called up a great deal of newspaper pugnacity. He had made important
statements which had been flatly denied, and found to be utterly false;
which again had been warmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably
true to the letter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its
author, became so much talked about that, on his return to England, he
did actually sell his gown and, wig and declare to his friends and to
Trevelyan among the number that he intended to look to journalism for
his future career.

He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the earliest happy
days of his friend's marriage, and. had thus become acquainted
intimately acquainted with Nora Rowley. And now again, since his return
from Patagonia, that acquaintance had been renewed. Quite lately, since
the actual sale of that wig and gown had been effected, he had not been
there so frequently as before, because Trevelyan had expressed his
indignation almost too openly.

'That such a man as you should be so faint-hearted,' Trevelyan had
said, 'is a thing that I can not understand.'

'Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall be
able to leap his horse over a house.'

'What you had to do, had been done by hundreds before you.'

'What I had to do has never yet. been done by any man,' replied
Stanbury. 'I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour should
strike.'

'I think you have been cowardly,' said Trevelyan.

Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury had
expressed himself annoyed by his friend's language, and partly on that
account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away from Curzon
Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so had he made
comparisons about. her. He had owned to himself that had it been
possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust his happiness
to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice that Trevelyan had
wished that such an arrangement might be made at some future day.
Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine in expecting success for
his friend at the Bar, than Stanbury had been for himself. It might
well be that such a man as Trevelyan might think that a clever rising
barrister would be an excellent husband for his sister-in-law, but that
a man who earned a precarious living as a writer for a penny paper
would be by no means so desirable a connection. Stanbury, as he thought
of this, declared to himself that he would not care two straws for
Trevelyan in the matter, if he could see his way without other
impediments. But the other impediments were there in such strength and
numbers as to make him feel that it could not have been intended by
Fate that he should take to himself a wife. Although those letters of
his to the Daily Record had been so pre-eminently successful, he had
never yet been able to earn by writing above twenty-five or thirty
pounds a month. If that might be continued to him he could live upon it
himself; but, even with his moderate views, it would not suffice for
himself and family.

He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister he
had no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was not
strictly correct. There was an allowance of 100 pounds a year coming to
him from the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced him to devote
himself to the Western Circuit. His father had been a clergyman with a
small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead some fifteen years.
His mother and two sisters were still living in a small cottage in his
late father's parish, on the interest of the money arising from a life
insurance. Some pittance from sixty to seventy pounds a year was all
they had among them. But there was a rich aunt, Miss Stanbury, to whom
had come considerable wealth in a manner most romantic the little tale
shall be told before this larger tale is completed and this aunt had
undertaken to educate and place out in the world her nephew Hugh. So
Hugh had been sent to Harrow, and then to Oxford where he had much
displeased his aunt by not accomplishing great things and then had been
set down to make his fortune as a barrister in London, with an
allowance of 100 pounds a year, his aunt having paid, moreover, certain
fees for entrance, tuition, and the like. The very hour in which Miss
Stanbury learned that her nephew was writing for a penny newspaper she
sent off a dispatch to tell him that he must give up her or the penny
paper. He replied by saying that he felt himself called upon to earn
his bread in the only line from which, as it seemed to him, bread would
be forthcoming. By return of post he got another letter to say that he
might draw for the quarter then becoming due, but that that would be
the last. And it was the last.

Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make over the
allowance or at least a part of it to his mother and sisters, but the
old lady paid no attention whatever to the request. She never had
given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shilling to the
widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, or had she ever
intended, to leave a shilling of her money to Hugh Stanbury as she had
very often told him. The money was, at her death, to go back to the
people from whom it had come to her.

When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr Hugh Stanbury and Mr
Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favour of the
briefless barrister. It was not that he was the handsomer man, for he
was by no means handsome, nor was he the bigger man, for Mr Glascock
was six feet tall; nor was he better dressed, for Stanbury was untidy
rather than otherwise in his outward person. Nor had he any air of
fashion or special grace to recommend him, for he was undoubtedly an
awkward-mannered man. But there was a glance of sunshine in his eye,
and a sweetness in the curl of his mouth when he smiled, which made
Nora feel that it would have been all up with her had she not made so
very strong a law for her own guidance. Stanbury was a man about five
feet ten, with shoulders more than broad in proportion, stout limbed,
rather awkward of his gait, with large feet and hands, with soft wavy
light hair, with light grey eyes, with a broad, but by no means ugly,
nose. His mouth and lips were large, and he rarely showed his teeth. He
wore no other beard than whiskers, which he was apt to cut away through
heaviness of his hand in shaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more
careful. 'He doesn't care what sort of a guy he makes of himself, she
once said to her sister, almost angrily. 'He is a plain man, and he
knows it,' Emily had replied. Mr Trevelyan was doubtless a handsome
man, and it was almost on Nora's tongue to say something ill-natured on
the subject. Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat hot in spirit and
manner. He would be very sage in argument, pounding down his ideas on
politics, religion, or social life with his fist as well as his voice.
He was quick, perhaps, at making antipathies, and quick, too, in making
friendships; impressionable, demonstrative, eager, rapid in his
movements sometimes to the great detriment of his shins and knuckles;
and he possessed the sweetest temper that was ever given to a man for
the blessing of a woman. This was the man between whom and Mr Glascock
Nora Rowley found it to be impossible not to make comparisons.

On the very day after Lady Milborough's dinner party Stanbury overtook
Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he was going
eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer, and said
so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer. He had sent to
his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she would make to him the
promise he required. The only answer which Nora could draw from her
sister was a counter question, demanding whether he would ask her
pardon for the injury he had done her. Nora had been most eager, most
anxious, most conciliatory as a messenger; but no good had come of
these messages, and Trevelyan had gone forth to tell all his trouble to
his family lawyer. Old Mr Bideawhile had been his father's ancient and
esteemed friend, and he could tell things to Mr Bideawhile which he
could not bring himself to tell to any other living man; and he could
generally condescend to accept Mr Bideawhile's advice, knowing that his
father before him had been guided by the same.

'But you are out of your way for Lincoln's Inn Fields,' said Stanbury.

'I have to call at Twining's. And where are you going?'

'I have been three times round St. James's Park to collect my
thoughts,' said Stanbury, 'and now I'm on my way to the Daily R., 250,
Fleet Street. It is my custom of an afternoon. I am prepared to
instruct the British public of tomorrow on any subject, as per order,
from the downfall of a European compact to the price of a London mutton
chop.'

'I suppose there is nothing more to be said about it,' said Trevelyan,
after a pause.

'Not another word. How should there be? Aunt Jemima has already drawn
tight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward in
earnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R. Only
think what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one, from the
destinies of France to the profit proper to a butcher.'

'If you like it!'

'I do like it. It may not be altogether honest. I don't know what is.
But it's a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozling juries.
How is your wife?'

'She's pretty well, thank you.'

Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend's voice that there
was something wrong.

'And Louis the less?' he said, asking after Trevelyan's child.

'He's all right.'

'And Miss Rowley? When one begins one's inquiries one is bound to go
through the whole family.'

'Miss Rowley is pretty well,' said Trevelyan.

Previously to this, Trevelyan when speaking of his sister-in-law to
Stanbury, had always called her Nora, and had been wont to speak of her
as though she were almost as much the friend of one of them as of the
other. The change of tone on this occasion was in truth occasioned by
the sadness of the man's thoughts in reference to his wife, but
Stanbury attributed it to another cause. 'He need not be afraid of me,'
he said to himself, 'and at least he should not show me that he is.'
Then they parted, Trevelyan going into Twining's bank, and Stanbury
passing on towards the office of the Daily R.

Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state of his
friend's mind on that morning. Trevelyan, although he had, according to
his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the newspaper line of
life, was at the moment thinking whether he would not tell all his
trouble to Hugh Stanbury. He knew that he should not find anywhere, not
even in Mr Bideawhile, a more friendly or more trustworthy listener.
When Nora Rowley's name had been mentioned, he had not thought of her.
He had simply repeated the name with the usual answer. He was at the
moment cautioning himself against a confidence which after all might
not be necessary, and which on this occasion was not made. When one is
in trouble it is a great ease to tell one's trouble to a friend; but
then one should always wash one's dirty linen at home. The latter
consideration prevailed, and Trevelyan allowed his friend to go on
without burdening him with the story of that domestic quarrel. Nor did
he on that occasion tell it to Mr Bideawhile; for Mr Bideawhile was not
found at his chambers.



CHAPTER V - SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED

Trevelyan got back to his own house at about three, and on going into
the library, found on his table a found on his table a letter to him
addressed in his wife's handwriting. He opened it quickly, hoping to
find that promise which he had demanded, and resolving that if it were
made he would at once become affectionate, yielding, and gentle to his
wife. But there was not a word written by his wife within the envelope.
It contained simply another letter, already opened, addressed to her.
This letter had been brought up to her during her husband's absence
from the house, and was as follows:


Acrobats, Thursday.

'DEAR EMILY,

'I have just come from the Colonial Office. It is all settled, and
Sir M. has been sent for. Of course, you will tell T. now.

Yours, F.O.



The letter was, of course, from Colonel Osborne, and Mrs Trevelyan,
when she received it, had had great doubts whether she would enclose it
to her husband opened or unopened. She had hitherto refused to make the
promise which her husband exacted, but nevertheless, she was minded to
obey him; Had he included in his demand any requirement that she should
receive no letter from Colonel Osborne, she would not have opened this
one. But nothing had been said about letters, and she would not shew
herself to be afraid. So she read the note, and then sent it down to be
put on Mr Trevelyan's table in an envelope addressed to him.

'If he is not altogether blinded, it will show him how cruelly he has
wronged me,' said she to her sister. She was sitting at the time with
her boy in her lap, telling herself that the child's features were in
all respects the very same as his father's, and that, come what come
might, the child should always be taught by her to love and respect his
father. And then there came a horrible thought. What if the child
should be taken away from her? If this quarrel, out of which she saw no
present mode of escape, were to lead to a separation between her and
her husband, would not the law, and the judges, and the courts, and all
the Lady Milboroughs of their joint acquaintance into the bargain, say
that the child should go with his father? The judges, and the courts,
and the Lady Milboroughs would, of course, say that she was the sinner.
And what could she do without her boy? Would not any humility, any
grovelling in the dust be better for her than that? 'It is a very poor
thing to be a woman,' she said to her sister.

'It is perhaps better than being a dog,' said Nora; 'but, of course, we
can't compare ourselves to men.'

'It would be better to be a dog. One wouldn't be made to suffer so
much. When a puppy is taken away from its mother, she is bad enough for
a few days, but she gets over it in a week.' There was a pause then for
a few moments. Nora knew well which way ran the current of her sister's
thoughts, and had nothing at the present moment which she could say on
that subject.

'It is very hard for a woman to know what to do,' continued Emily, 'but
if she is to marry, I think she had better marry a fool. After all, a
fool generally knows that he is a fool, and will trust some one, though
he may not trust his wife.'

'I will never wittingly marry a fool,' said Nora.

'You will marry Mr Glascock, of course. I don't say that he is a fool;
but I do not think he has that kind of strength which shows itself in
perversity.'

'If he asked me, I should not have him and he will never ask me.'

'He will ask you, and, of course, you'll take him. Why not? You can't
be otherwise than a woman. And you must marry. And this man is a
gentleman, and will be a peer. There is nothing on earth against him,
except that he does not set the Thames on fire. Louis intends to set
the Thames on fire some day, and see what comes of it.'

'All the same, I shall not marry Mr Glascock. A woman can die, at any
rate,' said Nora.

'No, she can't. A woman must be decent; and to die of want is very
indecent. She can't die, and she mustn't be in want, and she oughtn't
to be a burden. I suppose it was thought necessary that every man
should have two to choose from; and therefore there are so many more of
us than the world wants. I wonder whether you'd mind taking that
downstairs to his table? I don't like to send it by the servant; and I
don't want to go myself.'

Then Nora had taken the letter down, and left it where Louis Trevelyan
would be sure to find it.

He did find it, and was sorely disappointed when he perceived that it
contained no word from his wife to himself. He opened Colonel Osborne's
note, and read it, and became, as he did so, almost more angry than
before. Who was this man that he should dare to address another man's
wife as 'Dear Emily'? At the moment Trevelyan remembered well enough
that he had heard the man so call his wife, that it had been done
openly in his presence, and had not given him a thought. But Lady
Rowley and Sir Marmaduke had then been present also; and that man on
that occasion had been the old friend of the old father, and not the
would-be young friend of the young daughter. Trevelyan could hardly
reason about it, but felt that whereas the one was not improper, the
other was grossly impertinent and even wicked. And then, again, his
wife, his Emily, was to show to him, to her husband, or was not to show
to him, the letter which she received from this man, the letter in
which she was addressed as 'Dear Emily,' according to this man's
judgment and wish, and not according to his judgment and wish not
according to the judgment and wish of him who was her husband, her
lord, and her master! 'Of course, you will tell T. now.' This was
intolerable to him. It made him feel that he was to be regarded as
second, and this man to be regarded as first. And then he began to
recapitulate all the good things he had done for his wife, and all the
causes which he had given her for gratitude. Had he not taken her to
his bosom, and bestowed upon her the half of all that he had, simply
for herself, asking for nothing more than her love? He had possessed
money, position, a name all that makes life worth having. He had found
her in a remote corner of the world, with no fortune, with no
advantages of family or social standing so circumstanced that any
friend would have warned him against such a marriage; but he had given
her his heart, and his hand, and his house, and had asked for nothing
in return but that he should be all in all to her that he should be her
one god upon earth. And he had done more even than this. 'Bring your
sister,' he had said. 'The house shall be big enough for her also, and
she shall be my sister as well as yours.' Who had ever done more for a
woman, or shown a more absolute confidence? And now what was the return
he received? She was not contented with her one god upon earth, but
must make to herself other gods another god, and that too out of a lump
of the basest clay to be found around her. He thought that he could
remember to have heard it said in early days, long before he himself
had had an idea of marrying, that no man should look for a wife from
among the tropics, that women educated amidst the languors of those
sunny climes rarely came to possess those high ideas of conjugal duty
and feminine truth which a man should regard as the first requisites of
a good wife. As he thought of all this, he almost regretted that he had
ever visited the Mandarins, or ever heard the name of Sir Marmaduke
Rowley.

He should have nourished no such thoughts in his heart. He had, indeed,
been generous to his wife and to his wife's family; but we may almost
say that the man who is really generous in such matters is unconscious
of his own generosity. The giver who gives the most, gives, and does
not know that he gives. And had not she given too? In that matter of
giving between a man and his wife, if each gives all, the two are
equal, let the things given be what they may! King Cophetua did nothing
for his beggar maid, unless she were to him, after he had married her,
as royal a queen as though he had taken her from the oldest stock of
reigning families then extant. Trevelyan knew all this himself had said
so to himself a score of times, though not probably in spoken words or
formed sentences. But, that all was equal between himself and the wife
of his bosom, had been a thing ascertained by him as a certainty. There
was no debt of gratitude from her to him which he did not acknowledge
to exist also as from him to her. But yet, in his anger, he could not
keep himself from thinking of the gifts he had showered upon her. And
he had been, was, would ever be, if she would only allow it, so true to
her! He had selected no other friend to take her place in his councils!
There was no 'dear Mary' or 'dear Augusta' with whom he had secrets to
be kept from his wife. When there arose with him any question of
interest question of interest such as was this of the return of Sir
Marmaduke to her he would show it in all its bearings to his wife. He
had his secrets too, but his secrets had all been made secrets for her
also. There was not a woman in the world in whose company he took
special delight in her absence.

And if there had been, how much less would have been her ground of
complaint? Let a man have any such friendships what friendships he may
he. does not disgrace his wife. He felt himself to be so true of heart
that he desired no such friendships; but for a man indulging in such
friendships there might be excuse. Even though a man be, false, a woman
is not shamed and brought unto the dust before all the world. But the
slightest rumour on a woman's name is a load of infamy on her husband's
shoulders. It was not enough for Caesar that his wife should be true;
it was necessary to Caesar that she should not even be suspected.
Trevelyan told himself that he suspected his wife of no sin. God forbid
that it should ever come to that, both for his sake and for hers; and,
above all, for the sake of that boy who was so dear to them both! But
there would be the vile whispers, and dirty slanders would be dropped
from envious tongues into envious ears, and minds prone to evil would
think evil of him and of his. Had not Lady Milborough already cautioned
him? Oh, that he should have lived to have been cautioned about his
wife that he should be told that eyes outside had looked into the
sacred shrine of his heart and seen that things there were fatally
amiss! And yet Lady Milborough was quite right. Had he not in his hand
at this moment a document that proved her to be right? 'Dear Emily'! He
took this note and crushed it in his fist and then pulled it into
fragments.

But what should he do? There was, first of all considerations, the duty
which he owed to his wife, and the love which he bore her. That she was
ignorant and innocent he was sure; but then she was so contumacious
that he hardly knew how to take a step in the direction of guarding her
from the effects of her ignorance, and maintaining for her the
advantages of her innocence. He was her master, and she must know that
he was her master. But how was he to proceed when she refused to obey
the plainest and most necessary command which he laid upon her? Let a
man be ever so much his wife's master, he cannot maintain his masterdom
by any power which the law places in his hands. He had asked his wife
for a promise of obedience, and she would not give it to him! What was
he to do next? He could, no doubt at least he thought so keep the man
from her presence. He could order the servant not to admit the man, and
the servant would, doubtless, obey him. But to what a condition would
he then have been brought! Would not the world then be over for him
over for him as the husband of a wife whom he could not love unless he
respected her? Better that there should be no such world, than call in
the aid of a servant to guard the conduct of his wife!

As he thought of it all it seemed to him that if she would not obey
him, and give him this promise, they must be separated. He would not
live with her, he would not give her the privileges of his wife, if she
refused to render to him the obedience which was his privilege. The
more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that he ought not to
yield to her. Let her once yield to him, and then his tenderness should
begin, and there should be no limit to it. But he would not see her
till she had yielded. He would not see her; and if he should find that
she did see Colonel Osborne, then he would tell her that she could no
longer dwell under the same roof with him.

His resolution on these points was very strong, and yet there came over
him a feeling that it was his duty to be gentle. There was a feeling
also that that privilege of receiving obedience, which was so
indubitably his own, could only be maintained by certain wise practices
on his part in which gentleness must predominate. Wives are bound to
obey their husbands, but obedience cannot be exacted from wives, as it
may from servants, by aid of law and with penalties, or as from a
horse, by punishments, and manger curtailments. A man should be master
in his own house, but he should make his mastery palatable, equitable,
smooth, soft to the touch, a thing almost unfelt. How was he to do all
this now, when he had already given an order to which obedience had
been refused unless under certain stipulations an agreement with which
would be degradation to him? He had pointed out to his wife her duty,
and she had said she would do her duty as pointed out, on condition
that he would beg her pardon for having pointed it out! This he could
not and would not do. Let the heavens fall and the falling of the
heavens in this case was a separation between him and his wife but he
would not consent to such injustice as that!

But what was he to do at this moment especially with reference to that
note which he had destroyed. At last he resolved to write to his wife,
and he consequently did write and send to her the following letter:



DEAREST EMILY,

May 4.

If Colonel Osborne should write to you again, it will be better that
you should not open his letter. As you know his handwriting you will
have no difficulty in so arranging. Should any further letter come from
Colonel Osborne addressed to you, you had better put it under cover to
me, and take no notice of it yourself.

I shall dine at the club today. We were to have gone to Mrs Peacock's
in the evening. You had better write a line to say that we shall not be
there. I am very sorry that Nora should lose her evening. Pray think
very carefully over what I have asked of you. My request to you is,
that you shall give me a promise that you will not willingly see
Colonel Osborne again. Of course you will understand that this is not
supposed to extend to accidental meetings, as to which, should they
occur and they would be sure to occur you would find that they would be
wholly unnoticed by me.

But I must request that you will comply with my wish in this matter. If
you will send for me I will go to you instantly, and after one word
from you to the desired effect, you will find that there will be no
recurrence by me to a subject so hateful. As I have done, and am doing
what I think to be right, I cannot stultify myself by saying that I
think I have been wrong.

Yours always, dearest Emily,

With the most thorough love,

Louis Trevelyan.'



This letter he himself put on his wife's dressing-room table, and then
he went out to his club.



CHAPTER VI- SHEWING HOW RECONCILIATION WAS MADE

'Look at that,' said Mrs Trevelyan, when her sister came into her room
about an hour before dinnertime. Nora read the letter, and then asked
her sister what she meant to do. 'I have written to Mrs Peacock. I
don't know what else I can do. It is very hard upon you that you should
have been kept at home. But I don't suppose Mr Glascock would have been
at Mrs Peacock's.'

'And what else will you do, Emily?'

'Nothing simply live deserted and forlorn till he shall choose to find
his wits again. There is nothing else that a woman can do. If he
chooses to dine at his club every day I can't help it. We must put off
all the engagements, and that will be hard upon you.'

'Don't talk about me. It is too terrible to think that there should be
such a quarrel.'

'What can I do? Have I been wrong?'

'Simply do what he tells you, whether it is wrong or right. If it's
right, it ought to be done, and if it's wrong, it will not be your
fault.'

'That's very easily said, and it sounds logical; but you must know it's
unreasonable.'

'I don't care about reason. He is your husband, and if he wishes it you
should do it. And what will be the harm? You don't mean to see Colonel
Osborne any more. You have already said that he's not to be admitted.'

'I have said that nobody is to be admitted. Louis has driven me to
that. How can I look the servant in the face and tell him that any
special gentleman is not to be admitted to see me? Oh dear! oh dear!
have I done anything to deserve it? Was ever so monstrous an accusation
made against any woman! If it were not for my boy, I would defy him to
do his worst.'

On the day following Nora again became a messenger between the husband
and wife, and before dinner-time a reconciliation had been effected. Of
course the wife gave way at last; and of course she gave way so
cunningly that the husband received none of the gratification which he
had expected in her surrender. 'Tell him to come,' Nora had urged. 'Of
course he can come if he pleases,' Emily had replied. Then Nora had
told Louis to come, and Louis had demanded whether, if he did so, the
promise which he exacted would be given. It is to be feared that Nora
perverted the truth a little; but if ever such perversion may be
forgiven, forgiveness was due to her. If they could only be brought
together, she was sure that there would be a reconciliation. They were
brought together, and there was a reconciliation.

'Dearest Emily, I am so glad to come to you,' said the husband, walking
up to his wife in their bed-room, and taking her in his arms.

'I have been very unhappy, Louis, for the last two days,' said she,
very gravely returning his kiss, but returning it somewhat coldly.

'We have both been unhappy, I am sure,' said he. Then he paused that
the promise might be made to him. He had certainly understood that it
was to be made without reserve as an act on her part which she had
fully consented to perform. But she stood silent, with one hand on the
dressing table, looking away from him, very beautiful, and dignified
too, in her manner; but not, as far as he could judge, either repentant
or submissive. 'Nora said that you would make me the promise which I
ask from you.'

'I cannot think, Louis, how you can want such a promise from me.'

'I think it right to ask it; I do indeed.'

'Can you imagine that I shall ever willingly see this gentleman again
after what has occurred? It will be for you to tell the servant. I do
not know how I can do that. But, as a matter of course, I will
encourage no person to come to your house of whom you disapprove. It
would be exactly the same of any man or of any woman.'

'That is all that I ask.'

'I am surprised that you should have thought it necessary to make any
formal request in the matter. Your word was quite sufficient. That you
should find cause of complaint in Colonel Osborne's coming here is of
course a different thing.'

Quite a different thing,' said he.

I cannot pretend to understand either your motives or your fears. I do
not understand them. My own self-respect prevents me from supposing it
to be possible that you have attributed an evil thought to me.'

Indeed, indeed, I never have,' said the husband.

'That I can assure you I regard as a matter of course,' said the wife.

'But you know, Emily, the way in which the world talks.'

'The world! And do you regard the world, Louis?'

'Lady Milborough, I believe, spoke to yourself.'

'Lady Milborough! No, she did not speak to me. She began to do so, but
I was careful to silence her at once. From you, Louis, I am bound to
hear whatever you may, choose to say to me; but I will not hear from
any other lips a single word that may be injurious to your honour.'
This she said very quietly, with much dignity, and he felt that he had
better not answer her. She had given him the promise which he had
demanded, and he began to fear that if he pushed the matter further she
might go back even from that amount of submission. So he kissed her
again, and had the boy brought into the room, and by the time that he
went to dress for dinner he was able, at any rate, to seem to be well
pleased.

'Richard,' he said to the servant, as soon as he was downstairs, 'when
Colonel Osborne calls again, say' that your mistress is not at home.'
He gave the order in the most indifferent tone of voice which he could
assume; but as he gave it he felt thoroughly ashamed of it. Richard,
who, with the other servants, had of course known that there had been a
quarrel between his master and mistress for the last two days, no doubt
understood all about it.

While they were sitting at dinner on the next day, a Saturday, there
came another note from Colonel Osborne. The servant brought it to his
mistress, and she, when she had looked at it, put it down by her plate.
Trevelyan knew immediately from whom the letter had come, and
understood how impossible it was for his wife to give it up in the
servant's presence. The letter lay there till the man was out of the
room, and then she handed it to Nora. 'Will you give that to Louis?'
she said. 'It comes from the man whom he supposes to be my lover.'

'Emily!' said he, jumping from his seat, 'how can you allow words so
horrible and so untrue to fall from your mouth?' 'If it be not so, why
am I to be placed in such a position as this? The servant knows, of
course, from whom the letter comes, and sees that I have been forbidden
to open it.' Then the man returned to the room, and the remainder of
the dinner passed off almost in silence. It was their custom when they
dined without company to leave the dining-room together, but on this
evening Trevelyan remained for a few minutes that he might read Colonel
Osborne's letter, He waited, standing on the rug with his face to the
fire-place, till he was quite alone, and then he opened it. It ran as
follows:

'House of Commons, Saturday.

'DEAR EMILY,' Trevelyan, as he read this, cursed Colonel Osborne
between his teeth.

'DEAR EMILY,

I called this afternoon, but you were out. I am afraid you will be
disappointed by what I have to tell you, but you should rather be glad
of it. They say at the C.O. that Sir Marmaduke would not receive their
letter if sent now till the middle of June, and that he could not be in
London, let him do what he would, till the end of July. They hope to
have the session over by that time, and therefore the committee is to
be put off till next session. They mean to have Lord Bowles home from
Canada, and they think that Bowles would like to be here in the winter.
Sir Marmaduke will be summoned for February next, and will of course
stretch his stay over the hot months. All this will, on the whole, be
for the best. Lady Rowley could hardly have packed up her things and
come away at a day's notice, whatever your father might have done.
I'll call tomorrow at luncheon time.

Yours always,

F. O.'



There was nothing objectionable in this letter excepting always the
'Dear Emily' nothing which it was not imperative on Colonel Osborne to
communicate to the person to whom it was addressed. Trevelyan must now
go upstairs and tell the contents of the letter to his wife. But he
felt that he had created for himself a terrible trouble. He must tell
his wife what was in the letter, but the very telling of it would be a
renewing of the soreness of his wound. And then what was to be done in
reference to the threatened visit for the Sunday morning? Trevelyan
knew very well that were his wife denied at that hour, Colonel Osborne
would understand the whole matter. He had doubtless in his anger
intended that Colonel Osborne should understand the whole matter; but
he was calmer now than he had been then, and almost wished that the
command given by him had not been so definite and imperious. He
remained with his arm on the mantel-piece, thinking of it, for some ten
minutes, and then went up into the drawing-room. 'Emily,' he said,
walking up to the table at which she was sitting, 'you had better read
that letter.'

'I would so much rather not,' she replied haughtily.

'Then Nora can read it. It concerns you both equally.'

Nora, with hesitating hand, took the letter and read it. 'They are not
to come after all,' said she, 'till next February.'

'And why not?' asked Mrs Trevelyan.

'Something about the session. I don't quite understand.'

'Lord Bowles is to come from Canada,' said Louis, 'and they think he
would prefer being here in the winter. I dare say he would.'

'But what has that to do with papa?'

'I suppose they must both be here together,' said Nora.

'I call that very hard indeed,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'I can't agree with you there,' said her husband. 'His coming at all is
so much of a favour that it is almost a job.'

'I don't see that it is a job at all,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'Somebody is
wanted, and nobody can know more of the service than papa does. But as
the other man is a lord I suppose papa must give way. Does he say
anything about mamma, Nora?'

'You had better read the letter yourself,' said Trevelyan, who was
desirous that his wife should know of the threatened visit.

'No, Louis, I shall not do that. You must not blow hot and cold too.
Till the other day I should have thought that Colonel Osborne's letters
were as innocent as an old newspaper. As you have supposed them to be
poisoned I will have nothing to do with them.'

This speech made him very angry. It seemed that his wife, who had
yielded to him, was determined to take out the value of her submission
in the most disagreeable words which she could utter. Nora now closed
the letter and handed it back to her brother-in-law. He laid it down on
the table beside him, and sat for a while with his eyes fixed upon his
book. At last he spoke again. 'Colonel Osborne says that he will call
tomorrow at luncheon time. You can admit him, if you please, and thank
him for the trouble he has taken in this matter.'

'I shall not remain in the room if he be admitted,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

There was silence again for some minutes, and the cloud upon
Trevelyan's brow became blacker than before. Then he rose from his
chair and walked round to the sofa on which his wife was sitting. 'I
presume,' said he, 'that your wishes and mine in this matter must be
the same.'

'I cannot tell what your wishes are,' she replied. 'I never was more in
the dark on any subject in my life. My wishes at present are confined
to a desire to save you as far as may be possible from the shame which
must be attached to your own suspicions.'

'I have never had any suspicions.'

'A husband without suspicions does not intercept his wife's letters. A
husband without suspicions does not all in the aid of his servants to
guard his wife. A husband without suspicions.'

'Emily,' exclaimed Nora Rowley, 'how can you say such things on purpose
to provoke him?'

'Yes; on purpose to provoke me,' said Trevelyan.

'And have I not been provoked? Have I not been injured? You say now
that you have not suspected me, and yet in what condition do I find
myself? Because an old woman has chosen to talk scandal about me, I am
placed in a position in my own house which is disgraceful to you and
insupportable to myself. This man has been in the habit of coming here
on Sundays, and will, of course, know that we are at home. You must
manage it as you please. If you choose to receive him, I will go
upstairs.'

'Why can't you let him come in and go away, just as usual?' said Nora.

'Because Louis has made me promise that I will never willingly be in
his company again,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'I would have given the world
to avoid a promise so graceful to me; but it was exacted, and it shall
be kept.' Having so spoken, she swept out of the room, and went
upstairs to the nursery. Trevelyan sat for an hour with his book before
him, reading or pretending to read, but his wife did not come
downstairs. Then Nora went up to her, and he descended to his solitude
below. So far he had hardly gained much by the enforced obedience of
his wife.

On the next morning the three went to church together, as they were
walking home Trevelyan's heart was filled with returning gentleness
towards his wife. He could not bear to be at wrath with her after the
church service which they had just heard together. But he was
softer-hearted than was she, and knowing this, was almost afraid to say
anything that would again bring forth from her expressions of scorn. As
soon as they were alone within the house he took her by the hand and
led her apart. 'Let all this be,' said he, 'as though it had never
been.'

'That will hardly be possible, Louis,' she answered. 'I cannot forget
that I have been cautioned.'

'But cannot you bring yourself to believe that I have meant it all for
your good?'

'I have never doubted it, Louis never for a moment. But it has hurt me
to find that you should think that such caution was needed for my
good.'

It was almost on his tongue to beg her pardon, to acknowledge that he
had made a mistake, and to implore her to forget that he had ever made
an objection to Colonel Osborne's visit. He remembered at this moment
the painful odiousness of that 'Dear Emily;' but he had to reconcile
himself even to that, telling himself that, after all, Colonel Osborne
was an old man a man older even than his wife's father. If she would
only have met him with gentleness, he would have withdrawn his command,
and have acknowledged that he had been wrong. But she was hard,
dignified, obedient, and resentful. 'It will, I think,' he said, 'be
better for both of us that he should be asked in to lunch today.'

'You must judge of that,' said Emily. 'Perhaps, upon the whole, it will
be best. I can only say that I will not be present. I will lunch
upstairs with baby, and you can make what excuse for me you please.'
This was all very bad, but it was in this way that things were allowed
to arrange themselves. Richard was told that Colonel Osborne was coming
to lunch, and when he came something was muttered to him about Mrs
Trevelyan being not quite well. It was Nora who told the innocent fib,
and though she did not tell it well, she did her very best. She felt
that her brother-in-law was very wretched, and she was most anxious to
relieve him. Colonel Osborne did not stay long, and then Nora went
upstairs to her sister.

Louis Trevelyan felt that he had disgraced himself. He had meant to
have been strong, and he had, as he knew, been very weak. He had meant
to have acted in a high-minded, honest, manly manner; but circumstances
had been so untoward with him, that on looking at his own conduct, it
seemed to him to have been mean, and almost false and cowardly. As the
order for the exclusion of this hated man from his house had been
given, he should at any rate have stuck to the order. At the moment of
his vacillation he had simply intended to make things easy for his
wife; but she had taken advantage of his vacillation, and had now
clearly conquered him. Perhaps he respected her more than he had done
when he was resolving, three or four days since, that he would be the
master in his own house; but it may be feared that the tenderness of
his love for her had been impaired.

Late in the afternoon his wife and sister-in-law came down dressed for
walking, and, finding Trevelyan in the library, they asked him to join
them it was a custom with them to walk in the park on a Sunday
afternoon and he at once assented, and went out with them. Emily, who
had had her triumph, was very gracious. There should not be a word more
said by her about Colonel Osborne. She would avoid that gentleman,
never receiving him in Curzon Street, and having as little to say to
him as possible elsewhere; but she would not throw his name in her
husband's teeth, or make any reference to the injury which had so
manifestly been done to her. Unless Louis should be indiscreet, it
should be as though it had been forgotten. As they walked by
Chesterfield House and Stanhope Street into the park, she began to
discuss the sermon they had heard that morning, and when she found that
that subject was not alluring, she spoke of a dinner to which they were
to go at Mrs Fairfax's house. Louis Trevelyan was quite aware that he
was being treated as a naughty boy, who was to be forgiven.

They went across Hyde Park into Kensington Gardens, and still the same
thing was going on. Nora found it to be almost impossible to say a
word. Trevelyan answered his wife's questions, but was otherwise
silent. Emily worked very hard at her mission of forgiveness, and
hardly ceased in her efforts at conciliatory conversation. Women can
work so much harder in this way than men find it possible to do! She
never flagged, but continued to be fluent, conciliatory, and
intolerably wearisome. On a sudden they came across two men together,
who, as they all knew, were barely acquainted with each other. These
were Colonel Osborne and Hugh Stanbury.

'I am glad to find you are able to be out,' said the Colonel.

'Thanks; yes. I think my seclusion just now was almost as much due to
baby as to anything else. Mr Stanbury, how is it we never see you now?'

'It is the D.R., Mrs Trevelyan nothing else. The D.R. is a most
grateful mistress, but somewhat exacting. I am allowed a couple of
hours on Sundays, but otherwise my time is wholly passed in Fleet
Street.'

'How very unpleasant.'

'Well; yes. The unpleasantness of this world consists chiefly in the
fact that when a man wants wages, he must earn them. The Christian
philosophers have a theory about it. Don't they call it the primeval
fall, original sin, and that kind of thing?'

'Mr Stanbury, I won't have irreligion. I hope that doesn't come from
writing for the newspapers.'

'Certainly not with me, Mrs Trevelyan. I have never been put on to take
that branch yet. Scruby does that with us, and does it excellently. It
was he who touched up the Ritualists, and then the Commission, and then
the Low Church bishops, till he didn't leave one of them a leg to stand
upon.'

'What is it, then, that the Daily Record upholds?'

'It upholds the Daily Record. Believe in that and you will surely be
saved.' Then he turned to Miss Rowley, and they two were soon walking
on together, each manifestly interested in what the other was saying,
though there was no word of tenderness spoken between them.

Colonel Osborne was now between Mr and Mrs Trevelyan. She would have
avoided the position had it been possible for her to do so. While they
were falling into their present places, she had made a little mute
appeal to her husband to take her away from the spot, to give her his
arm and return with her, to save her in some way from remaining in
company with the man to whose company for her he had objected; but he
took no such step. It had seemed to him that he could take no such step
without showing his hostility to Colonel Osborne.

They walked on along the broad path together, and the Colonel was
between them.

'I hope you think it satisfactory about Sir Rowley,' he said.

'Beggars must not be choosers, you know, Colonel Osborne. I felt a
little disappointed when I found that we were not to see them till
February next.'

'They will stay longer then, you know, than they could now.'

'I have no doubt when the time comes we shall all believe it to be
better.'

'I suppose you think, Emily, that a little pudding today is better than
much tomorrow.'

Colonel Osborne certainly had a caressing, would-be affectionate mode
of talking to women, which, unless it were reciprocated and enjoyed,
was likely to make itself disagreeable. No possible words could have
been more innocent than those he had now spoken; but he had turned his
face down close to her face, and had almost whispered them. And then,
too, he had again called her by her Christian name. Trevelyan had not
heard the words. He had walked on, making the distance between him and
the other man greater than was necessary, anxious to show to his wife
that he had no jealousy at such a meeting as this. But his wife was
determined that she would put an end to this state of things, let the
cost be what it might. She did not say a word to Colonel Osborne, but
addressed herself at once to her husband.

'Louis,' she said, 'will you give me your arm? We will go back, if you
please.' Then she took her husband's arm and turned herself and him
abruptly away from their companion.

The thing was done in such a manner that it was impossible that Colonel
Osborne should not perceive that he had been left in anger. When
Trevelyan and his wife had gone back a few yards, he was obliged to
return for Nora. He did so, and then rejoined his wife.

'It was quite unnecessary, Emily,' he said, 'that you should behave
like that.'

'Your suspicions,' she said, 'have made it almost impossible for me to
behave with propriety.'

'You have told him everything now,' said Trevelyan.

'And it was requisite that he should be told,' said his wife. Then they
walked home without interchanging another word. When they reached their
house, Emily at once went up to her own room, and Trevelyan to his.
They parted as though they had no common interest which was worthy of a
moment's conversation. And she by her step, and gait, and every
movement of her body showed to him that she was not his wife now in any
sense that could bring to him a feeling of domestic happiness. Her
compliance with his command was of no use to him unless she could be
brought to comply in spirit. Unless she would be soft to him he could
not be happy. He walked about his room uneasily for half-an-hour,
trying to shake off his sorrow, and then he went up to her room.
'Emily,' he said, 'for God's sake let all this pass away.'

'What is to pass away?'

'This feeling of rancour between you and me. What is the world to us
unless we can love one another? At any rate it will be nothing to me.'

'Do you doubt my love?' said she.

'No; certainly not.'

'Nor I yours. Without love, Louis, you and I can not be happy. But love
alone will not make us so. There must be trust, and there must also be
forbearance. My feeling of annoyance will pass away in time; and till
it does, I will shew it as little as may be possible.'

He felt that he had nothing more to say, and then he left her; but he
had gained nothing by the interview. She was still hard and cold, and
still assumed a tone which seemed to imply that she had manifestly been
the injured person.

Colonel Osborne, when he was left alone, stood for a few moments on the
spot, and then with a whistle, a shake of the head, and a little low
chuckle of laughter, rejoined the crowd.



CHAPTER VII - MISS JEMIMA STANBURY, OF EXETER


Miss Jemima Stanbury, the aunt of our friend Hugh, was a maiden lady,
very much respected, indeed, in the city of Exeter. It is to be hoped
that no readers of these pages will be so un-English as to be unable to
appreciate the difference between county society and town society the
society, that is, of a provincial town, or so ignorant as not to know
also that there may be persons so privileged, that although they live
distinctly within a provincial town, there is accorded to them, as
though by brevet rank, all the merit of living in the county. In
reference to persons so privileged, it is considered that they have
been made free from the contamination of contiguous bricks and mortar
by certain inner gifts, probably of birth, occasionally of profession,
possibly of merit. It is very rarely, indeed, that money alone will
bestow this acknowledged rank; and in Exeter, which by the stringency
and excellence of its well-defined rules on such matters, may perhaps
be said to take the lead of all English provincial towns, money alone
has never availed. Good blood, especially if it be blood good in
Devonshire, is rarely rejected. Clergymen are allowed within the pale
though by no means as certainly as used to be the case; and, indeed, in
these days of literates, clergymen have to pass harder examinations
than those ever imposed upon them by bishops' chaplains, before they
are admitted ad eundem among the chosen ones of the city of Exeter. The
wives and daughters of the old prebendaries see well to that. And, as
has been said, special merit may prevail. Sir Peter Mancrudy, the great
Exeter physician, has won his way in not at all by being Sir Peter,
which has stood in his way rather than otherwise but by the
acknowledged excellence of his book about saltzes. Sir Peter Mancrudy
is supposed to have quite a metropolitan, almost a European reputation
and therefore is acknowledged to belong to the county set, although he
never dines out at any house beyond the limits of the city. Now, let it
be known that no inhabitant of Exeter ever achieved a clearer right to
be regarded as 'county,' in opposition to 'town,' than had Miss Jemima
Stanbury. There was not a tradesman in Exeter who was not aware of it,
and who did not touch his hat to her accordingly. The men who drove the
flies, when summoned to take her out at night, would bring oats with
them, knowing how probable it was that they might have to travel far. A
distinct apology was made if she was asked to drink tea with people who
were simply 'town'. The Noels of Doddescombe Leigh, the Cliffords of
Budleigh Salterton, the Powels of Haldon, the Cheritons of Alphington
all county persons, but very frequently in the city were greeted by
her, and greeted her, on terms of equality. Her most intimate friend
was old Mrs MacHugh, the widow of the last dean but two, who could not
have stood higher had she been the widow of the last bishop. And then,
although Miss Stanbury was intimate with the Frenches of Heavitree,
with the Wrights of Northernhay, with the Apjohns of Helion Villa a
really magnificent house, two miles out of the city on the Crediton
Road, and with the Crumbies of Cronstadt House, Saint Ide's who would
have been county people, if living in the country made the difference
although she was intimate with all these families, her manner to them
was not the same, nor was it expected to be the same, as with those of
her own acknowledged set. These things are understood in Exeter so
well!

Miss Stanbury belonged to the county set, but she lived in a large
brick house, standing in the Close, almost behind the Cathedral. Indeed
it was so close to the eastern end of the edifice that a carriage could
not be brought quite up to her door. It was a large brick house, very
old, with a door in the middle, and five steps ascending to it between
high iron rails. On each side of the door there were two windows on the
ground floor, and above that there were three tiers of five windows
each, and the house was double throughout, having as many windows
looking out behind into a gloomy courtyard. But the glory of the house
consisted in this, that there was a garden attached to it, a garden
with very high walls, over which the boughs of trees might be seen,
giving to the otherwise gloomy abode a touch of freshness in the
summer, and a look of space in the winter, which no doubt added
something to the reputation even of Miss Stanbury. The fact for it was
a fact that there was no gloomier or less attractive spot in the whole
city than Miss Stanbury's garden, when seen inside, did not militate
against this advantage. There were but half-a-dozen trees, and a few
square yards of grass that was never green, and a damp ungravelled path
on which no one ever walked. Seen from the inside the garden was not
much; but, from the outside, it gave a distinct character to the house,
and produced an unexpressed acknowledgment that the owner of it ought
to belong to the county set.

The house and all that was in it belonged to Miss Stanbury herself, as
did also many other houses in the neighbourhood. She was the owner of
the 'Cock and Bottle,' a very decent second class inn on the other side
of the Close, an inn supposed to have clerical tendencies, which made
it quite suitable for a close. The choristers took their beer there,
and the landlord was a retired verger. Nearly the whole of one side of
a dark passage leading out of the Close towards the High Street
belonged to her; and though the passage be narrow and the houses dark,
the locality is known to be good for trade. And she owned two large
houses in the High Street, and a great warehouse at St. Thomas's, and
had been bought out of land by the Railway at St. David's much to her
own dissatisfaction, as she was wont to express herself, but,
undoubtedly, at a very high price. It will be understood therefore,
that Miss Stanbury was wealthy, and that she was bound to the city in
which she lived by peculiar ties.

But Miss Stanbury had not been born to this wealth, nor can she be said
to have inherited from her forefathers any of these high privileges
which had been awarded to her. She had achieved them by the romance of
her life and the manner in which she had carried herself amidst its
vicissitudes. Her father had been vicar of Nuncombe Putney, a parish
lying twenty miles west of Exeter, among the moors. And on her father's
death, her brother, also now dead, had become vicar of the same parish
her brother, whose only son, Hugh. Stanbury, we already know, working
for the 'D. R.' up in London. When Miss Stanbury was twenty-one she
became engaged to a certain Mr Brooke Burgess, the eldest son of a
banker in Exeter or, it might, perhaps, be better said, a banker
himself; for at the time Mr Brooke Burgess was in the firm. It need not
here be told how various misfortunes arose, how Mr Burgess quarrelled
with the Stanbury family, how Jemima quarrelled with her own family,
how, when her father died, she went out from Nuncombe Putney parsonage,
and lived on the smallest pittance in a city lodging, how her lover was
untrue to her and did not marry her, and how at last he died and left
her every shilling that he possessed.

The Devonshire people, at the time, had been much divided as to the
merits of the Stanbury quarrel. There were many who said that the
brother could not have acted otherwise than he did; and that Miss
Stanbury, though by force of character and force of circumstances she
had weathered the storm, had in truth been very indiscreet. The
results, however, were as have been described. At the period of which
we treat, Miss Stanbury was a very rich lady, living by herself in
Exeter, admitted, without question, to be one of the county set, and
still at variance with her brother's family. Except to Hugh, she had
never spoken a word to one of them since her brother's death. When the
money came into her hands, she at that time being over forty, and her
nephew being then just ten years old, she had undertaken to educate
him, and to start him in the world. We know how she had kept her word,
and how and why she had withdrawn herself from any further
responsibility in the matter.

And in regard to this business of starting the young man she had been
careful to let it be known that she would do no more than start him. In
the formal document, by means of which she had made the proposal to her
brother, she had been careful to let it be understood that simple
education was all that she intended to bestow upon him 'and that only,'
she had added, 'in the event of my surviving till his education be
completed.' And to Hugh himself she had declared that any allowance
which she made him after he was called to the Bar, was only made in
order to give him room for his foot, a spot of ground from whence to
make his first leap. We know how he made that leap, infinitely to the
disgust of his aunt, who, when he refused obedience to her in the
matter of withdrawing from the Daily Record, immediately withdrew from
him, not only her patronage and assistance, but even her friendship and
acquaintance. This was the letter which she wrote to him:



'I don't think that writing radical stuff for a penny newspaper is a
respectable occupation for a gentleman, and I will have nothing to do
with it. If you choose to do such work, I cannot help it; but it was
not for such that I sent you to Harrow and Oxford, nor yet up to London
and paid 100 pounds a year to Mr Lambert. I think you are treating me
badly, but that is nothing to your bad treatment of yourself. You need
not trouble yourself to answer this, unless you are prepared to say
that you will not write any more stuff for that penny newspaper. Only I
wish to be understood. I will have no connection that I can help, and
no acquaintance at all, with radical scribblers and incendiaries.

JEMIMA STANBURY.

The Close, Exeter, April 15, 186 .'



Hugh Stanbury had answered this; thanking his aunt for past favours,
and explaining to her or striving to do so that he felt it to be his
duty to earn his bread, as a means of earning it had come within his
reach. He might as well have spared himself the trouble. She simply
wrote a few words across his own letter in red ink: 'The bread of
unworthiness should never be earned or eaten;' and then' sent the
letter back under a blank envelope to her nephew.

She was a thorough Tory of the old school. Had Hugh taken to writing
for a newspaper that had cost sixpence, or even threepence for its
copies, she might perhaps have forgiven him. At any rate the offence
would not have been so flagrant. And had the paper been conservative
instead of liberal, she would have had some qualms of conscience before
she gave him up. But to live by writing for a newspaper! and for a
penny newspaper!! and for a penny radical newspaper!!! It was more than
she could endure. Of what nature were the articles which he contributed
it was impossible that she should have any idea, for no consideration
would have induced her to look at a penny newspaper, or to admit it
within her doors. She herself took in the John Bull and the Herald, and
daily groaned deeply at the way in which those once great organs of
true British public feeling were becoming demoralised and perverted.
Had any reduction been made in the price of either of them, she would
at once have stopped her subscription. In the matter of politics she
had long since come to think that every thing good was over. She hated
the name of Reform so much that she could not bring herself to believe
in Mr Disraeli and his bill. For many years she had believed in Lord
Derby. She would fain believe in him still if she could. It was the
great desire of her heart to have some one in whom she believed. In the
bishop of her diocese she did believe, and annually sent him some
little comforting present from her own hand. And in two or three of the
clergymen around her she believed, finding in them a flavour of the
unascetic godliness of ancient days which was gratifying to her palate.
But in politics there was hardly a name remaining to which she could
fix her faith and declare that there should be her guide. For awhile
she, thought she would cling to Mr Lowe; but, when she made inquiry,
she found that there was no base there of really well-formed
conservative granite. The three gentlemen who had dissevered themselves
from Mr Disraeli when Mr Disraeli was passing his Reform bill, were
doubtless very good in their way; but they were not big enough to fill
her heart. She tried to make herself happy with General Peel, but
General Peel was after all no more than a shade to her. But the untruth
of others never made her untrue, and she still talked of the excellence
of George III and the glories of the subsequent reign. She had a bust
of Lord Eldon before which she was accustomed to stand with hands
closed and to weep or to think that she wept.

She was a little woman, now nearly sixty years of age, with bright grey
eyes, and a strong Roman nose, and thin lips, and a sharp-cut chin. She
wore a head-gear that almost amounted to a mob-cap, and beneath it her
grey hair was always frizzled with the greatest care. Her dress was
invariably of black silk, and she had five gowns one for church, one
for evening parties, one for driving out, and one for evenings at home
and one for mornings. The dress, when new, always went to church.
Nothing, as she was wont to say, was too good for the Lord's house. In
the days of crinolines she had protested that she had never worn one a
protest, however, which was hardly true; and now, in these later days,
her hatred was especially developed in reference to the head-dresses of
young women. 'Chignon' was a word which she had never been heard to
pronounce. She would talk of 'those bandboxes which the sluts wear
behind their noddles;' for Miss Stanbury allowed herself the use of
much strong language. She was very punctilious in all her habits,
breakfasting ever at half-past eight, and dining always at six.
Half-past five had been her time, till the bishop, who, on an occasion,
was to be her guest, once signified to her that such an hour cut up the
day and interfered with clerical work. Her lunch was always of bread
and cheese, and they who lunched with her either eat that or the bread
without the cheese. An afternoon 'tea' was a thing horrible to her
imagination. Tea and buttered toast at half-past eight in the evening
was the great luxury of her life. She was as strong as a horse, and had
never hitherto known a day's illness. As a consequence of this, she did
not believe in the illness of other people especially not in the
illness of women. She did not like a girl who could not drink a glass
of beer with her bread and cheese in the middle of the day, and she
thought that a glass of port after dinner was good for everybody.
Indeed, she had a thorough belief in port wine, thinking that it would
go far to cure most miseries. But she could not put up with the idea
that a woman, young or old, should want the stimulus of a glass of
sherry to support her at any odd time of the day. Hot concoctions of
strong drink at Christmas she would allow to everybody, and was very
strong in recommending such comforts to ladies blessed, or about to be
blessed, with babies. She took the sacrament every month, and gave away
exactly a tenth of her income to the poor. She believed that there was
a special holiness in a tithe of a thing, and attributed the
commencement of the downfall of the Church of England to rent charges,
and the commutation of clergymen's incomes. Since Judas, there had
never been, to her thinking, a traitor so base, or an apostate so
sinful, as Colenso; and yet, of the nature of Colenso's teaching she
was as ignorant as the towers of the cathedral opposite to her.

She believed in Exeter, thinking that there was no other provincial
town in England in which a maiden lady could live safely and decently.
London to her was an abode of sin; and though, as we have seen, she
delighted to call herself one of the county set, she did not love the
fields and lanes. And in Exeter the only place for a lady was the
Close. Southernhay and Northernhay might be very well, and there was,
doubtless a respectable neighbourhood on the Heavitree side of the
town; but for the new streets, and especially for the suburban villas,
she had no endurance. She liked to deal at dear shops; but would leave
any shop, either dear or cheap, in regard to which a printed
advertisement should reach her eye. She paid all her bills at the end
of each six months, and almost took a delight in high prices. She would
rejoice that bread should be cheap, and grieve that meat should be
dear, because of the poor; but in regard to other matters no reduction
in the cost of an article ever pleased her. She had houses as to which
she was told by her agent that the rents should be raised; but she
would not raise them. She had others which it was difficult to let
without lowering the rents, but she would not lower them. All change
was to her hateful and unnecessary.

She kept three maid-servants, and a man came in every day to clean the
knives and boots. Service with her was well requited, and much labour
was never exacted. But it was not every young woman who could live with
her. A rigidity as to hours, as to religious exercises, and as to
dress, was exacted, under which many poor girls altogether broke down;
but they who could stand this rigidity came to know that their places
were very valuable. No one belonging to them need want for aught, when
once the good opinion of Miss Stanbury had been earned. When once she
believed in her servant there was nobody like that servant. There was
not a man in Exeter could clean a boot except Giles Hickbody and if not
in Exeter, then where else? And her own maid Martha, who had lived with
her now for twenty years, and who had come with her to the brick house
when she first inhabited it, was such a woman that no other servant
anywhere was fit to hold a candle to her But then Martha had great
gifts was never ill, and really liked having sermons read to her.

Such was Miss Stanbury, who had now discarded her nephew Hugh. She had
never been tenderly affectionate to Hugh, or she would hardly have
asked him to live in London on a hundred a year. She had never really
been kind to him since he was a boy, for although she had paid for him,
she had been almost penurious, in her manner of doing so, and had
repeatedly-given him to understand, that in the event of her death not
a shilling would be left to him. Indeed, as to that matter of
bequeathing her money, it was understood that it was her purpose to let
it all go back to the Burgess family. With the Burgess family she had
kept up no sustained connection, it being quite understood that she was
never to be asked to meet the only one of them now left in Exeter. Nor
was it as yet known to any one in what manner the money was to go back,
how it was to be divided, or who were to be the recipients. But she had
declared that it should go back, explaining that she had conceived it
to be a duty to let her own relations know that they would not inherit
her wealth at her death.

About a week after she had sent back poor Hugh's letter with the
endorsement on it as to unworthy bread, she summoned Martha to the back
parlour in which she was accustomed to write her letters. It was one of
the theories of her life that different rooms should be used only for
the purposes for which they were intended. She never allowed pens and
ink up into the bed-rooms, and had she ever heard that any guest in her
house was reading in bed, she would have made an instant personal
attack upon that guest, whether male or female, which would have
surprised that guest. Poor Hugh would have got on better with her had
he not been discovered once smoking in the garden. Nor would she have
writing materials in the drawing-room or dining-room. There was a
chamber behind the dining-room in which there was an inkbottle, and if
there was a letter to be written, let the writer go there and write it.
In the writing of many letters, however, she put no confidence, and
regarded penny postage as one of the strongest evidences of the coming
ruin.

'Martha,' she said, 'I want to speak to you. Sit down. I think I am
going to do something.' Martha sat down, but did not speak a word.
There had been no question asked of her, and the time for speaking had
not come. 'I am writing to Mrs Stanbury, at Nuncombe Putney; and what
do you think I am saying to her?'

Now the question had been asked, and it was Martha's duty to reply.

'Writing to Mrs Stanbury, ma'am?'

'Yes, to Mrs Stanbury.'

'It ain't possible for me to say, ma'am, unless it's to put Mr Hugh
from going on with the newspapers.'

'When. my nephew won't be controlled by me, I shan't go elsewhere to
look for control over him; you may be sure of that, Martha. And
remember, Martha, I don't want to have his name mentioned again in the
house. You will tell them all so, if you please.'

'He was a very nice gentleman, ma'am.'

'Martha, I won't have it; and there's an end of it. I won't have it.
Perhaps I know what goes to the making of a nice gentleman as well as
you do.'

'Mr Hugh, ma'am.'

'I won't have it, Martha. And when I say so, let there be an end of
it.' As she said this, she got up from her chair, and shook her head,
and took a turn about the room. 'If I'm not mistress here, I'm nobody.'

'Of course you're mistress here, ma'am.'

'And if I don't know what's fit to be done, and what's not fit, I'm too
old to learn; and, what's more, I won't be taught. I'm not going to
have my house crammed with radical incendiary stuff, printed with ink
that stinks, on paper made out of straw. If I can't live without penny
literature, at any rate I'll die without it. Now listen to me.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'I have asked Mrs Stanbury to send one of the girls over here.'

'To live, ma'am?' Martha's tone as she asked the question, showed how
deeply she felt its importance.

'Yes, Martha; to live.'

'You'll never like it, ma'am.'

'I don't suppose I shall.'

'You'll never get on with it, ma'am; never. The young lady'll be out of
the house in a week; or if she ain't, somebody else will.'

'You mean yourself.'

'I'm only a servant, ma'am, and it don't signify about me.'

'You're a fool.'

'That's true, ma'am, I don't doubt.'

'I've sent for her, and we must do the best we can. Perhaps she won't
come.'

'She'll come fast enough,' said Martha. 'But whether she'll stay,
that's a different thing. I don't see how it's possible she's to stay.
I'm told they're feckless, idle young ladies. She'll be so soft, ma'am,
and you.'

'Well; what of me?'

'You'll be so hard, ma'am!'

'I'm not a bit harder than you, Martha; nor yet so hard. I'll do my
duty, or at least I'll try. Now you know all about it, and you may go
away. There's the letter, and I mean to go out and post it myself.'



CHAPTER VIII - 'I KNOW IT WILL DO'

Miss Stanbury carried her letter all the way to the chief post-office
in the city, having no faith whatever in those little subsidiary
receiving houses which are established in different parts of the city.
As for the iron pillar boxes which had been erected of late years for
the receipt of letters, one of which a most hateful thing to her stood
almost close to her own hall door, she had not the faintest belief that
any letter put into one of them would ever reach its destination. She
could not understand why people should not walk with their letters to a
respectable post-office instead of chucking them into an iron stump as
she called it out in the middle of the street with nobody to look after
it. Positive orders had been given that no letter from her house should
ever be put into the iron post. Her epistle to her sister-in-law, of
whom she never spoke otherwise than as Mrs Stanbury, was as follows:


The Close, Exeter, 22nd April, 186

My dear Sister Stanbury,

Your son, Hugh, has taken to courses of which I do not approve, and
therefore I have put an end to my connection with him. I shall be happy
to entertain your daughter Dorothy in my house if you and she approve
of such a plan. Should you agree to this, she will be welcome to
receive you or her sister not her brother in my house any Wednesday
morning between half-past nine and half-past twelve. I will endeavour
to make my house pleasant to her and useful, and will make her an
allowance of 25 pounds per annum for her clothes as long as she may
remain with me. I shall expect her to be regular at meals, to be
constant in going to church, and not to read modern novels.

I intend the arrangement to be permanent, but of course I must retain
the power of closing it if, and when, I shall see fit. Its permanence
must be contingent on my life. I have no power of providing for any one
after my death,

Yours truly,

JEMIMA STANBURY.

I hope the young lady does not have any false hair about her.'



When this note was received at Nuncombe Putney the amazement which it
occasioned was extreme. Mrs Stanbury, the widow of the late vicar,
lived in a little morsel of a cottage on the outskirts of the village,
with her two daughters, Priscilla and Dorothy. Their whole income, out
of which it was necessary that they should pay rent for their cottage,
was less than 70 pounds per annum. During the last few months a
five-pound note now and again had found its way to Nuncombe Putney out
of the coffers of the 'D. R.'; but the ladies there were most unwilling
to be so relieved, thinking that their brother's career was of
infinitely more importance than their comforts or even than their
living. They were very poor, but they were accustomed to poverty. The
elder sister was older than Hugh, but Dorothy, the younger, to whom
this strange invitation was now made, was two years younger than her
brother, and was now nearly twenty-six. How they had lived, and dressed
themselves, and had continued to be called ladies by the inhabitants of
the village was, and is, and will be a mystery to those who have had
the spending of much larger incomes, but have still been always poor.
But they had lived, had gone to church every Sunday in decent apparel,
and had kept up friendly relations with the family of the present
vicar, and with one or two other neighbours.

When the letter had been read first by the mother, and then aloud, and
then by each of them separately, in the little sitting-room in the
cottage, there was silence among them for neither of them desired to be
the first to express an opinion. Nothing could be more natural than the
proposed arrangement, had it not been made unnatural by a quarrel
existing nearly throughout the whole life of the person most nearly
concerned. Priscilla, the elder daughter, was the one of the family who
was generally the ruler, and she at last expressed an opinion adverse
to the arrangement. 'My dear, you would never be able to bear it,' said
Priscilla.

'I suppose not,' said Mrs Stanbury, plaintively.

'I could try,' said Dorothy.

'My dear, you don't know that woman,' said Priscilla.

'Of course I don't know her,' said Dorothy.

'She has always been very good to Hugh,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'I don't think she has been good to him at all,' said Priscilla.

'But think what a saving it would be,' said Dorothy. 'And I could send
home half of what Aunt Stanbury says she would give me.'

'You must not think of that,' said Priscilla, 'because she expects you
to be dressed.'

'I should like to try,' she said, before the morning was over 'if you
and mamma don't think it would be wrong.'

The conference that day ended in a written request to Aunt Stanbury
that a week might be allowed for consideration the letter being written
by Priscilla, but signed with her mother's name and with a very long
epistle to Hugh, in which each of the ladies took a part, and in which
advice and decision were demanded. It was very evident to Hugh that his
mother and Dorothy were for compliance, and that Priscilla was for
refusal. But he never doubted for a moment. 'Of course she will go,' he
said in his answer to Priscilla; 'and she must understand that Aunt
Stanbury is a most excellent woman, as true as the sun, thoroughly
honest, with no fault but this, that she likes her own way. Of course
Dolly can go back again if she finds the house too hard for her.' Then
he sent another five-pound note, observing that Dolly's journey to
Exeter would cost money, and that her wardrobe would want some
improvement.

'I'm very glad that it isn't me,' said Priscilla, who, however, did not
attempt to oppose the decision of the man of the family. Dorothy was
greatly gratified by the excitement of the proposed change in her life,
and the following letter, the product of the wisdom of the family, was
written by Mrs Stanbury.



'Nuncombe Putney, 1st May, 186

My dear Sister Stanbury,

We are all very thankful for the kindness of your offer, which my
daughter Dorothy will accept with feelings of affectionate gratitude. I
think you will find her docile, good-tempered, and amiable; but a
mother, of course, speaks well of her own child. She will endeavour to
comply with your wishes in all things reasonable. She; of course,
understands that should the arrangement not suit, she will come back
home on the expression of your wish that it should be so. And she will,
of course, do the same, if she should find that living in Exeter does
not suit herself.' (This sentence was inserted at the instance of
Priscilla, after much urgent expostulation.) 'Dorothy will be ready to
go to you on any day you may fix after the 7th of this month.

Believe me to remain,

Your affectionate sister-in-law,

P. STANBURY.'



'She's going to come,' said Miss Stanbury to Martha, holding the letter
in her hand.

'I never doubted her coming, ma'am,' said Martha.

'And I mean her to stay, unless it's her own fault. She'll have the
small room upstairs, looking out front, next to mine. And you must go
and fetch her.'

'Go and fetch her, ma'am?'

'Yes. If you won't, I must.'

'She ain't a child, ma'am. She's twenty-five years old, and surely she
can come to Exeter by herself, with a railroad all the way from
Lessboro'.'

'There's no place a young woman is insulted in so bad as those railway
carriages, and I won't have her come by herself. If she is to live with
me, she shall begin decently at any rate.'

Martha argued the matter, but was of course beaten, and on the day
fixed started early in the morning for Nuncombe Putney, and returned in
the afternoon to the Close with her charge. By the time that she had
reached the house she had in some degree reconciled herself to the
dangerous step that her mistress had taken, partly by perceiving that
in face Dorothy Stanbury was very like her brother Hugh, and partly,
perhaps, by finding that the young woman's manner to herself was both
gentle and sprightly. She knew well that gentleness alone, without some
back-bone of strength under it, would not long succeed with Miss
Stanbury. 'As far as I can judge, ma'am, she's a sweet young lady,'
said Martha, when she reported her arrival to her mistress, who had
retired upstairs to her own room, in order that she might thus hear a
word of tidings from her lieutenant, before she showed herself on the
field of action.

'Sweet! I hate your sweets,' said Miss Stanbury.

'Then why did you send for her, ma'am?'

'Because I was an old fool. But I must go down and receive her, I
suppose.'

Then Miss Stanbury went down, almost trembling as she went The matter
to her was one of vital importance She was going to change the whole
tenor of her life for the sake as she told herself of doing her duty by
a relative whom she did not even know But we may fairly suppose that
there had in truth been a feeling beyond that, which taught her to
desire to have some one near her to whom she might not only do her duty
as guardian, but whom she might also love. She had tried this with her
nephew; but her nephew had been too strong for her, too far from her,
too unlike to herself. When he came to see her he had smoked a short
pipe which had been shocking to her and he had spoken of Reform, and
Trades' Unions, and meetings in the parks, as though they had not been
Devil's ordinances. And he was very shy of going to church utterly
refusing to be taken there twice on the same Sunday. And he had told
his aunt that owing to a peculiar and unfortunate weakness in his
constitution he could not listen to the reading of sermons. And then
she was almost certain that he had once kissed one of the maids! She
had found it impossible to manage him in any way; and when he
positively declared himself as permanently devoted to the degrading
iniquities of penny newspapers, she had thought it best to cast him off
altogether. Now, thus late in life, she was going to make another
venture, to try an altogether new mode of living in order, as she said
to herself, that she might be of some use to somebody but, no doubt,
with a further unexpressed hope in her bosom, that the solitude of her
life might be relieved by. the companionship of some one whom she might
love. She had arrayed herself in a clean cap and her evening gown, and
she went downstairs looking sternly, with a fully-developed idea that
she must initiate her new duties by assuming a mastery at once. But
inwardly she trembled, and was intensely anxious as to the first
appearance of her niece. Of course there would be a little morsel of a
bonnet. She hated those vile patches dirty dirty flat daubs of
millinery as she called them, but they had become too general for her
to refuse admittance for such a thing within her doors But a chignon a
bandbox behind the noddle she would not endure. And then there were
other details of feminine gear, which shall not be specified, as to
which she was painfully anxious almost forgetting in her anxiety that
the dress of this young woman whom she was about to see must have ever
been regulated by the closest possible economy.

The first thing she saw on entering the room was a dark straw hat, a
straw hat with a strong penthouse flap to it, and her heart was
immediately softened.

'My dear,' she said, 'I am glad to see you.'

Dorothy, who, on her part, was trembling also, whose position was one
to justify most intense anxiety, murmured some reply.

'Take off your hat,' said the aunt, 'and let me give you a kiss.'

The hat was taken off and the kiss was given. There was certainly no
chignon there. Dorothy Stanbury was light haired, with almost flaxen
ringlets, worn after the old-fashioned way which we used to think so
pretty when we were young. She had very soft grey eyes, which ever
seemed to beseech you to do something when they looked at you, and her
mouth was a beseeching mouth. There are women who, even amidst their
strongest efforts at giving assistance to others, always look as though
they were asking aid themselves, and such a one was Dorothy Stanbury.
Her complexion was pale, but there was always present in it a tint of
pink running here and there, changing with every word she spoke,
changing indeed with every pulse of her heart. Nothing ever was softer
than her cheek; but her hands were thin and hard, and almost fibrous
with the working of the thread upon them. She was rather tall than
otherwise, but that extreme look of feminine dependence which always
accompanied her, took away something even from the appearance of her
height.

'These are all real, at any rate,' said her aunt, taking hold of the
curls, 'and won't be hurt by a little cold water.'

Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to her bed-room.
Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner together Dorothy had
hardly spoken. But Miss Stanbury had spoken, and things upon the whole
had gone very well.

'I hope you like roast chicken, my dear?' said Miss Stanbury.

'Oh, thank you.'

'And bread sauce? Jane, I do hope the bread sauce is hot.'

If the reader thinks that Miss Stanbury was indifferent to
considerations of the table, the reader is altogether ignorant of Miss
Stanbury's character. When Miss Stanbury gave her niece the liver-wing,
and picked out from the attendant sausages one that had been well
browned and properly broken in the frying, she meant to do a real
kindness.

'And now, my dear, there are mashed potatoes and bread sauce. As for
green vegetables, I don't know what has become of them. They tell me I
may have green peas from France at a shilling a quart; but if I can't
have English green peas, I won't have any.'

Miss Stanbury was standing up as she said this as she always did on
such occasions, liking to have a full mastery over the dish.

'I hope you like it, my dear?'

'Everything is so very nice.'

'That's right. I like to see a young woman with an appetite. Remember
that God sends the good things for us to eat; and as long as we don't
take more than our share, and give away something to those who haven't
a fair share of their own, I for one think it quite right to enjoy my
victuals. Jane, this bread sauce isn't hot. It never is hot. Don't tell
me; I know what hot is!'

Dorothy thought that her aunt was very angry; but Jane knew Miss
Stanbury better, and bore the scolding without shaking in her shoes.

'And now, my dear, you must take a glass of port wine. It will do you
good after your journey.'

Dorothy attempted to explain that she never did drink any wine, but her
aunt talked down her scruples at once.

'One glass of port wine never did anybody any harm, and as there is
port wine, it must be intended that somebody should drink it.'

Miss Stanbury, as she sipped hers out very slowly, seemed to enjoy it
very much. Although May had come, there was a fire in the grate, and
she sat with her toes on the fender, and her silk dress folded up above
her knees. She sat quite silent in this position for a quarter of an
hour, every now and then raising her glass to her lips. Dorothy sat
silent also. To her, in the newness of her condition, speech was
impossible.

'I think it will do,' said Miss Stanbury at last.

As Dorothy had no idea what would do, she could make no reply to this.

'I'm sure it will do,' said Miss Stanbury, after another short
interval. 'You're as like my poor sister as two eggs. You don't have
headaches, do you?'

Dorothy said that she was not ordinarily affected in that way.

'When girls have headaches it comes from tight-lacing, and not walking
enough, and carrying all manner of nasty smells about with them. I know
what headaches mean. How is a woman not to have a headache, when she
carries a thing on the back of her poll as big as a gardener's
wheel-barrow? Come, it's a fine evening, and we'll go out and look at
the towers. You've never even seen them yet, I suppose?'

So they went out, and finding the verger at the Cathedral door, he
being a great friend of Miss Stanbury, they walked up and down the
aisles, and Dorothy was instructed as to what would be expected from
her in regard to the outward forms of religion. She was to go to the
Cathedral service on the morning of every week-day, and on Sundays in
the afternoon. On Sunday mornings she was to attend the little church
of St. Margaret. On Sunday evenings it was the practice of Miss
Stanbury to read a sermon in the dining-room to all of whom her
household consisted. Did Dorothy like daily services? Dorothy, who was
more patient than her brother, and whose life had been much less
energetic, said that she had no objection to going to church every day
when there was not too much to do.

'There never need be too much to do to attend the Lord's house,' said
Miss Stanbury, somewhat angrily.

'Only if you've got to make the beds,' said Dorothy.

'My dear, I beg your pardon,' said Miss Stanbury. 'I beg your pardon,
heartily. I'm a thoughtless old woman, I know. Never mind. Now, we'll
go in.'

Later in the evening, when she gave her niece a candlestick to go to
bed, she repeated what she had said before.

'It'll do very well, my dear. I'm sure it'll do. But if you read in bed
either night or morning, I'll never forgive you.'

This last caution was uttered with so much energy, that Dorothy gave a
little jump as she promised obedience.



CHAPTER IX - SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED AGAIN

On one Sunday morning, when the month of May was nearly over, Hugh
Stanbury met Colonel Osborne in Curzon Street, not many yards from
Trevelyan's door. Colonel Osborne had just come from the house, and
Stanbury was going to it. Hugh had not spoken to Osborne since the day,
now a fortnight since, on which both of them had witnessed the scene in
the park; but on that occasion they had been left together, and it had
been impossible for them not to say a few words about their mutual
friends. Osborne had expressed his sorrow that there should be any
misunderstanding, and had called Trevelyan a 'confounded fool.'
Stanbury had suggested that there was something in it which they two
probably did not understand, and that matters, would be sure to come
all right. 'The truth is Trevelyan bullies her,' said Osborne; 'and if
he goes on with that he'll be sure to get the worst of it.' Now on this
present occasion Stanbury asked whether he would find the ladies at
home. 'Yes, they are both there,' said Osborne. 'Trevelyan has just
gone out in a huff. She'll never be able to go on living with him.
Anybody can see that with half an eye.' Then he had passed on, and Hugh
Stanbury knocked at the door.

He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found both the sisters
there; but he could see that Mrs Trevelyan had been in tears. The
avowed purpose of his visit that is, the purpose which he had avowed to
himself was to talk about his sister Dorothy. He had told Miss Rowley,
while walking in the park with her, how Dorothy had been invited over
to Exeter by her aunt, and how he had counselled his sister to accept
the invitation. Nora had expressed herself very interested as to
Dorothy's fate, and had said how much she wished that she knew Dorothy.
We all understand how sweet it is, when two such persons as Hugh
Stanbury and Nora Rowley cannot speak of their love for each other, to
say these tender things in regard to some one else. Nora had been quite
anxious to know how Dorothy had been received by that old conservative
warrior, as Hugh Stanbury had called his aunt, and Hugh had now come to
Curzon Street with a letter from Dorothy in his pocket. But when he saw
that there had been some cause for trouble, he hardly knew how to
introduce his subject.

'Trevelyan is not at home?' he asked.

'No,' said Emily, with her face turned away. 'He went out and left us a
quarter of an hour since. Did you meet Colonel Osborne?'

'I was speaking to him in the street not a moment since.' As he
answered he could see that Nora was making some sign to her sister.
Nora was most anxious that Emily should not speak of what had just
occurred, but her signs were all thrown away. 'Somebody must tell him,'
said Mrs Trevelyan, 'and I don't know who can do so better than so old
a friend as Mr Stanbury.'

'Tell what, and to whom?' he asked.

'No, no, no,' said Nora.

'Then I must tell him myself,' said she, 'that is all. As for standing
this kind of life, it is out of the question. I should either destroy
myself or go mad.'

'If I could do any good I should be so happy,' said Stanbury.

'Nobody can do any good between a man and wife,' said Nora.

Then Mrs Trevelyan began to tell her story, putting aside, with an
impatient motion of her hands, the efforts which her sister made to
stop her. She was very angry, and as she told it, standing up, all
trace of sobbing soon disappeared from her voice. 'The fact is,' she
said, 'he does not know his own mind, or what to fear or what not to
fear. He told me that I was never to see Colonel Osborne again.

'What is the use, Emily, of your repeating that to Mr Stanbury?'

'Why should I not repeat it? Colonel Osborne is papa's oldest friend,
and mine too. He is a man I like very much who is a real friend to me.
As he is old enough to be my father, one would have thought that my
husband could have found no objection.'

'I don't know much about his age,' said Stanbury.

'It does make a difference. It must make a difference. I should not
think of becoming so intimate with a younger man. But, however, when my
husband told me that I was to see him no more though the insult nearly
killed me, I determined to obey him. An order was given that Colonel
Osborne should not be admitted. You may imagine how painful it was; but
it was given, and I was prepared to bear it.'

'But he had been lunching with you on that Sunday.'

'Yes; that is just it. As soon as it was given Louis would rescind it,
because he was ashamed of what he had done. He was so jealous that he
did not want me to see the man; and yet he was so afraid that it should
be known that he ordered me to see him. He ordered him into the house
at last, and I I went away upstairs.'

'That was on the Sunday that we met you in the park?' asked Stanbury.

'What is the use of going back to all that?' said Nora.

'Then I met him by chance in the park,' continued Mrs Trevelyan, 'and
because he said a word which I knew would anger my husband, I left him
abruptly. Since that my husband has begged that things might go on as
they were before. He could not bear that Colonel Osborne himself should
think that he was jealous. Well; I gave way, and the man has been here
as before. And now there has been a scene which has been disgraceful to
us all. I cannot stand it, and I won't. If he does not behave himself
with more manliness I will leave him.'

'But what can I do?'

'Nothing, Mr Stanbury,' said Nora.

'Yes; you can do this. You can go to him from me, and can tell him that
I have chosen you as a messenger because you are his friend. You can
tell him that I am willing to obey him in anything. If he chooses, I
will consent that Colonel Osborne shall be asked never to come into my
presence again. It will be very absurd; but if he chooses, I will
consent. Or I will let things go on as they are, and continue to
receive my father's old friend when he comes. But if I do, I will not
put up with an imputation on my conduct because he does not like the
way in which the gentleman thinks fit to address me. I take upon myself
to say that if any man alive spoke to me as he ought not to speak, I
should know how to resent it myself. But I cannot fly into a passion
with an old gentleman for calling me by my Christian name, when he has
done so habitually for years.'

From all this it will appear that the great godsend of. a rich
marriage, with all manner of attendant comforts, which had come in the
way of the Rowley family as they were living at the Mandarins, had not
turned out to be an unmixed blessing. In the matter of the quarrel, as
it had hitherto progressed, the husband had perhaps been more in the
wrong than his wife; but the wife, in spite of all her promises of
perfect obedience, had proved herself to be a woman very hard to
manage. Had she been earnest in her desire to please her lord and
master in this matter of Colonel Osborne's visits to please him even
after he had so vacillated in his own behests she might probably have
so received the man as to have quelled all feeling of jealousy in her
husband's bosom. But instead of doing so she had told herself that as
she was innocent, and as her innocence had been acknowledged, and as
she had been specially instructed to receive this man whom she had
before been specially instructed not to receive, she would now fall
back exactly into her old manner with him. She had told Colonel Osborne
never to allude to that meeting in the park, and to ask no creature as
to what had occasioned her conduct on that Sunday; thus having a
mystery with him, which of course he understood as well as she did. And
then she had again taken to writing notes to him and receiving notes
from him none of which she showed to her husband. She was more intimate
with him than ever, and yet she hardly ever mentioned his name to her
husband. Trevelyan, acknowledging to himself that he had done no good
by his former interference, feeling that he had put himself in the
wrong on that occasion, and that his wife had got the better of him,
had borne with all this, with soreness and a moody savageness of
general conduct, but still without further words of anger with
reference to the man himself. But now, on this Sunday, when his wife
had been closeted with Colonel Osborne in the back drawing-room,
leaving him with his sister-in-law, his temper had become too hot for
him, and he had suddenly left the house, declaring that he would not
walk with the two women on that day. 'Why not, Louis?' his wife had
said, coming up to him. 'Never mind why not, but I shall not,' he had
answered; and then he left the room.

'What is the matter with him?' Colonel Osborne had asked.

'It is impossible to say what is the matter with him,' Mrs Trevelyan
had replied. After that she had at once gone upstairs to her child,
telling herself that she was doing all that the strictest propriety
could require in leaving the man's society as soon as her husband was
gone. Then there was an awkward minute or two between Nora and Colonel
Osborne, and he took his leave.

Stanbury at last promised that he would see Trevelyan, repeating,
however, very frequently that often used assertion, that no task is so
hopeless as that of interfering between a man and his wife.
Nevertheless he promised, and undertook to look for Trevelyan at the
Acrobats on that afternoon. At last he got a moment in which to produce
the letter from his sister, and was able to turn the conversation for a
few minutes to his own affairs. Dorothy's letter was read and discussed
by both the ladies with much zeal. 'It is quite a strange world to me,'
said Dorothy, 'but I am beginning to find myself more at my ease than I
was at first, Aunt Stanbury is very good-natured, and when I know what
she wants, I think I shall be able to please her. What you said of her
disposition is not so bad to me, as of course a girl in my position
does not expect to have her own way.'

'Why shouldn't she have her share of her own way as well as anybody
else?' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Poor Dorothy would never want to have her own way,' said Hugh.

'She ought to want it,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'She has spirit enough to turn if she's trodden on,' said Hugh.

'That's more than what most women have,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

Then he went on with the letter. 'She is very generous, and has given
me 6 pounds 5s in advance of my allowance. When I said I would send
part of it home to mamma, she seemed to be angry, and said that she
wanted me always to look nice about my clothes. She told me afterwards
to do as I pleased, and that I might try my own way for the first
quarter. So I was frightened, and only sent thirty shillings. We went
out the other evening to drink tea with Mrs MacHugh, an old lady whose
husband was once dean. I had to go, and it was all very nice. There
were a great many clergymen there, but many of them were young men.'
'Poor Dorothy,' exclaimed Nora. 'One of them was the minor canon who
chants the service every morning. He is a bachelor.' 'Then there is a
hope for her,' said Nora 'and he always talks a little as though he
were singing the Litany.' 'That's very bad,' said Nora; 'fancy having a
husband to sing the Litany to you always.' 'Better that, perhaps, than
having him always singing something else,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

It was decided between them that Dorothy's state might on the whole be
considered as flourishing, but that Hugh was bound as a brother to go
down to Exeter and look after her. He explained, however, that he was
expressly debarred from calling on his sister, even between the hours
of half-past nine and half-past twelve on Wednesday mornings, and that
he could not see her at all unless he did so surreptitiously.

'If I were you I would see my sister in spite of all the old viragos in
Exeter,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'I have no idea of anybody taking so much
upon themselves.'

'You must remember, Mrs Trevelyan, that she has taken upon herself much
also in the way of kindness, in doing what perhaps I ought to call
charity. I wonder what I should have been doing now if it were not for
my Aunt Stanbury.'

He took his leave, and went at once from Curzon Street to Trevelyan's
club, and found that Trevelyan had not been there as yet. In another
hour he called again, and was about to give it up, when he met the man
whom he was seeking on the steps.

'I was looking for you,' he said.

'Well, here I am.'

It was impossible not to see in the look of Trevelyan's face, and not
to hear in the tone of his voice, that he was, at the moment, in an
angry and unhappy frame of mind. He did not move as though he were
willing to accompany his friend, and seemed almost to know beforehand
that the approaching interview was to be an unpleasant one.

'I want to speak to you, and perhaps you wouldn't mind taking a turn
with me,' said Stanbury.

But Trevelyan objected to this, and led the way into the club
waiting-room. A club waiting-room is always a gloomy, unpromising place
for a confidential conversation, and so Stanbury felt it to be on the
present occasion. But he had no alternative. There they were together,
and he must do as he had promised. Trevelyan kept on his hat and did
not sit down, and looked very gloomy. Stanbury having to commence
without any assistance from outward auxiliaries, almost forgot what it
was that he had promised to do.

'I have just come from Curzon Street,' he said.

'Well!'

'At least I was there about two hours ago.'

'It doesn't matter, I suppose, whether it was two hours or two
minutes,' said Trevelyan.

'Not in the least. The fact is this; I happened to come upon the two
girls there, when they were very unhappy, and your wife asked me to
come and say a word or two to you.'

'Was Colonel Osborne there?'

'No; I had met him in the street a minute or two before.'

'Well, now; look here, Stanbury. If you'll take my advice, you'll keep
your hands out of this. It is not but that I regard you as being as
good a friend as I have in the world; but, to own the truth, I cannot
put up with interference between myself and my wife.'

'Of course you understand that I only come as a messenger.'

'You had better not be a messenger in such a cause. If she has anything
to say she can say it to myself.'

'Am I to understand that you will not listen to me?'

'I had rather not.'

'I think you are wrong,' said Stanbury.

'In that matter you must allow me to judge for myself. I can easily
understand that a young woman like her, especially with her sister to
back her, should induce such a one as you to take her part.'

'I am taking nobody's part. You wrong your wife, and you especially
wrong Miss Rowley.'

'If you please, Stanbury, we will say nothing more about it.' This
Trevelyan said holding the door of the room half open in his hand, so
that the other was obliged to pass out through it.

'Good evening,' said Stanbury, with much anger.

'Good evening,' said Trevelyan, with an assumption of indifference.

Stanbury went away in absolute wrath, though the trouble which he had
had in the interview was much less than he had anticipated, and the
result quite as favourable. He had known that no good would come of his
visit. And yet he was now full of anger against Trevelyan, and had
become a partisan in the matter which was exactly that which he had
resolutely determined that lie would not become. 'I believe that no
woman on earth could live with him,' he said to himself as he walked
away. 'It was always the same with him a desire for mastery, which he
did not know how to use when he had obtained it. If it were Nora,
instead of the other sister, he would break her sweet heart within a
month.'

Trevelyan dined at his club, and hardly spoke a word to any one during
the evening. At about eleven he started to walk home, but went by no
means straight thither, taking a long turn through St. James's Park,
and by Pimlico. It was necessary that he should make up his mind as to
what he would do. He had sternly refused the interference of a friend,
and he must be prepared to act, on his own responsibility. He knew well
that he could not begin again with his wife on the next day, as though
nothing had happened. Stanbury's visit to him, if it had done nothing
else, had made this impossible. He determined that he would not go to
her room to-night, but would see her as early as possible in the
morning and would then talk to her with all the wisdom of which he was
master.

How many husbands have come to the same resolution; and how few of them
have found the words of wisdom to be efficacious!



CHAPTER X - HARD WORDS

It is to be feared that men in general do not regret as they should do
any temporary ill-feeling, or irritating jealousy between husbands and
wives, of which they themselves have been the cause. The author is not
speaking now of actual love-makings, of intrigues and devilish villany,
either perpetrated or imagined; but rather of those passing gusts of
short-lived and unfounded suspicion to which, as to other accidents,
very well-regulated families may occasionally be liable. When such
suspicion rises in the bosom of a wife, some woman intervening or being
believed to intervene between her and the man who is her own, that
woman who has intervened or been supposed to intervene, will either
glory in her position or bewail it bitterly, according to the
circumstances of the case. We will charitably suppose that, in a great
majority of such instances, she will bewail it. But when such painful
jealous doubts annoy the husband, the man who is in the way will almost
always feel himself justified in extracting a slightly pleasurable
sensation from the transaction. He will say to himself probably,
unconsciously indeed, and with no formed words, that the husband is an
ass, an ass if he be in a twitter either for that which he has kept or
for that which he has been unable to keep, that the lady has shewn a
good deal of appreciation, and that he himself is is is quite a Captain
bold of Halifax? All the while he will not have the slightest intention
of wronging the husband's honour, and will have received no greater
favour from the intimacy accorded to him than the privilege of running
on one day to Marshall and Snellgrove's, the haberdashers, and on
another to Handcocks', the jewellers. If he be allowed to buy a present
or two, or to pay a few shillings here or there, he has achieved much.
Terrible things now and again do occur, even here in England; but
women, with us, are slow to burn their household gods. It happens,
however, occasionally, as we are all aware, that the outward garments
of a domestic deity will be a little scorched; and when this occurs,
the man who is the interloper, will generally find a gentle consolation
in his position, let its interest be ever so flaccid and unreal, and
its troubles in running about, and the like, ever so considerable and
time-destructive.

It was so certainly with Colonel Osborne when he became aware that his
intimacy with Mrs Trevelyan had caused her husband uneasiness. He was
not especially a vicious man, and had now, as we know, reached a time
of life when such vice as that in question might be supposed to have
lost its charm for him. A gentleman over fifty, popular in London, with
a seat in Parliament, fond of good dinners, and possessed of everything
which the world has to give, could hardly have wished to run away with
his neighbour's wife, or to have destroyed the happiness of his old
friend's daughter. Such wickedness had never come into his head; but he
had a certain pleasure in being the confidential friend of a very
pretty woman; and when he heard that that pretty woman's husband was
jealous, the pleasure was enhanced rather than otherwise. On that
Sunday, as he had left the house in Curzon Street, he had told Stanbury
that Trevelyan had just gone off in a huff, which was true enough, and
he had walked from thence down Clarges Street, and across Piccadilly to
St. James's Street, with a jauntier step than usual, because he was
aware that he himself had been the occasion of that trouble. This was
very wrong; but there is reason to believe that many such men as
Colonel Osborne, who are bachelors at fifty, are equally malicious.

He thought a good deal about it on that evening, and was still thinking
about it on the following morning. He had promised to go up to Curzon
Street on the Monday really on some most trivial mission, on a matter
of business which no man could have taken in hand whose time was of the
slightest value to himself or any one else. But now that mission
assumed an importance in his eyes, and seemed to require either a
special observance or a special excuse. There was no real reason why he
should not have stayed away from Curzon Street for the next fortnight;
and had he done so he need have made no excuse to Mrs Trevelyan when he
met her. But the opportunity for a little excitement was not to be
missed, and instead of going he wrote to her the following note:



'Albany, Monday.

Dear Emily,

What was it all about yesterday? I was to have come up with the words
of that opera, but perhaps it will be better to send, it. If it be not
wicked, do tell me whether I am to consider myself as a banished man. I
thought that our little meetings were so innocent and so pleasant! The
green-eyed monster is of all monsters the most monstrous and the most
unreasonable. Pray let me have a line, if it be not forbidden.

Yours always heartily,

F. O.

'Putting aside all joking, I beg you to remember that I consider myself
always entitled to be regarded by you as your most sincere friend.'



When this was brought to Mrs Trevelyan, about twelve o'clock in the
day, she had already undergone the infliction of those words of wisdom
which her husband had prepared for her, and which were threatened at
the close of the last chapter. Her husband had come up to her while she
was yet in her ed-room, and had striven hard to prevail against her.
But his success had been very doubtful. In regard to the number of
words, Mrs Trevelyan certainly had had the best of it. As far as any
understanding, one of another, was concerned, the conversation had been
useless. She believed herself to be injured and aggrieved, and would
continue so to assert, let him implore her to listen to him as loudly
as he might. 'Yes I will listen, and I will obey you,' she had said,
'but I will not endure such insults without telling you that I feel
them.' Then he had left her fully conscious that he had failed, and
went forth out of his house into the City, to his club, to wander about
the streets, not knowing what he had best do to bring back that state
of tranquillity at home which he felt to be so desirable.

Mrs Trevelyan was alone when Colonel Osborne's note was brought to her,
and was at that moment struggling with herself in anger against her
husband. If he laid any command upon her, she would execute it; but she
would never cease to tell him that he had ill-used her. She would din
it into his ears, let him come to her as often as he might with his
wise words. Wise words!

What was the use of wise words when a man was such a fool in nature?
And as for Colonel Osborne she would see him if he came to her three
times a day, unless her husband gave some clearly intelligible order to
the contrary. She was fortifying her mind with this resolution when
Colonel Osborne's letter was brought to her. She asked whether any
servant was waiting for an answer. No the servant, who had left it, had
gone at once. She read the note, and sat working, with it before her,
for a quarter of an hour; and then walked over to her desk and answered
it.



'My Dear Colonel Osborne,

It will be best to say nothing whatever about the occurrence of
yesterday; and if possible, not to think of it. As far as I am
concerned, I wish for no change except that people should be more
reasonable. You can call of course whenever you please; and I am very
grateful for your expression of friendship.

Yours most sincerely,

Emily Trevelyan.

'Thanks for the words of the opera.'



When she had written this, being determined that all should be open and
above board, she put a penny stamp on the envelope, and desired that
the letter should be posted. But she destroyed that which she had
received from Colonel Osborne. In all things she would act as she would
have done if her husband had not been so foolish, and there could have
been no reason why she should have kept so unimportant a communication.

In the course of the day Trevelyan passed through the hail to the room
which he himself was accustomed to occupy behind the parlour, and as he
did so saw the note lying ready to be posted, took it up, and read the
address.

He held it for a moment in his hand, then replaced it on the hail
table, and passed on. When he reached his own table he sat down
hurriedly, and took up in his hand some Review that was lying ready for
him to read. But he was quite unable to fix his mind on the words
before him. He had spoken to his wife on that morning in the strongest
language he could use as to the unseemliness of her intimacy with
Colonel Osborne; and then, the first thing she had done when his back
was turned was to write to this very Colonel Osborne, and tell him, no
doubt, what had occurred between her and her husband. He sat thinking
of it all for many minutes. He would probably have declared himself
that he had thought of it for an hour as he sat there. Then he got up,
went upstairs and walked slowly into the drawing-room. There he found
his wife sitting with her sister. 'Nora,' he said, 'I want to speak to
Emily. Will you forgive me, if I ask you to leave us for a few
minutes?' Nora, with an anxious look at Emily, got up and left the
room.

'Why do you send her away?' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Because I wish to be alone with you for a few minutes. Since what I
said to you this morning, you have written to Colonel Osborne.'

'Yes I have. I do not know how you have found it out; but I suppose you
keep a watch on me.'

'I keep no watch on you. As I came into the house, I saw your letter
lying in the hall.'

'Very well. You could have read it if you pleased.'

'Emily, this matter is becoming very serious, and I strongly advise you
to be on your guard in what you say. I will bear much for you, and much
for our boy; but I will not bear to have my name made a reproach.'

'Sir, if you think your name is shamed by me, we had better part,' said
Mrs Trevelyan, rising from her chair, and confronting him with a look
before which his own almost quailed.

'It may be that we had better part,' he said, slowly. 'But in the first
place I wish you to tell me what were the contents of that letter.'

'If it was there when you came in, no doubt it is there still. Go and
look at it.'

'That is no answer to me. I have desired you to tell me what are its
contents.'

'I shall not tell you. I will not demean myself by repeating anything
so insignificant in my own justification. If you suspect me of writing
what I should not write, you will suspect me also of lying to conceal
it.'

'Have you heard from Colonel Osborne this morning?'

'I have.'

'And where is his letter?'

'I have destroyed it.'

Again he paused, trying to think what he had better do, trying to be
calm. And she stood still opposite to him, confronting him with the
scorn of her bright angry eyes. Of course, he was not calm. He was the
very reverse of calm. 'And you refuse to tell me what you wrote,' he
said.

'The letter is there,' she answered, pointing away towards the door.
'If you want to play the spy, go and look at it for yourself.'

'Do you call me a spy?'

'And what have you called me? Because you are a husband, is the
privilege of vituperation to be all on your side?'

'It is impossible that I should put up with this,' he said 'quite
impossible. This would kill me. Anything is better than this. My
present orders to you are not to see Colonel Osborne, not to write to
him or have any communication with him, and to put under cover to me,
unopened, any letter that may come from him. I shall expect your
implicit obedience to these orders.'

'Well go on.'

'Have I your promise?'

'No no. You have no promise. I will make no promise exacted from me in
so disgraceful a manner.'

'You refuse to obey me?'

'I will refuse nothing, and will promise nothing.'

'Then we must part that is all. I will take care that you shall hear
from me before tomorrow morning.'

So saying, he left the room, and, passing through the hall, saw that
the letter had been taken away.



CHAPTER XI - LADY MILBOROUGH AS AMBASSADOR

'Of course, I know you are right,' said Nora to her sister 'right as
far as Colonel Osborne is concerned; but nevertheless you ought to give
way.'

'And be trampled upon?' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Yes; and be trampled upon, if he should trample on you which, however,
he is the last man in the world to do.'

'And to endure any insult and any names? You yourself you would be a
Griselda, I suppose.'

'I don't want to talk about myself,' said Nora, 'nor about Griselda.
But I know that, however unreasonable it may seem, you had better give
way to him now and tell him what there was in the note to Colonel
Osborne.'

'Never! He has ordered me not to see him or to write to him, or to open
his letters having, mind you, ordered just the reverse a day or two
before; and I will obey him. Absurd as it is, I will obey him. But as
for submitting to him, and letting him suppose that I think he is right
never! I should be lying to him then, and I will never lie to him. He
has said that we must part, and I suppose it will be better so. How can
a woman live with a man that suspects her? He cannot take my baby from
me.'

There were many such conversations as the above between the two sisters
before Mrs Trevelyan received from her husband the communication with
which she had been threatened. And Nora, acting on her own judgment in
the matter, made an attempt to see Mr Trevelyan, writing to him a
pretty little note, and beseeching him to be kind to her. But he
declined to see her, and the two women sat at home, with the baby
between them, holding such pleasant conversations as that above
narrated. When such tempests occur in a family, a woman will generally
suffer the least during the thick of the tempest. While the hurricane
is at the fiercest, she will be sustained by the most thorough
conviction that the right is on her side, that she is aggrieved, that
there is nothing for her to acknowledge, and no position that she need
surrender. Whereas her husband will desire a compromise, even amidst
the violence of the storm. But afterwards, when the wind has lulled,
but while the heavens around are still all black and murky, then the
woman's sufferings begin. When passion gives way to thought and memory,
she feels the loneliness of her position the loneliness, and the
possible degradation. It is all very well for a man to talk about his
name and his honour; but it is the woman's honour and the woman's name
that are, in truth, placed in jeopardy. Let the woman do what she will,
the man can, in truth, show his face in the world and, after awhile,
does show his face. But the woman may be compelled to veil hers, either
by her own fault, or by his. Mrs Trevelyan was now told that she was to
be separated from her husband, and she did not, at any rate, believe
that she had done any harm. But, if such separation did come, where
could she live, what could she do, what position in the world would she
possess? Would not her face be, in truth, veiled as effectually as
though she had disgraced herself and her husband?

And then there was that terrible question about the child. Mrs
Trevelyan had said a dozen times to her sister that her husband could
not take the boy away from her. Nora, however, had never assented to
this, partly from a conviction of her own ignorance, not knowing what
might be the power of a husband in such a matter, and partly thinking
that any argument would be good and fair by which she could induce her
sister to avoid a catastrophe so terrible as that which was now
threatened.

'I suppose he could take him, if he chose,' she said at last.

'I don't believe he is wicked like that,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'He would
not wish to kill me.'

'But he will say that he loves baby as well as you do.'

'He will never take my child from me. He could never be so bad as
that.'

'And you will never be so bad as to leave him,' said Nora after a
pause. 'I will not believe that it can come to that. You know that he
is good at heart that nobody on earth loves you as he does.'

So they went on for two days, and on the evening the second day there
came a letter from Trevelyan to his wife. They had neither of them seen
him, although I had been in and out of the house. And on the afternoon
of the Sunday a new grievance, a very terrible grievance was added to
those which Mrs Trevelyan was made to bear. Her husband had told one of
the servants in the house that Colonel Osborne was not to be admitted.
An the servant to whom he had given this order was the cook. There is
no reason why a cook should be less trustworthy in such a matter than
any other servant; and in Mr Trevelyan's household there was a reason
why she should be more so as she, and she alone, was what we generally
call an old family domestic. She had lived with her master's mother,
and had known her master when he was a boy. Looking about him,
therefore, for someone in his house to whom he could speak feeling that
he was bound to convey the order through some medium he called to him
the ancient cook, and imparted to her so much of his trouble as was
necessary to make the order intelligible. This he did with various
ill-worded assurances to Mrs Prodgers that there really was nothing
amiss. But when Mrs Trevelyan heard what ha been done which she did
from Mrs Prodgers herself, Mrs Prodgers having been desired by her
master to make the communication she declared to her sister that
everything was now over. She could never again live with a husband who
had disgraced his wife by desiring her own cook to keep a guard upon
her. Had the footman been instructed not to admit Colonel Osborne there
would have been in such instruction some apparent adherence to the
recognised usages of society. If you do not desire either your friend
or your enemy to be received into your house, you communicate your
desire to the person who has charge of the door. But the cook!

'And now, Nora, if it were you, do you mean to say that you would
remain with him?' asked Mrs Trevelyan.

Nora simply replied that anything under any circumstances would be
better than a separation.

On the morning of the third day there came the following letter:



'Wednesday, June 1, 12 midnight.

Dearest Emily,

You will readily believe me when I say that I never in my life was so
wretched as I have been during the last two days. That you and I should
be in the same house together and not able to speak to each other is in
itself a misery, but this is terribly enhanced by the dread lest this
state of things should be made to continue.

I want you to understand that I do not in the least suspect you of
having as yet done anything wrong or having even said anything
injurious either to my position as your husband, or to your position as
my wife. But I cannot but perceive that you are allowing yourself to be
entrapped into an intimacy with Colonel Osborne which, if it be not
checked, will be destructive to my happiness and your own. After what
had passed before, you cannot have thought it right to receive letters
from him which I was not to see, or to write letters to him of which I
was not to know the contents. It must be manifest to you that such
conduct on your part is wrong as judged by any of the rules by which a
wife's conduct can be measured. And yet you have refused even to say
that this shall be discontinued! I need hardly explain to you that if
you persist in this refusal you and I cannot continue to live together
as man and wife. All my hopes and prospects in life will be blighted by
such a separation. I have not as yet been able to think what I should
do in such wretched circumstances. And for you, as also for Nora, such
a catastrophe would be most lamentable. Do, therefore, think of it
well, and write me such a letter as may bring me back to your side.

There is only one friend in the world to whom I could endure to talk of
this great grief, and I have been to her and told her everything. You
will know that I mean Lady Milborough. After much difficult
conversation I have persuaded her to see you, and she will call in
Curzon Street to-morrow about twelve. There can be no kinder-hearted,
or more gentle woman in the world than Lady Milborough; nor did any one
ever have a warmer friend than both you and I have in her. Let me
implore you then to listen to her, and be guided by her advice.

Pray believe, dearest Emily, that I am now, as ever, your most
affectionate husband, and that I have no wish so strong as that we
should not be compelled to part.

Louis Trevelyan.'



This epistle was, in many respects, a very injudicious composition.
Trevelyan should have trusted either to the eloquence of his own
written words, or to that of the ambassador whom he was about to
despatch; but by sending both he weakened both. And then there were
certain words in the letter which were odious to Mrs Trevelyan, and
must have been odious to any young wife. He had said that he did not
'as yet' suspect her of having done anything wrong. And then, when he
endeavoured to explain to her that a separation would be very injurious
to herself, he had coupled her sister with her, thus seeming to imply
that the injury to be avoided was of a material kind. She had better do
what he told her, as, otherwise, she and her sister would not have a
roof over their head! That was the nature of the threat which his words
were supposed to convey.

The matter had become so serious, that Mrs Trevelyan, haughty and
stiff-necked as she was, did not dare to abstain from showing the
letter to her sister. She had no other counsellor, at any rate, till
Lady Milborough came, and the weight of the battle was too great for
her own unaided spirit. The letter had been written late at night, as
was shown by the precision of the date, and had been brought to her
early in the morning. At first she had determined to say nothing about
it to Nora, but she was not strong enough to maintain such a purpose.
She felt that she needed the poor consolation of discussing her
wretchedness. She first declared that she would not see Lady
Milborough. 'I hate her, and she knows that I hate her, and she ought
not to have thought of coming,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

But she was at last beaten out of this purpose by Nora's argument, that
all the world would be against her if she refused to see her husband's
old friend. And then, though the letter was an odious letter, as she
declared a dozen times, she took some little comfort in the fact that
not a word was said in it about the baby. She thought that if she could
take her child with her into any separation, she could endure it, and
her husband would ultimately be conquered.

'Yes; I'll see her,' she said, as they finished the discussion. 'As he
chooses to send her, I suppose I had better see her. But I don't think
he does much to mend matters when he sends the woman whom he knows I
dislike more than any other in all London.'

Exactly at twelve o'clock Lady Milborough's carriage was at the door.
Trevelyan was in the house at the time and heard the knock at the door.
During those two or three days of absolute wretchedness, he spent most
of his hours under the same roof with his wife and sister-in-law,
though he spoke to neither of them. He had had his doubts as to the
reception of Lady Milborough, and was, to tell the truth, listening
with most anxious ear, when her Ladyship was announced. His wife,
however, was not so bitterly contumacious as to refuse admittance to
his friend, and he heard the rustle of the ponderous silk as the old
woman was shown upstairs. When Lady Milborough reached the
drawing-room, Mrs Trevelyan was alone.

'I had better see her by myself,' she had said to her sister.

Nora had then left her, with one word of prayer that she would be as
little defiant as possible.

'That must depend,' Emily had said, with a little shake of her head.

There had been a suggestion that the child should be with her, but the
mother herself had rejected this.

'It would be stagey,' she had said, 'and clap-trap. There is nothing I
hate so much as that.'

She was sitting, therefore, quite alone, and as stiff as a man in
armour, when Lady Milborough was shown up to her.

And Lady Milborough herself was not at all comfortable as she commenced
the interview. She had prepared many wise words to be spoken, but was
not so little ignorant of the character of the woman with whom she had
to deal, as to suppose that the wise words would get themselves spoken
without interruption. She had known from the first that Mrs Trevelyan
would have much to say for herself, and the feeling that it would be so
became stronger than ever as she entered the room. The ordinary
feelings between the two ladies were cold and constrained, and then
there was silence for a few moments when the Countess had taken her
seat. Mrs Trevelyan had quite determined that the enemy should fire the
first shot.

'This is a very sad state of things,' said the Countess.

'Yes, indeed, Lady Milborough.'

'The saddest in the world and so unnecessary is it not?'

'Very unnecessary, indeed, as I think.'

'Yes, my dear, yes. But, of course, we must remember.'

Then Lady Milborough could not clearly bring to her mind what it was
that she had to remember.

'The fact is, my dear, that all this kind of thing is too monstrous to
be thought of. Goodness, gracious, me; two young people like you and
Louis, who thoroughly love each other, and who have got a baby, to
think of being separated! Of course it is out of the question.'

'You cannot suppose, Lady Milborough, that I want to be separated from
my husband?'

'Of course not. How should it be possible? The very idea is too
shocking to be thought of. I declare I haven't slept since Louis was
talking to me about it. But, my dear, you must remember, you know,
that a husband has a right to expect some sort of submission from
his wife.'

'He has a right to expect obedience, Lady Milborough.'

'Of course; that is all one wants.'

'And I will obey Mr Trevelyan in anything reasonable.'

'But, my dear, who is to say what is reasonable? That, you see, is
always the difficulty. You must allow that your husband is the person
who ought to decide that.'

'Has he told you that I have refused to obey him, Lady Milborough?'

The Countess paused a moment before she replied. 'Well, yes; I think he
has,' she said. 'He asked you to do something about a letter a letter
to that Colonel Osborne, who is a man, my dear, really to be very much
afraid of; a man who has done a great deal of harm and you declined.
Now in a matter of that kind of course the husband--'

'Lady Milborough, I must ask you to listen to me. You have listened to
Mr Trevelyan, and I must ask you to listen to me. I am sorry to trouble
you, but as you have come here about this unpleasant business, you must
forgive me if I insist upon it.'

'Of course I will listen to you, my dear.'

'I have never refused to obey my husband, and I do not refuse now. The
gentleman of whom you have been speaking is an old friend of my
father's, and has become my friend. Nevertheless, had Mr Trevelyan
given me any plain order about him, I should have obeyed him. A wife
does not feel that her chances of happiness are increased when she
finds that her husband suspects her of being too intimate with another
man. It is a thing very hard to bear. But I would have endeavoured to
bear it, knowing how important it is for both our sakes, and more
especially for our child. I would have made excuses, and would have
endeavoured to think that this horrid feeling on his part is nothing
more than a short delusion.'

'But, my dear--'

'I must ask you to hear me out, Lady Milborough. But when he tells me
first that I am not to meet the man, and so instructs the servants;
then tells me that I am to meet him, and go on just as I was going
before, and then again tells me that I am not to see him, and again
instructs the servants and, above all, the cook that Colonel Osborne is
not to come into the house, then obedience becomes rather difficult.'

'Just say now that you will do what he wants, and then all will be
right.'

'I will not say so to you, Lady Milborough. It is not to you that I
ought to say it. But as he has chosen to send you here, I will explain
to you that I have never disobeyed him. When I was free, in accordance
with Mr Trevelyan's wishes, to have what intercourse I pleased with
Colonel Osborne, I received a note from that gentleman on a most
trivial matter. I answered it as trivially. My husband saw my letter,
closed, and questioned me about it. I told him that the letter was
still there, and that if he chose to be a spy upon my actions he could
open it and read it.'

'My dear, how could you bring yourself to use the word spy to your
husband?'

'How could he bring himself to accuse me as he did? If he cares for me
let him come and beg my pardon for the insult he has offered me.'

'Oh, Mrs Trevelyan!'

'Yes; that seems very wrong to you, who have not had to bear it. It is
very easy for a stranger to take a husband's part, and help to put down
a poor woman who has been ill used. I have done nothing wrong, nothing
to be ashamed of; and I will not say that I have. I never have spoken a
word to Colonel Osborne that all the world might not hear.'

'Nobody has accused you, my dear.'

'Yes; he has accused me, and you have accused me, and you will make all
the world accuse me. He may put me out of his house if he likes, but he
shall not make me say I have been wrong, when I know I have been right.
He cannot take my child from me.'

'But he will.'

'No,' shouted Mrs Trevelyan, jumping up from her chair, 'no; he shall
never do that. I will cling to him so that he cannot separate us. He
will never be so wicked such a monster as that. I would go about the
world saying what a monster he had been to me.' The passion of the
interview was becoming too great for Lady Milborough's power of
moderating it, and she was beginning to feel herself to be in a
difficulty. 'Lady Milborough,' continued Mrs Trevelyan, 'tell him from
me that I will bear anything but that. That I will not bear.'

'Dear Mrs Trevelyan, do not let us talk about it.'

'Who wants to talk about it? Why do you come here and threaten me with
a thing so horrible? I do not believe you. He would not dare to
separate me and my child.'

'But you have only to say that you will submit yourself to him.'

'I have submitted myself to him, and I will submit no further. What
does he want? Why does he send you here? He does not know what he
wants. He has made himself miserable by an absurd idea, and he wants
everybody to tell him that he has been right. He has been very wrong;
and if he desires to be wise now, he will come back to his home, and
say nothing further about it. He will gain nothing by sending
messengers here.'

Lady Milborough, who had undertaken a most disagreeable task from the
purest motives of old friendship, did not like being called a
messenger; but the woman before her was so strong in her words, so
eager, and so passionate, that she did not know how to resent the
injury. And there was coming over her an idea, of which she herself was
hardly conscious, that after all, perhaps, the husband was not in the
right. She had come there with the general idea that wives, and
especially young wives, should be submissive. She had naturally taken
the husband's part; and having a preconceived dislike to Colonel
Osborne, she had been willing enough to think that precautionary
measures were necessary in reference to so eminent, and notorious, and
experienced a Lothario. She had never altogether loved Mrs Trevelyan,
and had always been a little in dread of her. But she had thought that
the authority with which she would be invested on this occasion, the
manifest right on her side, and the undeniable truth of her grand
argument, that a wife should obey, would carry her, if not easily,
still successfully through all difficulties. It was probably the case
that Lady Milborough when preparing for her visit, had anticipated a
triumph. But when she had been closeted for an hour with Mrs Trevelyan,
she found that she was not triumphant. She was told that she was a
messenger, and an unwelcome messenger; and she began to feel that she
did not know how she was to take herself away.

'I am sure I have done everything for the best,' she said, getting up
from her chair.

'The best will be to send him back, and make him feel the truth.'

'The best for you, my dear, will be to consider well what should be the
duty of a wife.'

'I have considered, Lady Milborough. It cannot be a wife's duty to
acknowledge that she has been wrong in such a matter as this.'

Then Lady Milborough made her curtsey and got herself away in some
manner that was sufficiently awkward, and Mrs Trevelyan curtseyed also
as she rang the bell; and, though she was sore and wretched, and, in
truth, sadly frightened, she was not awkward. In that encounter, so far
as it had gone, she had been the victor.

As soon as she was alone and the carriage had been driven well away
from the door, Mrs Trevelyan left the drawing-room and went up to the
nursery. As she entered she clothed her face with her sweetest smile.
'How is his own mother's dearest, dearest, darling duck' she said,
putting out her arms and taking the boy from the nurse. The child was
at this time about ten months old, and was a strong, hearty, happy
infant, always laughing when he was awake and always sleeping when he
did not laugh, because his little limbs were free from pain and his
little stomach was not annoyed by internal troubles. He kicked, and
crowed, and sputtered, when his mother took him, and put up his little
fingers to clutch her hair, and was to her as a young god upon the
earth. Nothing in the world had ever been created so beautiful, so
joyous, so satisfactory, so divine! And they told her that this apple
of her eye was to be taken away from her! No that must be impossible.
'I will take him into my own room, nurse, for a little while you have
had him all the morning,' she said; as though the 'having baby' was a
privilege over which there might almost be a quarrel. Then she took her
boy away with her, and when she was alone with him, went through such a
service in baby-worship as most mothers will understand. Divide these
two! No; nobody should do that. Sooner than that, she, the mother,
would consent to be no more than a servant in her husband's house. Was
not her baby all the world to her?

On the evening of that day the husband and wife had an interview
together in the library, which, unfortunately, was as unsatisfactory as
Lady Milborough's visit. The cause of the failure of them all lay
probably in this that there was no decided point which, if conceded,
would have brought about a reconciliation. Trevelyan asked for general
submission, which he regarded as his right, and which in the existing
circumstances he thought it necessary to claim, and though Mrs
Trevelyan did not refuse to be submissive she would make no promise on
the subject. But the truth was that each desired that the other should
acknowledge a fault, and that neither of them would make that
acknowledgment. Emily Trevelyan felt acutely that she had been
ill-used, not only by her husband's suspicion, but by the manner in
which he had talked of his suspicion to others to Lady Milborough and
the cook, and she was quite convinced that she was right herself,
because he had been so vacillating in his conduct about Colonel
Osborne. But Trevelyan was equally sure that justice was on his side.
Emily must have known his real wishes about Colonel Osborne; but when
she had found that he had rescinded his verbal orders about the
admission of the man to the house which he had done to save himself and
her from slander and gossip she had taken advantage of this and had
thrown herself more entirely than ever into the intimacy of which he
disapproved!

When they met, each was so sore that no approach to terms was made by
them.

'If I am to be treated in that way, I would rather not live with you,'
said the wife. 'It is impossible to live with a husband who is
jealous.'

'All I ask of you is that you shall promise me to have no further
communication with this man.'

'I will make no promise that implies my own disgrace.'

'Then we must part; and if that be so, this house will be given up. You
may live where you please in the country, not in London; but I shall
take steps that Colonel Osborne does not see you.'

'I will not remain in the room with you to be insulted thus,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. And she did not remain, but left the chamber, slamming the
door after her as she went.

'It will be better that she should go,' said Trevelyan, when he found
himself alone. And so it came to pass that that blessing of a rich
marriage, which had as it were fallen upon them at the Mandarins from
out of heaven, had become, after an interval of but two short years,
anything but an unmixed blessing.



CHAPTER XII - MISS STANBURY'S GENEROSITY

On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being
made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can
hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs Stanbury
and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney to
visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss
Stanbury's invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to promise
that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a
visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the
occasion. 'I shall not see them, you know, Martha,' she had said, on
the afternoon of the preceding day.

'I suppose not, ma'am.'

'Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.'

'It is not for me to say, ma'am, of course.'

'No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It's no good
going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done.
She's a poor harmless creature, I believe.'

'The most harmless in the world, ma'am.'

'But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what's the
good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her,
I should only be lying.'

'Then, ma'am, I would not say it.'

'And I don't mean. But you'll take in some wine and cake, you know.'

'I don't think they'll care for wine and cake.'

'Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or
not. They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If
Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.'
And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight.
But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter.
Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of
there being a train in from Lessboro', due at the Exeter station at
ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was
no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless,
she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as
one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary
confinement.

'Perhaps your mamma will be cold,' she said, 'and will expect a fire.'

'Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.'

'It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so
as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?'

'I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won't
mind waiting a quarter of an hour.'

'What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn't think of such a thing.
I shall go up-stairs. You had better come to me when they are gone.
Don't hurry them. I don't want you to hurry them at all; and if you
require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to
keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there's no knowing what they
might be after. Besides they've got their work to mind.'

All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite
recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her
so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were
coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the
cathedral clock was striking half-past ten to secure which punctuality,
and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs Stanbury and
Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes
Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.

'There they are!' she exclaimed, jumping up. 'They haven't given a body
much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha just
half a minute!' Then she gathered up her things as though she had been
ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as
soon as the last hem of her mistress's dress had become invisible on
the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.

'Do you mean to say you like it?' said Priscilla, when they had been
there about a quarter of an hour.

'H u sh,' whispered Mrs Stanbury.

'I don't suppose she's listening at the door,' said Priscilla.

'Indeed, she's not,' said Dorothy. 'There can't be a truer, honester
woman, than Aunt Stanbury.'

'But is she kind to you, Dolly?' asked the mother.

'Very kind; too kind. Only I don't understand her quite, and then she
gets angry with me. I know she thinks I'm a fool, and that's the worst
of it.'

'Then, if I were you, I would come home,' said Priscilla.

'She'll never forgive you if you do,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'And who need care about her forgiveness?' said Priscilla.

'I don't mean to go home yet, at any rate,' said Dorothy. Then there
was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine.
'Miss Stanbury's compliments, ladies, and she hopes you'll take a glass
of sherry.' Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried them
round.

'Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury,' said
Dorothy's mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without
touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.

Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy almost
felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose her mother
and sister, and that without really making a friend of her aunt. There
had as yet been no quarrel nothing that had been plainly recognised as
disagreeable; but there had not as yet come to be any sympathy, or
assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanbury had declared more than
once that it would do, but had not succeeded in showing in what the
success consisted. When she was told that the two ladies were gone, she
desired that Dorothy might be sent to her, and immediately began to
make anxious inquiries.

'Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?'

'I don't know, aunt, that they think very much.'

'And what do they say about it?'

'They didn't say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma and
Priscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back the
money I sent her.'

'What did she do that for?' asked Miss Stanbury very sharply.

'Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants.' Miss
Stanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. 'I thought it best to
tell you, you know.'

'It will never come to any good, got in that way never.'

'But, Aunt Stanbury, isn't it good of him to send it?'

'I don't know. I suppose it's better than drinking, and smoking, and
gambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man, born
and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talents and
education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enough to pay
him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makes it so
much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one ought to
learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes. I've
said what I've got to say, and I don't mean to say anything more.
What's the use? But it has been hard upon me very. It was my money did
it, and I feel I've misused it. It's a disgrace to me which I don't
deserve.'

For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and Miss
Stanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that time did
she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that the subject
was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, was not calm,
and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother's defence.

'Aunt Stanbury, he's my brother, you know.'

'Of course he's your brother. I wish he were not.'

'I think him the best brother in the world and the best son.'

'Why does he sell himself to write sedition?'

'He doesn't sell himself to write sedition. I don't see why it should
be sedition, or anything wicked, because it's sold for a penny.'

'If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I had
better part.'

'I don't want to say anything about him, only you ought not to abuse
him before me.'

By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob, but Miss Stanbury's
countenance was still very grim and very stern. 'He's coming home to
Nuncombe Putney, and I want to see see him,' continued Dorothy.

'Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won't come here.'

'Then I'd rather go home, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Very well, very well,' said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and left the
room.

Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing for
her to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure. She
was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to the
importance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother and
sister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she felt
very angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt to
quarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear her own
brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did not see her
aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a word uttered.
Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but these attempts
failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even by a
monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head when she
was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure and silent,
and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal, merely
whispered a word into Miss Stanbury's ear. When the cloth was removed,
and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss Stanbury herself,
Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment no longer. How was it
possible that she could drink wine under such circumstances?

'Not for me, Aunt Stanbury,' said she, with a deploring tone.

'Why not?'

'I couldn't drink it today.'

'Why didn't you say so before it was poured out? And why not today?
Come, drink it. Do as I bid you.' And she stood over her niece, as a
tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and
sipped it from mere force of obedience. 'You make as many bones about a
glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts,' said Miss
Stanbury. 'Now I've got something to say to you.' By this time the
servant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in the
parlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine, at
once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt's tone
which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil was coming. And
yet, as she had made up her mind that she must return home, there was
no further evil that she need dread. 'You didn't write any of those
horrid articles?' said Miss Stanbury.

'No, aunt; I didn't write them. I shouldn't know how.'

'And I hope you'll never learn. They say women are to vote, and become
doctors, and if so, there's no knowing what devil's tricks they mayn't
do. But it isn't your fault about that filthy newspaper. How he can let
himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on straw is what I
can't understand.'

'I don't see how it can make a difference as he writes it.'

'It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I'm told that what
they call ink comes off on your fingers like lamp-black. I never
touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn't
your fault.'

'I've nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Of course you've not. And as he is your brother it wouldn't be natural
that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I like you for
taking his part. Only you needn't have been so fierce with an old
woman.'

'Indeed indeed I didn't mean to be fierce, Aunt Stanbury.'

'I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won't mind that.
There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won't insist on leaving
any of his nastiness about.'

'But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?'

'He may if he pleases.'

'Oh, Aunt Stanbury!'

'When he was here last he generally had a pipe in his mouth, and I dare
say he never puts it down at all now. Those things grow upon young
people so fast. But if he could leave it on the door-step just while
he's here I should be obliged to him.'

'But, dear aunt, couldn't I see him in the street?'

'Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know that he's
your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion manner that the
people would think you were talking to a house-breaker.' Dorothy's face
became again red as she heard this, and the angry words were very
nearly spoken. 'The last time I saw him,' continued Miss Stanbury, 'he
had on a short, rough jacket, with enormous buttons, and one of those
flipperty-flopperty things on his head, that the butcher-boys wear.
And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he had been up in London I suppose he
thought Exeter was no better than a village, and he might do just as he
pleased. But he knew that if I'm particular about anything, it is about
a gentleman's hat in the streets. And he wanted me me to walk with him
across to Mrs MacHugh's! We should have been hooted about the Close
like a pair of mad dogs and so I told him.'

'All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury.'

'No, they don't. Mr Gibson doesn't dress like that.'

'But he's a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Perhaps I'm an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that's what
you mean. At any rate I'm too old to change, and I don't mean to try. I
like to see a difference between a gentleman and a house-breaker. For
the matter of that I'm told that there is a difference, and that the
house-breakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper to make us
all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air; but I for
one don't like being topsy-turvey, and I won't try it. When is he to
reach Exeter?'

'He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train.'

'Then you can't see him that night. That's out of the question. No
doubt he'll sleep at the Nag's Head, as that's the lowest radical
public-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knows more
about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here the following
morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well and good. I shall
wait up till Martha comes back from the train on Tuesday night, and
hear.' Dorothy was of course full of gratitude and thanks; but yet she
felt almost disappointed by the result of her aunt's clemency on the
matter. She had desired to take her brother's part, and it had seemed
to her as though she had done so in a very lukewarm manner. She had
listened to an immense number of accusations against him, and had been
unable to reply to them because she had been conquered by the promise
of a visit. And now it was out of the question that she should speak of
going. Her aunt had given way to her, and of course had conquered her.

Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o'clock, Hugh Stanbury was
walking round the Close with his aunt's old servant. He had not put up
at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanbury was so
much afraid, but had taken a bed-room at the Railway Inn. From there he
had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having a few last
words with her before he would allow her to return to the house.

'I suppose she'd as soon see the devil as see me,' said Hugh.

'If you speak in that way, Mr Hugh, I won't listen to you.'

'And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don't think any
boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her.'

'That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam to school,
Mr Hugh.'

'Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats to Oxford.
But when I didn't care any longer for cakes or flannel then she got
tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she'll only be good to
Dorothy.'

'She never was bad to any body, Mr Hugh. But I don't think an old lady
like her ever takes to a woman as she does to a young man, if only
he'll let her have a little more of her own way than you would. It's my
belief that you might have had it all for your own some day, if you'd
done as you ought.'

'That's nonsense, Martha. She means to leave it all to the Burgesses.
I've heard her say so.'

'Say so; yes. People don't always do what they say. If you'd managed
rightly you might have it all and so you might now.'

'I'll tell you what, old girl; I shan't try. Live for the next twenty
years under her apron strings, that I may have the chance at the end of
it of cutting some poor devil out of his money! Do you know the meaning
of making a score off your own bat, Martha?'

'No, I don't; and if it's anything you're like to do, I don't think I
should be the better for learning by all accounts. And now if you
please, I'll go in.'

'Good night, Martha. My love to them both, and say I'll be there
tomorrow exactly at half-past nine. You'd better take it. It won't turn
to slate-stone. It hasn't come from the old gentleman.'

'I don't want anything of that kind, Mr Hugh indeed I don't.'

'Nonsense. If you don't take it you'll offend me. I believe you think
I'm not much better than a schoolboy still.'

'I don't think you're half so good, Mr Hugh,' said the old servant,
sticking the sovereign which Hugh had given her in under her glove as
she spoke.

On the next morning that other visit was made at the brick house, and
Miss Stanbury was again in a fuss. On this occasion, however, she was
in a much better humour than before, and was full of little jokes as to
the nature of the visitation. Of course, she was not to see her nephew
herself, and no message was to be delivered from her, and none was to
be given to her from him. But an accurate report was to be made to her
as to his appearance, and Dorothy was to be enabled to answer a variety
of questions respecting him after he was gone. 'Of course, I don't want
to know anything about his money,' Miss Stanbury said, 'only I should
like to know how much these people can afford to pay for their penny
trash.' On this occasion she had left the room and gone up-stairs
before the knock came at the door, but she managed, by peeping over the
balcony, to catch a glimpse of the 'flipperty-flopperty' hat which her
nephew certainly had with him on this occasion.

Hugh Stanbury had great news for his sister. The cottage in which Mrs
Stanbury lived at Nuncombe Putney, was the tiniest little dwelling in
which a lady and her two daughters ever sheltered themselves. There
was, indeed, a sitting-room, two bed-rooms, and a kitchen; but they
were all so diminutive in size that the cottage was little more than a
cabin. But there was a house in the village, not large indeed, but
eminently respectable, three stories high, covered with ivy, having a
garden behind it, and generally called the Clock House, because there
had once been a clock upon it. This house had been lately vacated, and
Hugh informed his sister that he was thinking of taking it for his
mother's accommodation. Now, the late occupants of the Clock House, at
Nuncombe Putney, had been people with five or six hundred a-year. Had
other matters been in accordance, the house would almost have entitled
them to consider themselves as county people. A gardener had always
been kept there and a cow!

'The Clock House for mamma!'

'Well, yes. Don't say a word about it as yet to Aunt Stanbury, as
she'll think that I've sold myself altogether to the old gentleman.'

'But, Hugh, how can mamma live there?'

'The fact is, Dorothy, there is a secret. I can't tell you quite yet.
Of course, you'll know it, and everybody will know it, if. the thing
comes about. But as you won't talk, I will tell you what most concerns
ourselves.'

'And am I to go back?'

'Certainly not if you will take my advice. Stick to your aunt. You
don't want to smoke pipes, and wear Tom-and-Jerry hats, and write for
the penny newspapers.'

Now Hugh Stanbury's secret was this that Louis Trevelyan's wife and
sister-in-law were to leave the house in Curzon Street, and come and
live at Nuncombe Putney, with Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla. Such, at
least, was the plan to be carried out, if Hugh Stanbury should be
successful in his present negotiations.



CHAPTER XIII - THE HONOURABLE MR GLASCOCK

By the end of July Mrs Trevelyan with her sister was established in the
Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, under the protection of Hugh's mother;
but before the reader is made acquainted with any of the circumstances
of their life there, a few words must be said of an occurrence which
took place before those two ladies left Curzon Street.

As to the quarrel between Trevelyan and his wife things went from bad
to worse. Lady Milborough continued to interfere, writing letters to
Emily which were full of good sense, but which, as Emily said herself,
never really touched the point of dispute. 'Am I, who am altogether
unconscious of having done anything amiss, to confess that I have been
in the wrong? If it were about a small matter, I would not mind, for
the sake of peace. But when it concerns my conduct in reference to
another man I would rather die first,' That had been Mrs Trevelyan's
line of thought and argument in the matter; but then old Lady
Milborough in her letters spoke only of the duty of obedience as
promised at the altar. 'But I didn't promise to tell a lie,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. And there were interviews between Lady Milborough and
Trevelyan, and interviews between Lady Milborough and Nora Rowley. The
poor dear old dowager was exceedingly busy and full of groans,
prescribing Naples, prescribing a course of extra prayers, prescribing
a general course of letting bygones be bygones to which, however,
Trevelyan would by no means assent without some assurance, which he
might regard as a guarantee prescribing retirement to a small town in
the west of France, if Naples would not suffice; but she could effect
nothing.

Mrs Trevelyan, indeed, did a thing which was sure of itself to render
any steps taken for a reconciliation ineffectual. In the midst of all
this turmoil while she and her husband were still living in the same
house, but apart because of their absurd quarrel respecting Colonel
Osborne, she wrote another letter to that gentleman. The argument by
which she justified this to herself, and to her sister after it was
done, was the real propriety of her own conduct throughout her whole
intimacy with Colonel Osborne. 'But that is just what Louis doesn't
want you to do,' Nora had said, filled with anger and dismay. 'Then let
Louis give me an order to that effect, and behave to me like a husband,
and I will obey him,' Emily had answered. And she had gone on to plead
that in her present condition she was under no orders from her husband.
She was left to judge for herself, and judging for herself she knew, as
she said, that it best that she should write to Colonel Osborne.
Unfortunately there was no ground for hoping that Colonel Osborne was
ignorant of this insane jealousy on the part of her husband. It was
better, therefore, she said, that she should write to him whom on the
occasion she took care to name to her sister as 'papa's old friend' and
explain to him what she would wish him to do, and what not to do.
Colonel Osborne answered the letter very quickly, throwing much more of
demonstrative affection than he should have done into his 'Dear Emily'
and his 'Dearest Friend.' Of course Mrs Trevelyan had burned this
answer, and of course Mr Trevelyan had been told of the correspondence.
His wife, indeed, had been especially careful that there should be
nothing secret about the matter that it should be so known in the house
that Mr Trevelyan should be sure to hear of it. And he had heard of it,
and been driven almost mad by it. He had flown off to Lady Milborough,
and had reduced his old friend to despair by declaring that, after all,
he began to fear that his wife was was was infatuated by that d
scoundrel. Lady Milborough forgave the language, but protested that he
was wrong in his suspicion. 'To continue to correspond with him after
what I have said to her!' exclaimed Trevelyan. 'Take her to Naples at
once,' said Lady Milborough at once!' 'And have him after me?' said
Trevelyan. Lady Milborough had no answer ready, and not having thought
of this looked very blank. 'I should find it harder to deal with her
there even than here,' continued Trevelyan. Then it was that Lady
Milborough spoke of the small town in the west of France, urging as her
reason that such a man as Colonel Osborne would certainly not follow
them there; but Trevelyan had become indignant at this, declaring that
if his wife's good name could be preserved in no other manner than
that, it would not be worth preserving at all. Then Lady Milborough had
begun to cry, and had continued crying for a very long time. She was
very unhappy as unhappy as her nature would allow her to be. She would
have made almost any sacrifice to bring the two young people together
would have willingly given her time, her money, her labour in the cause
would probably herself have gone to the little town in the west of
France, had her going been of any service. But, nevertheless, after her
own fashion, she extracted no small enjoyment out of the circumstances
of this miserable quarrel. The Lady Milboroughs of the day hate the
Colonel Osbornes from the very bottoms of their warm hearts and pure
souls; but they respect the Colonel Osbornes almost as much as they
hate them, and find it to be an inestimable privilege to be brought
into some contact with these roaring lions.

But there arose to dear Lady Milborough a great trouble out of this
quarrel, irrespective of the absolute horror of the separation of a
young husband from his young wife. And the excess of her trouble on
this head was great proof of the real goodness of her heart. For, in
this matter, the welfare of Trevelyan himself was not concerned but
rather that of the Rowley family. Now the Rowleys had not given Lady
Milborough any special reason for loving them. When she had first heard
that her dear young friend Louis was going to marry a girl from the
Mandarins, she had been almost in despair. It was her opinion that had
he properly understood his own position, he would have promoted his
welfare by falling in love with the daughter of some English country
gentleman or some English peer, to which honour, with his advantages,
Lady Milborough thought that he might have aspired. Nevertheless, when
the girl from the Mandarins had been brought home as Mrs Trevelyan,
Lady Milborough had received her with open arms had received even the
sister-in-law with arms partly open. Had either of them shown any
tendency to regard her as a mother, she would have showered motherly
cares upon them. For Lady Milborough was like an old hen, in her
capacity for taking many under her wings. The two sisters had hardly
done more than bear with her Nora, indeed, bearing with her more
graciously than Mrs Trevelyan; and in return, even for this, the old
dowager was full of motherly regard. Now she knew well that Mr Glascock
was over head and ears in love with Nora Rowley. It only wanted the
slightest management and the easiest discretion to bring him on his
knees, with an offer of his hand. And, then, how much that hand
contained how much, indeed, as compared with that other hand, which was
to be given in return, and which was to speak the truth completely
empty! Mr Glascock was the heir to a peer, was the heir to a rich peer,
was the heir to a very, very old peer. He was in Parliament. The world
spoke well of him. He was not, so to say, by any means an old man
himself. He was good-tempered, reasonable, easily led, and yet by no
means despicable. On all subjects connected with land, he held an
opinion that was very much respected, and was supposed to be a
thoroughly good specimen of an upper-class Englishman. Here was a
suitor! But it was not to be supposed that such a man as Mr Glascock
would be so violently in love as to propose to a girl whose nearest
known friend and female relation was misbehaving herself?

Only they who have closely watched the natural uneasinesses of human
hens can understand how great was Lady Milborough's anxiety on this
occasion. Marriage to her was a thing always delightful to contemplate.
Though she had never been sordidly a matchmaker, the course of the
world around her had taught her to regard men as fish to be caught, and
girls as the anglers who ought to catch them. Or, rather, could her
mind have been accurately analysed, it would have been found that the
girl was regarded as half-angler and half-bait. Any girl that angled
visibly with her own hook, with a manifestly expressed desire to catch
a fish, was odious to her. And she was very gentle-hearted in regard to
the fishes, thinking that every fish in the river should have the hook
and bait presented to him in the mildest, pleasantest form. But still,
when the trout was well in the basket, her joy was great; and then came
across her unlaborious mind some half-formed idea that a great
ordinance of nature was being accomplished in the teeth of
difficulties. For as she well knew there is a difficulty in the
catching of fish.

Lady Milborough, in her kind anxiety on Nora's behalf that the fish
should be landed before Nora might be swept away in her sister's ruin
hardly knew what step she might safely take. Mrs Trevelyan would not
see her again having already declared that any further interview would
be painful and useless. She had spoken to Trevelyan, but Trevelyan had
declared that he could do nothing. What was there that he could have
done? He could not, as he said, overlook the gross improprieties of his
wife's conduct, because his wife's sister had, or might possibly have,
a lover. And then as to speaking to Mr Glascock himself nobody knew
better than Lady Milborough how very apt fish are to be frightened.

But at last Lady Milborough did speak to Mr Glascock making no allusion
whatever to the hook prepared for himself, but saying a word or two as
to the affairs of that other fish, whose circumstances, as he
floundered about in the bucket of matrimony, were not as happy as they
might have been. The care, the discretion, nay, the wisdom with which
she did this were most excellent. She had become aware that Mr Glascock
had already heard of the unfortunate affair in Curzon Street. Indeed,
every one who knew the Trevelyans had heard of it, and a great many who
did not know them. No harm, therefore, could be done by mentioning the
circumstance. Lady Milborough did mention it, explaining that the only
person really in fault was that odious destroyer of the peace of
families, Colonel Osborne, of whom Lady Milborough, on that occasion,
said some very severe things indeed. Poor dear Mrs Trevelyan was
foolish, obstinate, and self-reliant but as innocent as the babe
unborn. That things would come right before long no one who knew the
affair and she knew it from beginning to end--could for a moment doubt.
The real victim would be that sweetest of all girls, Nora Rowley. Mr
Glascock innocently asked why Nora Rowley should be a victim. 'Don't
you understand, Mr Glascock, how the most remote connection with a
thing of that kind tarnishes a young woman's standing in the world?' Mr
Glascock was almost angry with the well-pleased Countess as he declared
that he could not see that Miss Rowley's standing was at all tarnished;
and old Lady Milborough, when he got up and left her, felt that she had
done a good morning's work. If Nora could have known it all, Nora ought
to have been very grateful, for Mr Glascock got into a cab in Eccleston
Square and had himself driven direct to Curzon Street. He himself
believed that he was at that moment only doing the thing which he had
for some time past resolved that he would do; but we perhaps may be
justified in thinking that the actual resolution was first fixed by the
discretion of Lady Milborough's communication. At any rate he arrived
in Curzon Street with his mind fully resolved, and had spent the
minutes in the cab considering how he had better perform the business
in hand.

He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where he found the two
sisters, and Mrs Trevelyan, as soon as she saw him, understood the
purpose of his coming. There was an air of determination about him, a
manifest intention of doing something, an absence of that vagueness
which almost always flavours a morning visit. This was so strongly
marked that Mrs Trevelyan felt that she would have been almost
justified in getting up and declaring that, as this visit was paid to
her sister, she would retire. But, any such declaration on her part was
unnecessary, as Mr Glascock had not been in the room three minutes
before he asked her to go. By some clever device of his own, he got her
into the back room and whispered to her that he wanted to say a few
words in private to her sister.

'Oh, certainly,' said Mrs Trevelyan, smiling.

'I dare say you may guess what they are,' said he. 'I don't know what
chance I may have?'

'I can tell you nothing about that,' she replied, 'as I know nothing.
But you have my good wishes.'

And then she went.

It may be presumed that gradually some idea of Mr Glascock's intention
had made its way into Nora's mind by the time that she found herself
alone with that gentleman. Why else had he brought into the room with
him that manifest air of a purpose? Why else had he taken the very
strong step of sending the lady of the house out of her own
drawing-room? Nora, beginning to understand this, put herself into an
attitude of defence. She had never told herself that she would refuse
Mr Glascock. She had never acknowledged to herself that there was
another man whom she liked better than she liked Mr Glascock. But had
she ever encouraged any wish for such an interview, her feelings at
this moment would have been very different from what they were. As it
was, she would have given much to postpone it, so that she might have
asked herself questions, and have discovered whether she could
reconcile herself to do that which, no doubt, all her friends would
commend her for doing. Of course, it was clear enough to the mind of
the girl that she had her fortune to make, and that her beauty and
youth were the capital on which she had to found it. She had not lived
so far from all taint of corruption as to feel any actual horror at the
idea of a girl giving herself to a man not because the man had already,
by his own capacities in that direction, forced her heart from her but
because he was one likely to be at all points a good husband. Had all
this affair concerned any other girl, any friend of her own, and had
she known all the circumstances of the case, she would have had no
hesitation in recommending that other girl to marry Mr Glascock. A girl
thrown out upon the world without a shilling must make her hay while
the sun shines. But, nevertheless, there was something within her bosom
which made her long for a better thing than this. She had dreamed, if
she had not thought, of being able to worship a man; but she could
hardly worship Mr Glascock. She had dreamed, if she had not thought, of
leaning upon a man all through life with her whole weight, as though
that man had been specially made to be her staff, her prop, her
support, her wall of comfort and protection. She knew that if she were
to marry Mr Glascock and become Lady Peterborough, in due course she
must stand a good deal by her own strength, and live without that
comfortable leaning. Nevertheless, when she found herself alone with
the man, she by no means knew whether she would refuse him or not. But
she knew that she must pluck up courage for an important moment, and
she collected herself, braced her muscles, as it were, for a fight, and
threw her mind into an attitude of contest.

Mr Glascock, as soon as the door was shut behind Mrs Trevelyan's back,
took a chair and placed it close beside the head of the sofa on which
Nora was sitting. 'Miss Rowley,' he said, 'you and I have known each
other now for some months, and I hope you have learned to regard me as
a friend.'

'Oh, yes, indeed,' said Nora, with some spirit.

'It has seemed to me that we have met as friends, and I can most truly
say for myself, that I have taken the greatest possible pleasure in
your acquaintance. It is not only that I admire you very much,' he
looked straight before him as he said this, and moved about the point
of the stick which he was holding in both his hands 'it is not only
that perhaps not chiefly that, though I do admire you very much; but
the truth is, that I like everything about you.'

Nora smiled, but she said nothing. It was better, she thought, to let
him tell his story; but his mode of telling it was not without its
efficacy. It was not the simple praise which made its way with her but
a certain tone in the words which seemed to convince her that they were
true. If he had really found her, or fancied her to be what he said,
there was a manliness in his telling her so in the plainest words that
pleased her much.

'I know,' continued he, 'that this is a very bald way of telling of
pleading my cause; but I don't know whether a bald way may not be the
best, if it can only make itself understood to be true. Of course, Miss
Rowley, you know what I mean. As I said before, you have all those
things which not only make me love you, but which make me like you
also. If you think that you can love me, say so; and, as long as I
live, I will do my best to make you happy as my wife.'

There was a clearness of expression in this, and a downright surrender
of himself, which so flattered her and so fluttered her that she was
almost reduced to the giving of herself up because she could not reply
to such an appeal in language less courteous than that of agreement.
After a moment or two she found herself remaining silent, with a
growing feeling that silence would be taken as conveying consent. There
floated quickly across her brain an idea of the hardness of a woman's
lot, in that she should be called upon to decide her future fate for
life in half a minute. He had had weeks to think of this weeks in which
it would have been almost unmaidenly in her so to think of it as to
have made up her mind to accept the man. Had she so made up her mind,
and had he not come to her, where would she have been then? But he had
come to her. There he was, still poking about with his stick, waiting
for her, and she must answer him. And he was the eldest son of a peer
an enormous match for her, very proper in all respects; such a man,
that if she should accept him, everybody around her would regard her
fortune in life as miraculously successful. He was not such a man that
anyone would point at her and say 'there; see another of them who has
sold herself for money and a title!' Mr Glascock was not an Apollo, not
an admirable Crichton; but he was a man whom any girl might have
learned to love Now he had asked her to be his wife, and it was
necessary that she should answer him. He sat there waiting for her very
patiently, still poking about the point of his stick.

Did she really love him? Though she was so pressed by consideration of
time, she did find a moment in which to ask herself the question. With
a quick turn of an eye she glanced at him, to see what he was like. Up
to this moment, though she knew him well, she could have given no
details of his personal appearance. He was a better-looking man than
Hugh Stanbury so she told herself with a passing thought; but he lacked
he lacked; what was it that he lacked? Was it youth, or spirit, or
strength; or was it some outward sign of an inward gift of mind? Was it
that he was heavy while Hugh was light? Was it that she could find no
fire in his eye, while Hugh's eyes were full of flashing? Or was it
that for her, especially for her, Hugh was the appointed staff and
appropriate wall of protection? Be all that as it might, she knew at
the moment that she did love, not this man, but that other who was
writing articles for the Daily Record. She must refuse the offer that
was so brilliant, and give up the idea of reigning as queen at
Monkhams.

'Oh, Mr Glascock,' she said, 'I ought to answer you more quickly.'

'No, dearest; not more quickly than suits you. Nothing ever in this
world can be more important both to you and to me. If you want more
time to think of it, take more time.'

'No, Mr Glascock; I do not. I don't know why I should have paused. Is
not the truth best?'

'Yes certainly the truth is best.'

'I do not love you. Pray, pray understand me.'

'I understand it too well, Miss Rowley.' The stick was still going, and
the eyes more intently, fixed than ever on something opposite.

'I do like you; I like you very much. And I am so grateful! I cannot
understand why such a man as you should want to make me your wife.'

'Because I love you better than all the others; simply that. That
reason, and that only, justifies a man in wanting to marry a girl.'
What a good fellow he was, and how flattering were his words! Did he
not deserve what he wanted, even though it could not be given without a
sacrifice? But yet she did not love him. As she looked at him again she
could not there recognise her staff. And she looked at him she was more
than ever convinced that that other staff ought to be her staff. 'May I
come again after a month, say?' he asked, when there had been another
short period of silence.

'No, no. Why should you trouble yourself? I am not worth it.'

'It is for me to judge of that, Miss Rowley.'

'All the same, I know that I am not worth it. And I could not tell you
to do that.'

'Then I will wait, and come again without your telling me.'

'Oh, Mr Glascock, I did not mean that; indeed I did not. Pray do not
think that. Take what I say as final. I like you more than I can say;
and I feel a gratitude to you that I cannot express which I shall never
forget I have never known any one who has seemed to be so good as you.
But It is just what I said before.' And then she fairly burst into
tears.

'Miss Rowley,' he said, very slowly, 'pray do not think that I want to
ask any question which it might embarrass you to answer. But my
happiness is so greatly at stake; and, if you will allow me to say so,
your happiness, too, is so greatly concerned, that it is most important
that we should not come to a conclusion too quickly. If I thought that
your heart were vacant I would wait patiently. I have been thinking of
you as my possible wife for weeks past for months past. Of course you
have not had such thoughts about me.' As he said this she almost loved
him for his considerate goodness. 'It has sometimes seemed to me odd
that girls should love men in such a hurry. If your heart be free, I
will wait. And if you esteem me, you can see, and try whether you
cannot learn to love me.'

'I do esteem you.'

'It depends on that question, then?' he said, slowly.

She sat silent for fully a minute, with her hands clasped; and then she
answered him in a whisper. 'I do not know,' she said.

He also was silent for a while before he spoke again. He ceased to poke
with his stick, and got up from his chair, and stood a little apart
from her, not looking al her even yet.

'I see,' he said at last. 'I understand. Well, Miss Rowley, I quite
perceive that I cannot press my suit any further now. But I shall not
despair altogether. I know this, that if I might possibly succeed, I
should be a very happy man. Good-bye, Miss Rowley.'

She took his offered hand and pressed it so warmly, that had he not
been manly and big-hearted, he would have taken such pressure as a sign
that she wished him to ask her again. But such was his nature.

'God bless you,' he said, 'and make you happy, whatever you may choose
to do.'

Then he left her, and she heard him walk down the stairs with heavy
slow steps, and she thought that she could perceive from the sound that
he was sad at heart, but that he was resolved not to show his sadness
outwardly.

When she was alone she began to think in earnest of what she had done.
If the reader were told that she regretted the decision which she had
been forced to make so rapidly, a wrong impression would be given of
the condition of her thoughts. But there came upon her suddenly a
strange capacity for counting up and making a mental inventory of all
that might have been hers. She knew and where is the girl so placed
that does not know? that it is a great thing to be an English peeress.
Now, as she stood there thinking of it all, she was Nora Rowley without
a shilling in the world, and without a prospect of a shilling. She had
often heard her mother speak fearful words of future possible days,
when colonial governing should no longer be within the capacity of Sir
Marmaduke. She had been taught from a very early age that all the
material prosperity of her life must depend on matrimony. She could
never be comfortably disposed of in the world, unless some fitting man
who possessed those things of which she was so bare, should wish to
make her his wife. Now there had come a man so thoroughly fitting, so
marvellously endowed, that no worldly blessing would have been wanting.
Mr Glascock had more than once spoken to her of the glories of
Monkhams. She thought of Monkhams now more than she had ever thought of
the place before. It would have been a great privilege to be the
mistress of an old time-honoured mansion, to call oaks and elms her
own, to know that acres of gardens were submitted to her caprices, to
look at herds of cows and oxen, and be aware that they lowed on her own
pastures. And to have been the mother of a future peer of England, to
have the nursing, and sweet custody and very making of a future senator
would not that have been much? And the man himself who would have been
her husband was such a one that any woman might have trusted herself to
him with perfect confidence. Now that he was gone she almost fancied
that she did love him. Then she thought of Hugh Stanbury, sitting as he
had described himself, in a little dark closet at the office of the 'D.
R.,' in a very old inky shooting-coat, with a tarnished square-cut
cloth cap upon his head, with a short pipe in his mouth, writing at
midnight for the next morning's impression, this or that article
according to the order of his master, 'the tallow-chandler'; for the
editor of the Daily Record was a gentleman whose father happened to be
a grocer in the City, and Hugh had been accustomed thus to describe the
family trade. And she might certainly have had the peer, and the acres
of garden, and the big house, and the senatorial honours; whereas the
tallowchandler's journeyman had never been so outspoken. She told
herself from moment to moment that she had done right; that she would
do the same a dozen times, if a dozen times the experiment could be
repeated; but still, still, there was the remembrance of all that she
had lost. How would her mother look at her, her anxious, heavily-laden
mother, when the story should be told of all that had been offered to
her and all that had been refused?

As she was thinking of this Mrs Trevelyan came into the room. Nora felt
that though she might dread to meet her mother, she could be bold
enough on such an occasion before her sister. Emily had not done so
well with her own affairs, as to enable her to preach with advantage
about marriage.

'He has gone?' said Mrs Trevelyan, as she opened the door.

'Yes, he has gone.'

'Well? Do not pretend, Nora, that you will not tell me.'

'There is nothing worth the telling, Emily.'

'What do you mean? I am sure he has proposed. He told me in so many
words that it was his intention.'

'Whatever has happened, dear, you may be quite sure that I shall never
be Mrs Glascock.'

'Then you have refused him because of Hugh Stanbury!'

'I have refused him, Emily, because I did not love him. Pray let that
be enough.'

Then she walked out of the room with something of stateliness in her
gait as might become a girl who had had it in her power to be the
future Lady Peterborough; but as soon as she reached the sacredness of
her own chamber, she gave way to an agony of tears. It would, indeed,
be much to be a Lady Peterborough. And she had, in truth, refused it
all because of Hugh Stanbury! Was Hugh Stanbury worth so great a
sacrifice?





CHAPTER XIV - THE CLOCK HOUSE AT NUNCOMBE PUTNEY

It was not till a fortnight had passed after the transaction recorded
in the last chapter, that Mrs Trevelyan and Nora Rowley first heard the
proposition that they should go to live at Nuncombe Putney. From bad to
worse the quarrel between the husband and the wife had gone on, till
Trevelyan had at last told his friend Lady Milborough that he had made
up his mind that they must live apart. She is so self-willed and
perhaps I am the same,' he had said, 'that it is impossible that we
should live together.' Lady Milborough had implored and called to
witness all testimonies, profane and sacred, against such a step had
almost gone down on her knees. Go to Naples why not Naples? Or to the
quiet town in the west of France, which was so dull that a wicked
roaring lion, fond of cities and gambling, and eating and drinking,
could not live in such a place! Oh, why not go to the quiet town in the
west of France? Was not anything better than this flying in the face of
God and man? Perhaps Trevelyan did not himself like the idea of the
quiet dull French town. Perhaps he thought that the flying in the face
of God and man was all done by his wife, not by him; and that it was
right that his wife should feel the consequences. After many such
entreaties, many such arguments, it was at last decided that the house
in Curzon Street should be given up, and that he and his wife live
apart.

'And what about Nora Rowley?' asked Lady Milborough, who had become
aware by this time of Nora's insane folly in having refused Mr
Glascock.

'She will go with her sister, I suppose.'

'And who will maintain her? Dear, dear, dear! It does seem as though
some young people were bent upon cutting their own throats, and all
their family's.'

Poor Lady Milborough just at this time went as near to disliking the
Rowleys as was compatible with her nature. It was not possible to her
to hate anybody. She thought that she hated the Colonel Osbornes; but
even that was a mistake. She was very angry, however, with both Mrs
Trevelyan and her sister, and was disposed to speak of them as though
they had been born to create trouble and vexation.

Trevelyan had not given any direct answer to that question about Nora
Rowley's maintenance, but he was quite prepared to bear all necessary
expense in that direction, at any rate till Sir Marmaduke should have
arrived. At first there had been an idea that the two sisters should go
to the house of their aunt, Mrs Outhouse. Mrs Outhouse was the wife as
the reader may perhaps remember of a clergyman living in the east of
London. St. Diddulph's-in-the-East was very much in the east indeed. It
was a parish outside the City, lying near the river, very populous,
very poor, very low in character, and very uncomfortable. There was a
rectory-house, queerly situated at the end of a little blind lane, with
a gate of its own, and a so-called garden about twenty yards square.
But the rectory of St. Diddulph's cannot be said to have been a
comfortable abode. The neighbourhood was certainly not alluring. Of
visiting society within a distance of three or four miles there was
none but what was afforded by the families of other East-end clergymen.
And then Mr Outhouse himself was a somewhat singular man. He was very
religious, devoted to his work, most kind to the poor; but he was
unfortunately a strongly-biased man, and at the same time very
obstinate withal. He had never allied himself very cordially with his
wife's brother, Sir Marmaduke, allowing himself to be carried away by a
prejudice that people living at the West-end, who frequented clubs and
were connected in any way with fashion, could not be appropriate
companions for himself. The very title which Sir Marmaduke had acquired
was repulsive to him, and had induced him to tell his wife more than
once that Sir this or Sir that could not be fitting associates for a
poor East-end clergyman. Then his wife's niece had married a man of
fashion a man supposed at St. Diddulph's to be very closely allied to
fashion; and Mr Outhouse had never been induced even to dine in the
house in Curzon Street. When, therefore, he heard that Mr and Mrs
Trevelyan were to be separated within two years of their marriage, it
could not be expected that he should be very eager to lend to the two
sisters the use of his rectory.

There had been interviews between Mr Outhouse and Trevelyan, and
between Mrs Outhouse and her niece; and then there was an interview
between Mr Outhouse and Emily, in which it was decided that Mrs
Trevelyan would not go to the parsonage of St. Diddulph's. She had been
very outspoken to her uncle, declaring that she by no means intended to
carry herself as a disgraced woman. Mr Outhouse had quoted St. Paul to
her; 'Wives, obey your husbands.' Then she had got up and had spoken
very angrily. 'I look for support from you,' she said, 'as the man who
is the nearest to me, till my father shall come.' 'But I cannot support
you in what is wrong,' said the clergyman. Then Mrs Trevelyan had left
the room, and would not see her uncle again.

She carried things altogether with a high hand at this time. When old
Mr Bideawhile called upon her, her husband's ancient family lawyer, she
told that gentleman that if it was her husband's will that they should
live apart, it must be so. She could not force him to remain with her.
She could not compel him to keep up the house in Curzon Street. She had
certain rights, she believed. She spoke then, she said, of pecuniary
rights not of those other rights which her husband was determined, and
was no doubt able, to ignore. She did not really know what those
pecuniary rights might be, nor was she careful to learn their exact
extent. She would thank Mr Bideawhile to see that things were properly
arranged. But of this her husband, and Mr Bideawhile, might be quite
sure; she would take nothing as a favour. She would not go to her
uncle's house. She declined to tell Mr Bideawhile why she had so
decided; but she had decided. She was ready to listen to any suggestion
that her husband might make as to her residence, but she must claim to
have some choice in the matter. As to her sister, of course she
intended to give Nora a home as long as such a home might be wanted. It
would be very sad for Nora, but in existing circumstances such an
arrangement would be expedient. She would not go into details as to
expense. Her husband was driving her away from him, and it was for him
to say what proportion of his income he would choose to give for her
maintenance for hers and for that of the child. She was not desirous of
anything beyond the means of decent living, but of course she must for
the present find a home for her sister as well as for herself. When
speaking of her baby she had striven hard so to speak that Mr
Bideawhile should find no trace of doubt in the tones of her voice. And
yet she had been full of doubt full of fear. As Mr Bideawhile had
uttered nothing antagonistic to her wishes in this matter had seemed to
agree that wherever the mother went thither the child would go also Mrs
Trevelyan had considered herself to be successful in this interview.

The idea of a residence at Nuncombe Putney had occurred first to
Trevelyan himself, and he had spoken of it to Hugh Stanbury. There had
been some difficulty in this, because he had snubbed Stanbury
grievously when his friend had attempted to do some work of gentle
interference between him and his wife; and when he began the
conversation, he took the trouble of stating, in the first instance,
that the separation was a thing fixed so that nothing might be urged on
that subject. 'It is to be. You will understand that,' he said; 'and if
you think that your mother would agree to the arrangement, it would be
satisfactory to me, and might, I think, be made pleasant to her. Of
course, your mother would be made to understand that the only fault
with which my wife is charged is that of indomitable disobedience to my
wishes.'

'Incompatibility of temper,' suggested Stanbury.

'You may call it that if you please; though I must say for myself that
I do not think that I have displayed any temper to which a woman has a
right to object. Then he had gone on to explain what he was prepared to
do about money. He would pay, through Stanbury's hands, so much for
maintenance and so much for house rent, on the understanding that the
money was not to go into his wife's hands. 'I shall prefer,' he said,
'to make myself, on her behalf, what disbursements may be necessary. I
will take care that she receives a proper sum quarterly through Mr
Bideawhile for her own clothes and for those of our poor boy.' Then
Stanbury had told him of the Clock House, and there had been an
agreement made between them; an agreement which was then, of course,
subject to the approval of the ladies at Nuncombe Putney. When the
suggestion was made to Mrs Trevelyan with a proposition that the Clock
House should be taken for one year, and that for that year, at least,
her boy should remain with her she assented to it. She did so with all
the calmness that she was able to assume; but, in truth, almost
everything seemed to have been gained, when she found that she was not
to be separated from her baby. 'I have no objection to living in
Devonshire if Mr Trevelyan wishes it,' she said, in her most stately
manner; 'and certainly no objection to living with Mr Stanbury's
mother.' Then Mr Bideawhile explained to her that Nuncombe Putney was
not a large town was, in fact, a very small and a very remote village.
'That will make no difference whatsoever as far as I am concerned,' she
answered; 'and as for my sister, she must put up with it till my father
and my mother are here. I believe the scenery at Nuncombe Putney is
very pretty.' 'Lovely!' said Mr Bideawhile, who had a general idea that
Devonshire is supposed to be a picturesque county. 'With such a life
before me as I must lead,' continued Mrs Trevelyan, 'an ugly
neighbourhood, one that would itself have had no interest for a
stranger, would certainly have been an additional sorrow.' So it had
been settled, and by the end of July, Mrs Trevelyan, with her sister
and baby, was established at the Clock House, under the protection of
Mrs Stanbury. Mrs Trevelyan had brought down her own maid and her own
nurse, and had found that the arrangements made by her husband had, in
truth, been liberal. The house in Curzon Street had been given up, the
furniture had been sent to a warehouse, and Mr Trevelyan had gone into
lodgings. 'There never were two young people so insane since the world
began,' said Lady Milborough to her old friend, Mrs Fairfax, when the
thing was done.

'They will be together again before next April,' Mrs Fairfax had
replied. But Mrs Fairfax was a jolly dame who made the best of
everything. Lady Milborough raised her hands in despair and shook her
head. 'I don't suppose, though, that Mr Glascock will go to Devonshire
after his lady love,' said Mrs Fairfax. Lady Milborough again raised
her hands, and again shook her head.

Mrs Stanbury had given an easy assent when her son proposed to her this
new mode of life, but Priscilla had had her doubts. Like all women, she
thought that when a man was to be separated from his wife, the woman
must he in the wrong. And though it must be doubtless comfortable to go
from the cottage to the Clock House, it would, she said, with much
prudence, be very uncomfortable to go back from the Clock House to the
cottage. Hugh replied very cavalierly generously, that is, rashly, and
somewhat impetuously that he would guarantee them against any such
degradation.

'We don't want to be a burden upon you, my dear,' said the mother.

'You would be a great burden on me,' he replied, 'if you were living
uncomfortably while I am able to make you comfortable.'

Mrs Stanbury was soon won over by Mrs Trevelyan, by Nora, and
especially by the baby; and even Priscilla, after a week or two, began
to feel that she liked their company. Priscilla was a young woman who
read a great deal, and even had some gifts of understanding what she
read. She borrowed books from the clergyman, and paid a penny a week to
the landlady of the Stag and Antlers for the hire during half a day of
the weekly newspaper. But now there came a box of books from Exeter,
and a daily paper from London, and to improve all this both the new
corners were able to talk with her about the things she read. She soon
declared to her mother that she liked Miss Rowley much the best of the
two. Mrs Trevelyan was too fond of having her own way. She began to
understand, she would say to her mother, that a man might find it
difficult to live with Mrs Trevelyan. 'She hardly ever yields about
anything,' said Priscilla. As Miss Priscilla Stanbury was also very
fond of having her own way, it was not surprising that she should
object to that quality in this lady, who had come to live under the
same roof with her.

The country about Nuncombe Putney is perhaps as pretty as any in
England. It is beyond the river Teign, between that and Dartmoor, and
is so lovely in all its variations of rivers, rivulets, broken ground,
hills and dales, old broken, battered, time-worn timber, green knolls,
rich pastures, and heathy common, that the wonder is that English
lovers of scenery know so little of it. At the Stag and Antlers old Mrs
Crocket, than whom no old woman in the public line was ever more
generous, more peppery, or more kind, kept two clean bed-rooms, and
could cook a leg of Dartmoor mutton and make an apple pie against any
woman in Devonshire. 'Drat your fish!' she would say, when some self-
indulgent and exacting traveller would wish for more than these
accustomed viands. 'Cock you up with dainties! If you can't eat your
victuals without fish, you must go to Exeter. And then you'll get it
stinking may-hap.' Now Priscilla Stanbury and Mrs Crocket were great
friends, and there had been times of deep want, in which Mrs Crocket's
friendship had been very serviceable to the ladies at the cottage. The
three young women had been to the inn one morning to ask after a
conveyance from Nuncombe Putney to Princetown, and had found that a
four-wheeled open carriage with an old horse and a very young driver
could be hired there. 'We have never dreamed of such a thing,'
Priscilla Stanbury had said, 'and the only time I was at Prince-town I
walked there and back.' So they had called at the Stag and Antlers, and
Mrs Crocket had told them her mind upon several matters.

'What a dear old woman!' said Nora, as they came away, having made
their bargain for the open carriage.

'I think she takes quite enough upon herself, you know,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'She is a dear old woman,' said Priscilla, not attending at all to the
last words that had been spoken. 'She is one of the best friends I have
in the world. If I were to say the best out of my own family, perhaps I
should not be wrong.'

'But she uses such very odd language for a woman,' said Mrs Trevelyan.
Now Mrs Crocket had certainly 'dratted' and 'darned' the boy, who
wouldn't come as fast as she had wished, and had laughed at Mrs
Trevelyan very contemptuously, when that lady had suggested that the
urchin, who was at last brought forth, might not be a safe charioteer
down some of the hills.

'I suppose I'm used to it,' said Priscilla. 'At any rate I know I like
it. And I like her.'

'I dare say she's a good sort of woman,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'only--'

'I am not saying anything about her being a good woman now,' said
Priscilla, interrupting the other with some vehemence, 'but only that
she is my friend.'

'I liked her of all things,' said Nora. 'Has she lived here always?'

'Yes; all her life. The house belonged to her father and to her
grandfather before her, and I think she says she has never slept out of
it a dozen times in her life. Her husband is dead, and her daughters
are married away, and she has the great grief and trouble of a
ne'er-do-well son. He's away now, and she's all alone.' Then after a
pause, she continued; 'I dare say it seems odd to you, Mrs Trevelyan,
that we should speak of the innkeeper as a dear friend; but you must
remember that we have been poor among the poorest and are so indeed
now. We only came into our present house to receive you. That is where
we used to live,' and she pointed to the tiny cottage, which now that
it was dismantled an desolate, looked to be doubly poor. 'There have
been times when we should have gone to bed very hungry if it had not
been for Mrs Crocket.'

Later in the day Mrs Trevelyan, finding Priscilla alone, had apologized
for what she had said about the old woman. 'I was very thoughtless and
forgetful, but I hope you will not be angry with me. I will be ever so
fond of her if you will forgive me.'

'Very well,' said Priscilla, smiling; 'on those conditions I will
forgive you.' And from that time there sprang up something like a
feeling of friendship between Priscilla and Mrs Trevelyan. Nevertheless
Priscilla was still of opinion that the Clock House arrangement was
dangerous, and should never have been made; and Mrs Stanbury, always
timid of her own nature, began to fear that it must be so, as soon as
she was removed from the influence of her son. She did not see much
even of the few neighbours who lived around her, but she fancied that
people looked at her in church as though she had done that which she
ought not to have done, in taking herself to a big and comfortable
house for the sake of lending her protection to a lady who was
separated from her husband. It was not that she believed that Mrs
Trevelyan had been wrong; but that, knowing herself to be weak, she
fancied that she and her daughter would be enveloped in the danger and
suspicion which could not but attach themselves to the lady's
condition, instead of raising the lady out of the cloud as would have
been the case had she herself been strong. Mrs Trevelyan, who was
sharpsighted and clear-witted, soon saw that it was so, and spoke to
Priscilla on the subject before she had been a fortnight in the house.
'I am afraid your mother does not like our being here,' she said.

'How am I to answer that?' Priscilla replied.

'Just tell the truth.'

'The truth is so uncivil. At first I did not like it. I disliked it
very much.'

'Why did you give way?'

'I didn't give way. Hugh talked my mother over. Mamma does what I tell
her, except when Hugh tells her something else. I was afraid, because,
down here, knowing nothing of the world, I didn't wish that we, little
people, should be mixed up in the quarrels and disagreements of those
who are so much bigger.'

'I don't know who it is that is big in this matter.'

'You are big at any rate by comparison. But now it must go on. The
house has been taken, and my fears are over as regards you. What you
observe in mamma is only the effect, not yet quite worn out, of what I
said before you came. You may be quite sure of this that we neither of
us believe a word against you. Your position is a very unfortunate one;
but if it can be remedied by your staying here with us, pray stay with
us.'

'It cannot be remedied,' said Emily; 'but we could not be anywhere more
comfortable than we are here.'



CHAPTER XV - WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT IN THE CLOSE

When Miss Stanbury, in the Close at Exeter, was first told of the
arrangement that had been made at Nuncombe Putney, she said some very
hard words as to the thing that had been done. She was quite sure that
Mrs Trevelyan was no better than she should be. Ladies who were
separated from their husbands never were any better than they should
be. And what was to be thought of any woman, who, when separated from
her husband, would put herself under the protection of such a Paladin
as Hugh Stanbury. She heard the tidings of course from Dorothy, and
spoke her mind even to Dorothy plainly enough; but it was to Martha
that she expressed herself with her fullest vehemence.

'We always knew,' she said, 'that my brother had married an
addle-pated, silly woman, one of the most unsuited to be the mistress
of a clergyman's house that ever a man set eyes on; but I didn't think
she'd allow herself to be led into such a stupid thing as this.'

'I don't suppose the lady has done anything amiss  any more than
combing her husband's hair, and the like of that,' said Martha.

'Don't tell me! Why, by their own story, she has got a lover.'

'But he ain't to come after her down here, I suppose. And as for
lovers, ma'am, I'm told that the most of 'em have 'em up in London. But
it don't mean much, only just idle talking and gallivanting.'

'When women can't keep themselves from idle talking with strange
gentlemen, they are very far gone on the road to the devil. That's my
notion. And that was everybody's notion a few years ago. But now, what
with divorce bills, and woman's rights, and penny papers, and false
hair, and married women being just like giggling girls, and giggling
girls knowing just as much as married women, when a woman has been
married a year or two she begins to think whether she mayn't have more
fun for her money by living apart from her husband.'

'Miss Dorothy says--'

'Oh, bother what Miss Dorothy says! Miss Dorothy only knows what it has
suited that scamp, her brother, to tell her. I understand this woman
has come away because of a lover; and if that's so, my sister-in-law is
very wrong to receive her. The temptation of the Clock House has been
too much for her. It's not my doing; that's all.'

That evening Miss Stanbury and Dorothy went out to tea at the house of
Mrs MacHugh, and there the matter was very much discussed. The family
of the Trevelyans was known by name in these parts, and the fact of Mrs
Trevelyan having been sent to live in a Devonshire village, with
Devonshire ladies who had a relation in Exeter so well esteemed as Miss
Stanbury of the Close, were circumstances of themselves sufficient to
ensure a considerable amount of prestige at the city tea-table for the
tidings of this unfortunate family quarrel. Some reticence was of
course necessary because of the presence of Miss Stanbury and of
Dorothy. To Miss Stanbury herself Mrs MacHugh and Mrs Crumbie, of
Cronstadt House, did not scruple to express themselves very plainly,
and to whisper a question as to what was to be done should the lover
make his appearance at Nuncombe Putney; but they who spoke of the
matter before Dorothy, were at first more charitable, or, at least,
more forbearing. Mr Gibson, who was one of the minor canons, and the
two Miss Frenches from Heavitree, who had the reputation of hunting
unmarried clergymen in couples, seemed to have heard all about it. When
Mrs MacHugh and Miss Stanbury, with Mr and Mrs Crumbie, had seated
themselves at their whist-table, the younger people were able to
express their opinions without danger of interruption or of rebuke. It
was known to all Exeter by this time, that Dorothy Stanbury's mother
had gone to the Clock House, and that she had done so in order that Mrs
Trevelyan might have a home. But it was not yet known whether anybody
had called upon them. There was Mrs Merton, the wife of the present
parson of Nuncombe, who had known the Stanburys for the last twenty
years; and there was Mrs Ellison of Lessboro', who lived only four
miles from Nuncombe, and who kept a pony-carriage. It would be a great
thing to know how these ladies had behaved in so difficult and
embarrassing a position. Mrs Trevelyan and her sister had now been at
Nuncombe Putney for more than a fortnight, and something in that matter
of calling must have been done or have been left undone. In answer to
an ingeniously-framed question asked by Camilla French, Dorothy at once
set the matter at rest. 'Mrs Merton,' said Camilla French, 'must find
it a great thing to have two new ladies come to the village, especially
now that she has lost you, Miss Stanbury?'

'Mamma tells me,' said Dorothy, 'that Mrs Trevelyan and Miss Rowley do
not mean to know anybody. They have given it out quite plainly, so that
there should be no mistake.'

'Dear, dear!' said Camilla French.

'I dare say it's for the best,' said Arabella French, who was the
elder, and who looked very meek and soft. Miss French almost always
looked meek and soft.

'I'm afraid it will make it very dull for your mother not seeing her
old friends,' said Mr Gibson.

'Mamma won't feel that at all,' said Dorothy.

'Mrs Stanbury, I suppose, will see her own friends at her own house
just the same,' said Camilla.

'There would be great difficulty in that, when there is a lady who is
to remain unknown,' said Arabella. 'Don't you think so, Mr Gibson?' Mr
Gibson replied that perhaps there might be a difficulty, but he wasn't
sure. The difficulty, he thought, might be got over if the ladies did
not always occupy the same room.

'You have never seen Mrs Trevelyan, have you, Miss Stanbury?' asked
Camilla.

'Never.'

'She is not an old family friend, then or anything of that sort?'

'Oh, dear, no.'

'Because,' said Arabella, 'it is so odd how different people get
together sometimes.' Then Dorothy explained that Mr Trevelyan and her
brother Hugh had long been friends.

'Oh! of Mr Trevelyan,' said Camilla. 'Then it is he that has sent his
wife to Nuncombe, not she that has come there?'

'I suppose there has been some agreement,' said Dorothy.

'Just so; just so,' said Arabella, the meek. 'I should like to see her.
They say that she is very beautiful; don't they?'

'My brother says that she is handsome.'

'Exceedingly lovely, I'm told,' said Camilla. 'I should like to see her
shouldn't you, Mr Gibson?'

'I always like to see a pretty woman,' said Mr Gibson, with a polite
bow, which the sisters shared between them.

'I suppose she'll go to church,' said Camilla.

'Very likely not,' said Arabella. 'Ladies of that sort very often don't
go to church. I dare say you'll find that she'll never stir out of the
place at all, and that not a soul in Nuncombe will ever see her except
the gardener. It is such a thing for a woman to be separated from her
husband! Don't you think so, Mr Gibson?'

'Of course it is,' said he, with a shake of his head, which was
intended to imply that the censure of the church must of course attend
any sundering of those whom the church had bound together; but which
implied also by the absence from it of any intense clerical severity,
that as the separated wife was allowed to live with so very respectable
a lady as Mrs Stanbury, there must probably be some mitigating
circumstances attending this special separation.

'I wonder what he is like?' said Camilla, after a pause.

'Who?' asked Arabella.

'The gentleman,' said Camilla.

'What gentleman?' demanded Arabella.

'I don't mean Mr Trevelyan,' said Camilla.

'I don't believe there really is eh is there?' said Mr Gibson, very
timidly.

'Oh, dear, yes,' said Arabella.

'I'm afraid there's something of the kind,' said Camilla. 'I've heard
that there is, and I've heard his name.' Then she whispered very
closely into the ear of Mr Gibson the words, 'Colonel Osborne,' as
though her lips were far too pure to mention aloud any sound so full of
iniquity.

'Indeed!' said Mr Gibson.

'But he's quite an old man,' said Dorothy, 'and knew her father
intimately before she was born. And, as far as I can understand, her
husband does not suspect her in the least. And it's only because
there's a misunderstanding between them, and not at all because of the
gentleman.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Camilla.

'Ah!' exclaimed Arabella.

'That would make a difference,' said Mr Gibson.

'But for a married woman to have her name mentioned at all with a
gentleman it is so bad; is it not, Mr Gibson?' And then Arabella also
had her whisper into the clergyman's ear very closely. 'I'm afraid
there's not a doubt about the Colonel. I'm afraid not. I am indeed.'

'Two by honours and the odd, and it's my deal,' said Miss Stanbury,
briskly, and the sharp click with which she put the markers down upon
the table was heard all through the room. 'I don't want anybody to tell
me,' she said, 'that when a young woman is parted from her husband, the
chances are ten to one that she has been very foolish.'

'But what's a woman to do, if her husband beats her?' said Mrs Crumbie.

'Beat him again,' said Mrs MacHugh.

'And the husband will be sure to have the worst of it,' said Mr
Crumbie. 'Well, I declare, if you haven't turned up an honour again,
Miss Stanbury!'

'It was your wife that cut it to me, Mr Crumbie.' Then they were again
at once immersed in the play, and the name neither of Trevelyan nor
Osborne was heard till Miss Stanbury was marking her double under the
candlestick; but during all the pauses in the game the conversation
went back to the same topic, and when the rubber was over they who had
been playing it lost themselves for ten minutes in the allurements of
the interesting subject. It was so singular a coincidence that the lady
should have gone to Nuncombe Putney of all villages in England, and to
the house of Mrs Stanbury of all ladies in England. And then was she
innocent, or was she guilty; and if guilty, in what degree? That she
had been allowed to bring her baby with her was considered to be a
great point in her favour. Mr Crumbie's opinion was that it was 'only a
few words'. Mrs Crumbie was afraid that she had been a little light.
Mrs MacHugh said that there was never fire without smoke. And Miss
Stanbury, as she took her departure, declared that the young women of
the present day didn't know what they were after. 'They think that the
world should be all frolic and dancing, and they have no more idea of
doing their duty and earning their bread than a boy home for the
holidays has of doing lessons.'

Then, as she went home with Dorothy across the Close, she spoke a word
which she intended to be very serious. 'I don't mean to say anything
against your mother for what she has done as yet. Somebody must take
the woman in, and perhaps it was natural. But if that Colonel
what's-his-name makes his way down to Nuncombe Putney, your mother must
send her packing, if she has any respect either for herself or for
Priscilla.'



CHAPTER XVI - DARTMOOR

The well-weighed decision of Miss Stanbury respecting the Stanbury
Trevelyan arrangement at Nuncombe Putney had been communicated to
Dorothy as the two walked home at night across the Close from Mrs
MacHugh's house, and it was accepted by Dorothy as being wise and
proper. It amounted to this. If Mrs Trevelyan should behave herself
with propriety in her retirement at the Clock House, no further blame
in the matter should be attributed to Mrs Stanbury for receiving her at
any rate in Dorothy's hearing. The existing scheme, whether wise or
foolish, should be regarded as an accepted scheme. But if Mrs Trevelyan
should be indiscreet if, for instance, Colonel Osborne should show
himself at Nuncombe Putney then, for the sake of the family, Miss
Stanbury would speak out, and would speak out very loudly. All this
Dorothy understood, and she could perceive that her aunt had strong
suspicion that there would be indiscretion.

'I never knew one like her,' said Miss Stanbury, 'who, when she'd got
away from one man, didn't want to have another dangling after her.'

A week had hardly passed after the party at Mrs MacHugh's, and Mrs
Trevelyan had hardly been three weeks at Nuncombe Putney, before the
tidings which Miss Stanbury almost expected reached her ears.

'The Colonel's been at the Clock House, ma'am,' said Martha.

Now, it was quite understood in the Close by this time that 'the
Colonel' meant Colonel Osborne.

'No!'

'I'm told he has though, ma'am, for sure and certain.'

'Who says so?'

  'Giles Hickbody was down at Lessboro', and see'd him hisself a portly,
  middle-aged man not one of your young scampish-like lovers.'

'That's the man.'

'Oh, yes. He went over to Nuncombe Putney, as sure as anything hired
Mrs Clegg's chaise and pair, and asked for Mrs Trevelyan's house as
open as anything. When Giles asked in the yard, they told him as how
that was the married lady's young man.'

'I'd like to be at his tail so I would with a mop-handle,' said Miss
Stanbury, whose hatred for those sins by which the comfort and
respectability of the world are destroyed, was not only sincere, but
intense. 'Well; and what then?'

'He came back and slept at Mrs Clegg's that night at least, that was
what he said he should do.'

Miss Stanbury, however, was not so precipitate or uncharitable as to
act strongly upon information such as this. Before she even said a word
to Dorothy, she made further inquiry. She made very minute inquiry,
writing even to her very old and intimate friend Mrs Ellison, of
Lessboro' writing to that lady a most cautious and guarded letter. At
last it became a fact proved to her mind that Colonel Osborne had been
at the Clock House, had been received there, and had remained there for
hours had been allowed access to Mrs Trevelyan, and had slept the night
at the inn at Lessboro'. The thing was so terrible to Miss Stanbury's
mind, that even false hair, Dr Colenso, and penny newspapers did not
account for it.

'I shall begin to believe that the Evil One has been allowed to come
among us in person because of our sins,' she said to Martha and she
meant it.

In the meantime, Mrs Trevelyan, as may be remembered, had hired Mrs
Crocket's open carriage, and the three young women, Mrs Trevelyan,
Nora, and Priscilla, made a little excursion to Princetown, somewhat
after the fashion of a picnic. At Princetown, in the middle of
Dartmoor, about nine miles from Nuncombe Putney, is the prison
establishment at which are kept convicts undergoing penal servitude. It
is regarded by all the country round with great interest, chiefly
because the prisoners now and again escape, and then there comes a
period of interesting excitement until the escaped felon shall have
been again taken. How can you tell where he may be, or whether it may
not suit him to find his rest in your own cupboard, or under your own
bed? And then, as escape without notice will of course be the felon's
object, to attain that he will probably cut your throat, and the throat
of everybody belonging to you. All which considerations give an
interest to Princetown, and excite in the hearts of the Devonians of
these parts a strong affection for the Dartmoor prison. Of those who
visit Princetown comparatively few effect an entrance within the walls
of the gaol. They look at the gloomy place with a mysterious interest,
feeling something akin to envy for the prisoners who have enjoyed the
privilege of solving the mysteries of prison life, and who know how men
feel when they have their hair cut short, and are free from moral
responsibility for their own conduct, and are moved about in gangs, and
treated like wild beasts.

But the journey to Princetown, from whatever side it is approached, has
the charm of wild and beautiful scenery. The spot itself is ugly
enough; but you can go not thither without breathing the sweetest,
freshest air, and encountering that delightful sense of romance which
moorland scenery always produces. The idea of our three friends was to
see the Moor rather than the prison, to learn something of the country
around, and to enjoy the excitement of eating a sandwich sitting on a
hillock, in exchange for the ordinary comforts of a good dinner with
chairs and tables. A bottle of sherry and water and a paper of
sandwiches contained their whole banquet; for ladies, though they like
good things at picnics, and, indeed, at other times, almost as well as
men like them, very seldom prepare dainties for themselves alone. Men
are wiser and more thoughtful, and are careful to have the good things,
even if they are to be enjoyed without companionship.

Mrs Crocket's boy, though he was only about three feet high, was a
miracle of skill and discretion. He used the machine, as the patent
drag is called, in going down the hills with the utmost care. He never
forced the beast beyond a walk if there was the slightest rise in the
ground; and as there was always a rise, the journey was slow. But the
three ladies enjoyed it thoroughly, and Mrs Trevelyan was in better
spirits than she herself had thought to be possible for her in her
present condition. Most of us have recognised the fact that a dram of
spirits will create that a so-called nip of brandy will create
hilarity, or, at least, alacrity, and that a glass of sherry will often
'pick up' and set in order the prostrate animal and mental faculties of
the drinker. But we are not sufficiently alive to the fact that copious
draughts of fresh air of air fresh and unaccustomed will have precisely
the same effect. We do know that now and again it is very essential to
'change the air'; but we generally consider that to do that with any
chance of advantage, it is necessary to go far afield; and we think
also that such change of the air is only needful when sickness of the
body has come upon us, or when it threatens to come. We are seldom
aware that we may imbibe long potations of pleasure and healthy
excitement without perhaps going out of our own county; that such
potations are within a day's journey of most of us; and that they are
to be had for half-a-crown a head, all expenses told. Mrs Trevelyan
probably did not know that the cloud was lifted off her mind, and the
load of her sorrow made light to her, by the special vigour of the air
of the Moor; but she did know that she was enjoying herself, and that
the world was pleasanter to her than it had been for months past.

When they had sat upon their hillocks, and eaten their sandwiches
regretting that the basket of provisions had not been bigger and had
drunk their sherry and water out of the little horn mug which Mrs
Crocket had lent them, Nora started off across the moorland alone. The
horse had been left to be fed in Princetown, and they had walked back
to a bush under which they had rashly left their basket of provender
concealed. It happened, however, that on that day there was no escaped
felon about to watch what they had done, and the food and the drink had
been found secure. Nora had gone off, and as her sister and Priscilla
sat leaning against their hillocks with their backs to the road, she
could be seen standing now on one little eminence and now on another,
thinking, doubtless, as she stood on the one how good it would be to be
Lady Peterborough, and, as she stood on the other, how much better to
be Mrs Hugh Stanbury. Only before she could be Mrs Hugh Stanbury it
would be necessary that Mr Hugh Stanbury should share her opinion and
necessary also that he should be able to maintain a wife. 'I should
never do to be a very poor man's wife,' she said to herself; and
remembered as she said it, that in reference to the prospect of her
being Lady Peterborough, the man who was to be Lord Peterborough was at
any rate ready to make her his wife, and on that side there were none
of those difficulties about house, and money, and position which stood
in the way of the Hugh-Stanbury side of the question. She was not, she
thought, fit to be the wife of a very poor man; but she conceived of
herself that she would do very well as a future Lady Peterborough in
the drawing-rooms of Monkhams. She was so far vain as to fancy that she
could look, and speak, and move, and have her being after the fashion
which is approved for the Lady Peterboroughs of the world. It was not
clear to her that Nature had not expressly intended her to be a Lady
Peterborough; whereas, as far as she could see, Nature had not intended
her to be a Mrs Hugh Stanbury, with a precarious income of perhaps ten
guineas a week when journalism was doing well. So she moved on to
another little eminence to think of it there. It was clear to her that
if she should accept Mr Glascock she would sell herself, and not give
herself away; and she had told herself scores of times before this,
that a young woman should give herself away, and not sell herself
should either give herself away, or keep herself to herself as
circumstances might go. She had been quite sure that she would never
sell herself. But this was a lesson which she had taught herself when
she was very young, before she had come to understand the world and its
hard necessities. Nothing, she now told herself, could be worse than to
hang like a millstone round the neck of a poor man. It might be a very
good thing to give herself away for love but it would not be a good
thing to be the means of ruining the man she loved, even if that man
were willing to be so ruined. And then she thought that she could also
love that other man a little could love him sufficiently for
comfortable domestic purposes. And it would undoubtedly be very
pleasant to have all the troubles of her life settled for her. If she
were Mrs Glascock, known to the world as the future Lady Peterborough,
would it not be within her power to bring her sister and her sister's
husband again together? The tribute of the Monkhams authority and
influence to her sister's side of the question would be most salutary.
She tried to make herself believe that in this way she would be doing a
good deed. Upon the whole, she thought that if Mr Glascock should give
her another chance she would accept him. And he had distinctly promised
that he would give her another chance. It might be that this
unfortunate quarrel in the Trevelyan family would deter him. People do
not wish to ally themselves with family quarrels. But if the chance
came in her way she would accept it. She had made up her mind to that,
when she turned round from off the last knoll on which she had stood,
to return to her sister and Priscilla Stanbury.

They two had sat still under the shade of a thorn bush, looking at Nora
as she was wandering about, and talking together more freely than they
had ever done before on the circumstances that had brought them
together. 'How pretty she looks,' Priscilla had said, as Nora was
standing with her figure clearly marked by the light.

'Yes; she is very pretty, and has been much admired. This terrible
affair of mine is a cruel blow to her.'

'You mean that it is bad for her to come and live here without
society.'

'Not exactly that though of course it would be better for her to go
out. And I don't know how a girl is ever to get settled in the world
unless she goes out. But it is always an injury to be connected in any
way with a woman who is separated from her husband. It must be bad for
you.'

'It won't hurt me,' said Priscilla. 'Nothing of that kind can hurt me.'

'I mean that people say such ill-natured things.'

'I stand alone, and can take care of myself,' said Priscilla. 'I defy
the evil tongues of all the world to hurt me. My personal cares are
limited to an old gown and bread and cheese. I like a pair of gloves to
go to church with, but that is only the remnant of a prejudice. The
world has so very little to give me, that I am pretty nearly sure that
it will take nothing away.'

'And you are contented?'

'Well, no; I can't say that I am contented. I hardly think that anybody
ought to be contented. Should my mother die and Dorothy remain with my
aunt, or get married, I should be utterly alone in the world.
Providence, or whatever you call it, has made me a lady after a
fashion, so that I can't live with the ploughmen's wives, and at the
same time has so used me in other respects, that I can't live with
anybody else.'

'Why should not you get married, as well as Dorothy?'

'Who would have me? And if I had a husband I should want a good one a
man with a head on his shoulders, and a heart. Even if I were young and
good-looking, or rich, I doubt whether I could please myself. As it is
I am as likely to be taken bodily to heaven, as to become any man's
wife.'

'I suppose most women think so of themselves at some time, and yet they
are married.'

'I am not fit to marry. I am often cross, and I like my own way, and I
have a distaste for men. I never in my life saw a man whom I wished
even to make my intimate friend. I should think any man an idiot who to
make soft speeches to me, and I should tell him so.'

'Ah; you might find it different when he went on with it.'

'But I think,' said Priscilla, 'that when a woman is married there is
nothing to which she should not submit on behalf of her husband.'

'You mean that for me.'

'Of course I mean it for you. How should I not be thinking of you,
living as you are under the same roof with us? And I am thinking of
Louey.' Louey was the baby. 'What are you to do when after a year or
two his shall send for him to have him under his own care?'

'Nothing shall separate me from my child,' said Mrs Trevelyan eagerly.

'That is easily said; but I suppose the power of doing pleased would be
with him.'

'Why should it be with him? I do not at all know that it would be with
him. I have not left his house. It is he that has turned me out.'

'There can, I think, be very little doubt what you should do,' said
Priscilla, after a pause, during which she had got up from her seat
under the thorn bush.

'What should I do?' asked Mrs Trevelyan.

'Go back to him.'

'I will to-morrow if he will write and ask me. Nay; how could I help
myself? I am his creature, and must go or come as he bids me. I am here
only because he has sent me.'

'You should write and ask him to take you.'

'Ask him to forgive me because he has ill-treated me?#'

'Never mind about that,' said Priscilla, standing over her companion,
who was still lying under the bush. 'All that is twopenny-halfpenny
pride, which should be thrown to the winds. The more right you have
been hitherto the better you can afford to go on being right. What is
it that we all live upon but self-esteem? When we want praise it is
only because praise enables us to think well of ourselves. Every one to
himself is the centre and pivot of all the' world.'

'It's a very poor world that goes round upon my pivot,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'I don't know how this quarrel came up,' exclaimed Priscilla, 'and I
don't care to know. But it seems a trumpery quarrel as to who should
beg each other's pardon first, and all that kind of thing. Sheer and
simple nonsense! Ask him to let it all be forgotten. I suppose he loves
you?'

'How can I know? He did once.'

'And you love him?'

'Yes. I love him certainly.'

'I don't see how you can have a doubt. Here is Jack with the carriage,
and if we don't mind he'll pass us by without seeing us.'

Then Mrs Trevelyan got up, and when they had succeeded in diverting
Jack's attention for a moment from the horse, they called to Nora, who
was still moving about from one knoll to another, and who showed no
desire to abandon the contemplations in which she had been engaged.

It had been mid-day before they left home in the morning, and they were
due to be at home in time for tea which is an epoch in the day
generally allowed to be more elastic than some others. When Mrs
Stanbury lived in the cottage her hour for tea had been six; this had
been stretched to half-past seven when she received Mrs Trevelyan at
the Clock House; and it was half-past eight before Jack landed them at
their door. It was manifest to them all as they entered the house that
there was an air of mystery in the face of the girl who had opened the
door for them. She did not speak, however, till they were all within
the passage. Then she uttered a few words very solemnly. 'There be a
gentleman come,' she said.

'A gentleman!' said Mrs Trevelyan, thinking in the first moment of her
husband, and in the second of Colonel Osborne.

'He be for you, miss,' said the girl, bobbing her head at Nora.

Upon hearing this Nora sank speechless into the chair which stood in
the passage.



CHAPTER XVII - A GENTLEMAN COMES TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY

It soon became known to them all as they remained clustered in the hall
that Mr Glascock was in the house. Mrs Stanbury came out to them and
informed them that he had been at Nuncombe Putney for the last hours,
and that he had asked for Mrs Trevelyan when he called. It became
evident as the affairs of the evening went on, that Mrs Stanbury had
for a few minutes been thrown into a terrible state of amazement,
thinking that 'the Colonel' had appeared. The strange gentleman,
however, having obtained admittance, explained who he was, saying that
he was very desirous of seeing Mrs Trevelyan and Miss Rowley. It may be
presumed that a glimmer of light did make its way into Mrs Stanbury's
mind on the subject; but up to the moment at which the three travellers
arrived, she had been in doubt on the subject. Mr Glascock had declared
that he would take a walk, and in the course of the afternoon had
expressed high approval of Mrs Crocket's culinary skill. When Mrs
Crocket heard that she had entertained the son of a lord, she was very
loud in her praise of the manner in which he had eaten two mutton chops
and called for a third. He had thought it no disgrace to apply himself
to the second half of an apple pie, and had professed himself to be an
ardent admirer of Devonshire cream. 'It's them counter-skippers as
turns up their little noses at the victuals as is set before them,'
said Mrs Crocket.

After his dinner Mr Glascock had returned to the Clock House, and had
been sitting there for an hour with Mrs Stanbury, not much to her
delight or to his, when the carriage was driven up to the door.

'He is to go back to Lessboro' to-night,' said Mrs Stanbury in a
whisper.

'Of course you must see him before he goes,' said Mrs Trevelyan to her
sister. There had, as was natural, been very much said between the two
sisters about Mr Glascock. Nora had abstained from asserting in any
decided way that she disliked the man, and had always absolutely
refused to allow Hugh Stanbury's name to be mixed up with the question.
'Whatever might be her own thoughts about Hugh Stanbury she had kept
them even from her sister. 'When her sister had told her that she had
refused Mr Glascock because of Hugh, she had shown herself to be
indignant, and had since that said one or two fine things as to her
capacity to refuse a brilliant offer simply because the man who made it
was indifferent to her. Mrs Trevelyan had learned from her that her
Suitor had declared his intention to persevere; and here was
perseverance with a vengeance! 'Of course you must see him at once,'
said Mrs Trevelyan. Nora for a few seconds had remained silent, and
then had run up to her room. Her sister followed her instantly.

'What is the meaning of it all?' said Priscilla to her mother.

'I suppose he is in love with Miss Rowley,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'But who is he?'

Then Mrs Stanbury told all that she knew, She had seen from his card
that he was an Honourable Mr Glascock. She had collected from what he
had said that he was an old friend of the two ladies. Her conviction
was strong in Mr Glascock's favour thinking, as she expressed herself,
that everything was right and proper but she could hardly explain why
she thought so.

'I do wish that they had never come,' said Priscilla, who could not rid
herself of an idea that there must be danger in having to do with women
who had men running after them.

'Of course I'll see him,' said Nora to her sister. 'I have not refused
to see him. Why do you scold me?'

'I have not scolded you, Nora; but I do want you to how immensely
important this is.'

'Of course it is important.'

'And so much the more so because of my misfortunes! Think how good he
must be, how strong must be his attachment, when he comes down here
after you in this way.'

'But I have to think of my own feelings.'

'You know you like him. You have told me so. And only fancy what mamma
will feel! Such a position! And the man so excellent! Everybody says
that he hasn't a fault in any way.'

'I hate people without faults.'

'Oh, Nora, Nora, that is foolish! There, there; you must go down. Pray
pray do not let any absurd fancy stand in your way, and destroy
everything. It will never come again, Nora. And, only think; it is all
now your own if you will only whisper one word.'

'Ah! one word and that a falsehood!'

'No no. Say you will try to love him, and that will enough. And you do
love him?'

'Do I?'

'Yes, you do. It is only the opposition of your nature that makes you
fight against him. Will you go now?'

'Let me be for two minutes by myself,' said Nora, 'and then I'll come
down. Tell him that I'm coming.' Mrs Trevelyan stooped over her, kissed
her, and then left her.

Nora, as soon as she was alone, stood upright in the middle of the room
and held her hands up to her forehead. She had been far from thinking,
when she was considering the matter easily among the hillocks, that the
necessity for an absolute decision would come upon her so
instantaneously. She had told herself only this morning that it would
be wise to accept the man, if he should ever ask a second time and he
had come already. He had been waiting for her in the village while she
had been thinking whether he would ever come across her path again. She
thought that it would have been easier for her now to have gone down
with a 'yes' in her mouth, if her sister had not pressed her so hard to
say that 'yes,' The very pressure from her sister seemed to imply that
such pressure ought to be resisted. Why should there have been
pressure, unless there were reasons against her marrying him? And yet,
if she chose to take him, who would have a right to complain of her?
Hugh Stanbury had never spoken to her a word that would justify her in
even supposing that he would consider himself to be ill-used. All
others of her friends would certainly rejoice, would applaud her, pat
her on the back, cover her with caresses, and tell her that she had
been born under a happy star. And she did like the man. Nay she thought
she loved him. She withdrew her hands from her brow, assured herself
that her lot in life was cast, and with hurrying fingers attempted to
smooth her hair and to arrange her ribbons before the glass. She would
go to the encounter boldly and accept him honestly. It was her duty to
do so. What might she not do for brothers and sisters as the wife of
Lord Peterborough of Monkhams? She saw that that arrangement before the
glass could be of no service, and she stepped quickly to the door. If
he did not like her as she was, he need not ask her. Her mind was made
up, and she would do it. But as she went down the stairs to the room in
which she knew that he was waiting for her, there came over her a cold
feeling of self-accusation almost of disgrace. 'I do not care,' she
said. 'I know that I'm right.' She opened the door quickly, that there
might be no further doubt, and found that she was alone with him.

'Miss Rowley,' he said, 'I am afraid you will think that I am
persecuting you.'

'I have no right to think that,' she answered.

'I'll tell you why I have come. My dear father, who has always been my
best friend, is very ill. He is at Naples, and I must go to him. He is
very old, you know over eighty; and will never live to come back to
England. From what I hear, I think it probable that I may remain with
him till everything is over.'

'I did not know that he was so old as that.'

'They say that he can hardly live above a month or two. He will never
see my wife if I can have a wife; but I should like to tell him, if it
were possible that--'

'I understand you, Mr Glascock.'

'I told you that I should come to you again, and as I may possibly
linger at Naples all the winter, I could not go without seeing you.
Miss Rowley, may I hope that you can love me?'

She did not answer him a word, but stood looking away from him with her
hands clasped together. Had he asked her whether she would be his wife,
it is possible that the answer which she had prepared would have been
spoken. But he had put the question in another form. Did she love him?
If she could only bring herself to say that she could love him, she
might be lady of Monkhams before the next summer had come round.

'Nora,' he said, 'do you think that you can love me?'

'No,' she said, and there was something almost of fierceness in the
tone of her voice as she answered him.

'And must that be your final answer to me?'

'Mr Glascock, what can I say?' she replied. 'I will you the honest
truth I will tell you everything. I came into this room determined to
accept you. But you are so good, and so kind, and so upright, that I
cannot tell you a falsehood. I do not love you. I ought not to take
what you offer me. If I did, it would be because you are rich, and a
lord; and not because I love you. I love some one else. There pray,
pray do not tell of me; but I do.' Then she flung away from him and hid
her face in a corner of the sofa out of the light.

Her lover stood silent, not knowing how to go on with the conversation,
not knowing how to bring it to an end. After what she had now said to
him it was impossible that he should press her further. It was almost
impossible that he should wish to do so. When a lady is frank enough to
declare that her heart is not her own to give, a man can hardly wish to
make further prayer for the gift. 'If so,' he said, 'of course I have
nothing to hope.'

She was sobbing, and could not answer him. She was half repentant,
partly proud of what she had done half repentant in that she had lost
what had seemed to her to be so good, and full of remorse in that she
had so unnecessarily told her secret.

'Perhaps,' said he, 'I ought to assure you that what you have told me
shall never be repeated by my lips.'

She thanked him for this by a motion of her head and hand, not by words
and then he was gone. How he managed to bid adieu to Mrs Stanbury and
her sister, or whether he saw them as he left the house, she never
knew. In her corner of the sofa, weeping in the dark, partly proud and
partly repentant, she remained till her sister came to her. 'Emily,'
she said, jumping up, 'say nothing about it; not a word. It is of no
use. The thing is done and over, and let it altogether be forgotten.'

'It is done and over, certainly,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Exactly; and I suppose a girl may do what she likes with herself in
that way. If I choose to decline to take anything that is pleasant, and
nice, and comfortable, nobody has a right to scold me. And I won't be
scolded.'

'But, my child, who is scolding you?'

'You mean to scold me. But it is of no use. The man has gone, and there
is an end of it. Nothing that you can say or I can think will bring him
back again. I don't want anybody to tell me that it would be better to
be Lady Peterborough, with everything that the world has to give, than
to live here without a soul to speak to, and to have to go back to
those horrible islands next year. You can't think that I am very
comfortable.'

'But what did you say to him, Nora?'

'What did I say to him? What could I say to him? Why didn't he ask me
to be his wife without saying anything about love? He asked me if I
loved him. Of course I don't love him. I would have said I did, but it
stuck in my throat. I am willing enough, I believe, to sell myself to
the devil, but I don't know how to do it. Never mind. It's done, and
now I'll go to bed.'

She did go to bed, and Mrs Trevelyan explained to the two ladies as
much as was necessary of what had occurred. When Mrs Stanbury came to
understand that the gentleman who had been closeted with her would,
probably, in a few months be a lord himself, that he was a very rich
man, a member of Parliament, and one of those who are decidedly born
with gold spoons in their mouths, and understood also that Nora Rowley
had refused him, she was lost in amazement. Mr Glascock was about forty
years of age, and appeared to Nora Rowley, who was nearly twenty years
his junior, to be almost an old man. But to Mrs Stanbury, who was over
sixty, Mr Glascock seemed to be quite in the flower of his age. The
bald place at the top of his head simply showed that he had passed his
boyhood, and the grey hairs at the back of his whiskers were no more
than outward signs of manly discretion. She could not understand why
any girl should refuse such an offer, unless the man were himself bad
in morals, or in temper. But Mrs Trevelyan had told her while Nora and
Mr Glascock were closeted together, that he was believed by them all to
be good and gentle. Nevertheless she felt a considerable increase of
respect for a young lady who had refused the eldest son of a lord.
Priscilla, when she heard what had occurred, expressed to her mother a
moderated approval. According to her views a girl would much more often
be right to refuse an offer of marriage than to accept it, let him who
made the offer be who he might. And the fact of the man having been
sent away with a refusal somewhat softened Priscilla's anger at his
coming there at all.

'I suppose he is a goose,' said she to her mother, 'and I hope there
won't be any more of this kind running after them while they are with
us.'

Nora, when she was alone, wept till her heart was almost broken. It was
done, and the man was gone, and the thing was over. She had quite
sufficient knowledge of the world to realise perfectly the difference
between such a position as that which had been offered to her, and the
position which in all probability she would now be called upon to fill.
She had had her chance, and Fortune had placed great things at her
disposal. It must said of her also that the great things which Fortune
had offered to her were treasures very valuable in her eyes. Whether it
be right and wise to covet or to desire wealth and rank, there was no
doubt but that she coveted them. She had been instructed to believe in
them, and she did believe in them. In some mysterious manner of which
she herself knew nothing, taught by some preceptor the nobility of
whose lessons she had not recognised though she had accepted them, she
had learned other things also to revere truth and love, and to be
ambitious as regarded herself of conferring the gift of her whole heart
upon some one whom she could worship as a hero. She had spoken the
simple truth when she had told her sister that she had been willing to
sell herself to the devil, but that she had failed in her attempt to
execute the contract. But now as she lay weeping on her bed, tearing
herself with remorse, picturing to herself in the most vivid colours
all that she had thrown away, telling herself of all that she might
have done and all she might have been, had she not allowed the insane
folly of a moment to get the better of her, she received little or no
comfort from the reflection that she had been true to her better
instincts. She had told the man that she had refused him because she
loved Hugh Stanbury at least, as far as she could remember what had
passed, she had so told him. And how mean it was of her to allow
herself to be actuated by an insane passion for a man who had never
spoken to her of love, and how silly of her afterwards to confess it!
Of what service could such a passion be to her life? Even were it
returned, she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury. She knew
enough of herself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so
tomorrow, she would refuse him. Better go and be scorched, and bored to
death, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poor
household which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be on the
sure road to ruin! For a moment there came upon her, not a thought,
hardly an idea something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr
Glascock and withdraw all that she had said. Were she to do so he would
probably despise her, and tell her that he despised her but there might
be a chance. It was possible that such a declaration would bring him
back to her and did it not bring him back to her she would only be
where she was, a poor lost, shipwrecked creature, who had flung herself
upon the rocks and thrown away her only chance of a prosperous voyage
across the ocean of life; her only chance, for she was not like other
girls, who at any rate remain on the scene of action, and may refit
their spars and still win their way. For there were to be no more
seasons in London, no more living in Curzon Street, no renewed power of
entering the ball-rooms and crowded staircases in which high-born
wealthy lovers can be conquered. A great prospect had been given to
her, and she had flung it aside! That letter of retractation was,
however, quite out of the question. The reader must not suppose that
she had ever thought that she could write it. She thought of nothing
but of coming misery and remorse. In her wretchedness she fancied that
she had absolutely disclosed to the man who loved her the name of him
whom she had been mad enough to say that she loved. But what did it
matter? Let it be as it might, she was destroyed.

The next morning she came down to breakfast pale as a ghost; and they
who saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her a
wretched woman.



CHAPTER XVIII - THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE

Half an hour after the proper time, when the others had finished their
tea and bread and butter, Nora Rowley came down among them pale as a
ghost. Her sister had gone to her while she was dressing, but she had
declared that she would prefer to be alone. She would be down directly,
she had said, and had completed her toilet without even the assistance
of her maid. She drank her cup of tea and pretended to eat her toast;
and then sat herself down, very wretchedly, to think of it all again.
It had been all within her grasp all of which she had ever dreamed! And
now it was gone! Each of her three companions strove from time to time
to draw her into conversation, but she seemed to be resolute in her
refusal. At first, till her utter prostration had become a fact plainly
recognised by them all, she made some little attempt at an answer when
a direct question was asked of her; but after a while she only shook
her head, and was silent, giving way to absolute despair.

Late in the evening she went out into the garden, and Priscilla
followed her. It was now the end of July, and the summer was in its
glory. The ladies, during the day, would remain in the drawing-room
with the windows open and the blinds down, and would sit in the evening
reading and working, or perhaps pretending to read and work, under the
shade of a cedar which stood upon the lawn. No retirement could
possibly be more secluded than was that of the garden of the Clock
House. No stranger could see into it, or hear sounds from out of it.
Though it was not extensive, it was so well furnished with those
charming garden shrubs which, in congenial soils, become large trees,
that one party of wanderers might seem to be lost from another amidst
its walls. On this evening Mrs Stanbury and Mrs Trevelyan had gone out
as usual, but Priscilla had remained with Nora Rowley. After a while
Nora also got up and went through the window all alone. Priscilla,
having waited for a few minutes, followed her; and caught her in a long
green walk that led round the bottom of the orchard.

'What makes you so wretched?' she said.

'Why do you say I am wretched?'

'Because it's so visible. How is one to go on living with you all day
and not notice it?'

'I wish you wouldn't notice it. I don't think it kind of you to notice
it. If I wanted to talk of it, I would say so.'

'It is better generally to speak of a trouble than to keep it to
oneself,' said Priscilla.

'All the same, I would prefer not to speak of mine,' said Nora.

Then they parted, one going one way and one the other, and Priscilla
was certainly angry at the reception which had been given to the
sympathy which she had proffered. The next day passed almost without a
word spoken between the two. Mrs Stanbury had not ventured as yet to
mention to her guest the subject of the rejected lover, and had not
even said much on the subject to Mrs Trevelyan. Between the two sisters
there had been, of course, some discussion on the matter. It was
impossible that it should be allowed to pass without it; but such
discussions always resulted in an assertion on the part of Nora that
she would not be scolded. Mrs Trevelyan was very tender with her, and
made no attempt to scold her tried, at last, simply to console her; but
Nora was so continually at work scolding herself, that every word
spoken to her on the subject of Mr Glascock's visit seemed to her to
carry with it a rebuke.

But on the second day she herself accosted Priscilla Stanbury. 'Come
into the garden,' she said, when they two were for a moment alone
together; 'I want to speak to you.' Priscilla, without answering,
folded up her work and put on her hat. 'Come down to the green walk,'
said Nora. 'I was savage to you last night, and I want to beg your
pardon.'

'You were savage,' said Priscilla, smiling, 'and you shall have my
pardon. Who would not pardon you any offence, if you asked it?'

'I am so miserable!' she said.

'But why?'

'I don't know. I can't tell. And it is of no use talking about it now,
for it is all over. But I ought not to have been cross to you, and I am
very sorry.'

'That does not signify a straw; only so far, that when I have been
cross, and have begged a person's pardon which I don't do as often as I
ought I always feel that it begets kindness. If I could help you in
your trouble I would.'

'You can't fetch him back again.'

'You mean Mr Glascock. Shall I go and try?'

Nora smiled and shook her head. 'I wonder what he would say if you
asked him. But if he came, I should do the same thing.'

'I do not in the least know what you have done, my dear. I only see
that you mope about, and are more down in the mouth than any one ought
to be, unless some great trouble has come.'

'A great trouble has come.'

'I suppose you have had your choice either to accept your lover or to
reject him.'

'No; I have not had my choice.'

'It seems to me that no one has dictated to you; or, at least, that you
have obeyed no dictation.'

'Of course, I can't explain it to you. It is impossible that I should.'

'If you mean that you regret what you have done because you have been
false to the man, I can sympathise with you. No one has ever a right to
be false, and if you are repenting a falsehood, I will willingly help
you to eat your ashes and to wear your sackcloth. But if you are
repenting a truth--'

'I am.'

'Then you must eat your ashes by yourself, for me; and I do not think
that you will ever be able to digest them.'

'I do not want anybody to help me,' said Nora proudly.

'Nobody can help you, if I understand the matter rightly. You have got
to get the better of your own covetousness and evil desires, and you
are in the fair way to get the better of them if you have already
refused to be this man's wife because you could not bring yourself to
commit the sin of marrying him when you did not love him. I suppose
that is about the truth of it; and indeed, indeed, I do sympathise with
you. If you have done that, though it is no more than the plainest
duty, I will love you for it. One finds so few people that will do any
duty that taxes their self-indulgence.'

'But he did not ask me to marry him.'

'Then I do not understand anything about it.'

'He asked me to love him.'

'But he meant you to be his wife?'

'Oh yes he meant that of course.'

'And what did you say?' asked Priscilla.

'That I didn't love him,' replied Nora.

'And that was the truth?'

'Yes it was the truth.'

'And what do you regret? that you didn't tell him a lie?'

'No not that,' said Nora slowly.

'What then? You cannot regret that you have not basely deceived a man
who has treated you with a loving generosity?' They walked on silent
for a few yards, and then Priscilla repeated her question. 'You cannot
mean that you are sorry that you did not persuade yourself to do evil?'

'I don't want to go back to the islands, and to lose myself there, and
to be nobody that is what I mean. And I might have been so much! Could
one step from the very highest rung of the ladder to the very lowest
and not feel it?'

'But you have gone up the ladder if you only knew it,' said Priscilla.
'There was a choice given to you between the foulest mire of the clay
of the world, and the sunlight of the very God. You have chosen the
sunlight, and you are crying after the clay! I cannot pity you; but I
can esteem you, and love you, and believe in you. And I do. You'll 'get
yourself right at last, and there's my hand on it, if you'll take it.'
Nora took the hand that was offered to her, held it in her own for some
seconds, and then walked back to the house and up to her own room in
silence.

The post used to come into Nuncombe Putney at about eight in the
morning, carried thither by a wooden-legged man who rode a donkey.
There is a general understanding that the wooden-legged men in country
parishes should be employed as postmen, owing to the great steadiness
of demeanour which a wooden leg is generally found to produce. It may
be that such men are slower in their operations than would be biped
postmen; but as all private employers of labour demand labourers with
two legs, it is well that the lame and halt should find a refuge in the
less exacting service of the government. The one-legged man who rode
his donkey into Nuncombe Putney would reach his post-office not above
half an hour after his proper time; but he was very slow in stumping
round the village, and seldom reached the Clock House much before ten.
On a certain morning two or three days after the conversation just
recorded it was past ten when he brought two letters to the door, one
for Mrs Trevelyan, and one for Mrs Stanbury. The ladies had finished
their breakfast, and were seated together at an open window. As was
usual, the letters were given into Priscilla's hands, and the newspaper
which accompanied them into those of Mrs Trevelyan, its undoubted
owner. When her letter was handed to her, she looked at the address
closely and then walked away with it into her own room.

'I think it's from Louis,' said Nora, as soon as the door was closed.
'If so, he is telling her to come back.'

'Mamma, this is for you,' said Priscilla. 'It is from Aunt Stanbury. I
know her handwriting.'

'From your aunt? What can she be writing about? There is something
wrong with Dorothy.' Mrs Stanbury held the letter but did not open it.
'You had better read it, my dear. If she is ill, pray let her come
home.'

But the letter spoke of nothing amiss as regarded Dorothy, and did not
indeed even mention Dorothy's name. Luckily Priscilla read the letter
in silence, for it was an angry letter. 'What is it, Priscilla? Why
don't you tell me? Is anything wrong?' said Mrs Stanbury.

'Nothing is wrong, mamma except that my aunt is a silly woman.'

'Goodness me! what is it?'

'It is a family matter,' said Nora smiling, 'and I will go.

'What can it be?' demanded Mrs Stanbury again as soon as Nora had left
the room.

'You shall hear what it can be. I will read it to you,' said Priscilla.
'It seems to me that of all the women that ever lived my Aunt Stanbury
is the most prejudiced, the most unjust, and the most given to evil
thinking of her neighbours. This is what she has thought fit to write
to you, mamma.' Then Priscilla read her aunt's letter, which was as
follows:



'The Close, Exeter, July 31, 186-.

Dear Sister Stanbury,

I am informed that the lady who is living with you because she could
not continue to live under the same roof with her lawful husband, has
received a visit at your house from a gentleman who was named as her
lover before she left her own. I am given to understand that it was
because of this gentleman's visits to her in London, and because she
would not give up seeing him, that her husband would not live with her
any longer.'

'But the man has never been here at all,' said Mrs Stanbury, in dismay.

'Of course he has not been here. But let me go on.'

'I have got nothing to do with your visitors,' continued the letter,
'and I should not interfere but for the credit of the family. There
ought to be somebody to explain to you that much of the abominable
disgrace of the whole proceeding will rest upon you, if you permit such
goings on in your house. I suppose it is your house. At any rate you
are regarded as the mistress of the establishment, and it is for you to
tell the lady that she must go elsewhere. I do hope that you have done
so, or at least that you will do so now. It is intolerable that the
widow of my brother a clergyman should harbour a lady who is separated
from her husband and who receives visits from a gentleman who is
reputed to be her lover. I wonder much that your eldest daughter should
countenance such a proceeding.

Yours truly,

JEMIMA STANBURY.'



Mrs Stanbury, when the letter had been read to her, held up both her
hands in despair. 'Dear, dear,' she exclaimed. 'Oh, dear!'

'She had such pleasure in writing it,' said Priscilla, 'that one ought
hardly to begrudge it her.' The blackest spot in the character of
Priscilla Stanbury was her hatred for her aunt in Exeter. She knew that
her aunt had high qualities, and yet she hated her aunt. She was well
aware that her aunt was regarded as a shining light by very many good
people in the county, and yet she hated her aunt. She could not but
acknowledge that her aunt had been generous to her brother, and was now
very generous to her sister, and yet she hated her aunt. It was now a
triumph to her that her aunt had fallen into so terrible a quagmire,
and she was by no means disposed to let the sinning old woman easily
out of it.

'It is as pretty a specimen,' she said, 'as I ever knew of malice and
eaves-dropping combined.'

'Don't use such hard words, my dear.'

'Look at her words to us,' said Priscilla. 'What business has she to
talk to you about the credit of the family and abominable disgrace? You
have held your head up in poverty, while she has been rolling in
money.'

'She has been very good to Hugh and now to Dorothy.'

'If I were Dorothy I would have none of her goodness. She likes some
one to trample on some one of the name to patronise. She shan't trample
on you and me, mamma.'

Then there was a discussion as to what should be done; or rather a
discourse in which Priscilla explained what she thought fit to do.
Nothing, she decided, should be said to Mrs Trevelyan on the subject;
but an answer should be sent to Aunt Stanbury. Priscilla herself would
write this answer, and herself would sign it. There was some difference
of opinion on this point, as Mrs Stanbury thought that if she might be
allowed to put her name to it, even though Priscilla should write it,
the wording of it would be made, in some degree, mild to suit her own
character. But her daughter was imperative, and she gave way.

'It shall be mild enough in words,' said Priscilla, 'and very short.'

Then she wrote her letter as follows:



'Nuncombe Putney, August 1, 186-.

Dear Aunt Stanbury,

You have found a mare's nest. The gentleman you speak of has never been
here at all, and the people who bring you news have probably hoaxed
you. I don't think that mamma has ever disgraced the family, and you
can have no reason for thinking that she ever will. You should, at any
rate, be sure of what you are saying before you make such cruel
accusations,

Yours truly,

'Priscilla Stanbury.

P.S. Another gentleman did call here not to see Mrs Trevelyan; but
I suppose mamma's house need not be closed against all visitors.'

Poor Dorothy had passed evil hours from the moment in which her aunt
had so far certified herself as to Colonel Osborne's visit to Nuncombe
as to make her feel it to be incumbent on her to interfere. After much
consideration Miss Stanbury had told her niece the dreadful news, and
had told also what she intended to do. Dorothy, who was in truth
horrified at the iniquity of the fact which was related, and who never
dreamed of doubting the truth of her aunt's information, hardly knew
how to interpose. 'I am sure mamma won't let there be anything wrong,'
she had said.

'And you don't call this wrong?' said Miss Stanbury, in a tone of
indignation.

'But perhaps mamma will tell them to go.'

'I hope she will. I hope she has. But he was allowed to be there for
hours. And now three days have passed and there is no sign of anything
being done. He came and went and may come again when he pleases.' Still
Dorothy pleaded. 'I shall do my duty,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I am quite sure mamma will do nothing wrong,' said Dorothy. But the
letter was written and sent, and the answer to the letter reached the
house in the Close in due time.

When Miss. Stanbury had read and re-read the very short reply which her
niece had written, she became at first pale with dismay, and then red
with renewed vigour and obstinacy. She had made herself, as she
thought, quite certain of her facts before she had acted on her
information. There was some equivocation, some most unworthy deceit in
Priscilla's letter. Or could it be possible that she herself had been
mistaken? Another gentleman had been there not, however, with the
object of seeing Mrs Trevelyan! So said Priscilla. But she had made
herself sure that the man in question was a man from London, a
middle-aged, man from London, who had specially asked for Mrs
Trevelyan, and who had at once been known to Mrs Clegg, at the
Lessboro' inn, to be Mrs Trevelyan's lover. Miss Stanbury was very
unhappy, and at last sent for Giles Hickbody. Giles Hickbody had never
pretended to know the name. He had seen the man and had described him,
'Quite a swell, ma'am; and a Lon'oner, and one as'd be up to anything;
but not a young 'un; no, not just a young 'un, zartainly.' He was
cross-examined again now, and said that all he knew. about the man's
name was that there was a handle to it. This was ended by Miss Stanbury
sending him down to Lessboro' to learn the very name of the gentleman,
and by his coming back with that of the Honourable George Glascock
written on a piece of paper. 'They says now as he was arter the other
young 'ooman,' said Giles Hickbody. Then was the confusion of Miss
Stanbury complete.

It was late when Giles returned from Lessboro', and nothing could be
done that night. It was too late to write a letter for the next
morning's post. Miss Stanbury, who was as proud of her own
discrimination as she was just and true, felt that a day of humiliation
had indeed come for her. She hated Priscilla almost as vigorously as
Priscilla hated her. To Priscilla she would not write to own her fault;
but it was incumbent on her to confess it to Mrs Stanbury. It was
incumbent on her also to confess it to Dorothy. All that night she did
not sleep, and the next morning she went about abashed, wretched,
hardly mistress of her own maids. She must confess it also to Martha,
and Martha would be very stern to her. Martha had poob-poohed the whole
story of the lover, seeming to think that there could be no reasonable
objection to a lover past fifty.

'Dorothy,' she said at last, about noon, 'I have been over hasty about
your mother and this man. I am sorry for it, and must beg everybody's
pardon.'

'I knew mamma would do nothing wrong,' said Dorothy.

'To do wrong is human, and she, I suppose, is not more free than
others; but in this matter I was misinformed. I shall write and beg her
pardon; and now I beg your pardon.'

'Not mine, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Yes, yours and your mother's, and the lady's also for against her has
the fault been most grievous. I shall write to your mother and express
my contrition.' She put off the evil hour of writing as long as she
could, but before dinner the painful letter had been written, and
carried by herself to the post. It was as follows:



'The Close, August 9, 186-.

Dear Sister Stanbury,

I have now learned that the information was false on which my former
letter was based. I am heartily sorry for any annoyance I may have
given you. I can only inform you that my intentions were good and
upright. Nevertheless, I humbly beg your pardon.

Yours truly,

Jemima Stanbury.'



Mrs Stanbury, when she received this, was inclined to let the matter
drop. That her sister-in-law should express such abject contrition was
to her such a lowering of the great ones of the earth, that the apology
conveyed to her more pain than pleasure. She could not hinder herself
from sympathising with all that her sister-in-law had felt when she had
found herself called upon to humiliate herself. But it was not so with
Priscilla. Mrs Stanbury did not observe that her daughter's name was
scrupulously avoided in the apology; but Priscilla observed it. She
would not let the matter drop, without an attempt at the last word.
She therefore wrote back again as follows:


'Nuncombe Putney, August 4, 186-.

DEAR AUNT STANBURY,

I am glad you have satisfied yourself about the gentleman who has so
much disquieted you. I do not know that the whole affair would be worth
a moment's consideration, were it not that mamma and I, living as we do
so secluded a life, are peculiarly apt to feel any attack upon our good
name which is pretty nearly all that is left to us. If ever there were
women who should be free from attack, at any rate from those of their
own family, we are such women. We never interfere with you, or with
anybody; and I think you might abstain from harassing us by
accusations.

Pray do not write to mamma in such a strain again, unless you are quite
sure of your ground.

Yours truly,

PRISCILLA STANBURY.'



'Impudent vixen!' said Miss Stanbury to Martha, when she had read the
letter. 'Ill-conditioned, impudent vixen!'

'She was provoked, miss,' said Martha.

'Well; yes; yes and I suppose it is right that you should tell me of
it. I dare say it is part of what I ought to bear for being an old
fool, and too cautious about my own flesh and blood. I will bear it.
There. I was wrong, and I will say that I have been justly punished.
There there!'

How very much would Miss Stanbury's tone have been changed had she
known that at that very moment Colonel Osborne was eating his breakfast
at Mrs Crocket's inn, in Nuncombe Putney!



CHAPTER XI - BOZZLE, THE EX-POLICEMAN

When Mr Trevelyan had gone through the miserable task of breaking up
his establishment in Curzon Street, and had seen all his furniture
packed, including his books, his pictures, and his pet Italian
ornaments, it was necessary that he should go and live somewhere. He
was very wretched at this time so wretched that life was a burden to
him. He was a man who loved his wife to whom his child was very dear;
and he was one too to whom the ordinary comforts of domestic life were
attractive and necessary. There are men to whom release from the
constraint imposed by family ties will be, at any rate for a time, felt
as a release. But he was not such a man. There was no delight to him in
being able to dine at his club, and being free to go whither he pleased
in the evening. As it was, it pleased him to go nowhere in the
evenings; and his mornings were equally blank to him. He went so often
to Mr Bideawhile, that the poor old lawyer became quite tired of the
Trevelyan family quarrel. Even Lady Milborough, with all her power of
sympathising, began to feel that she would almost prefer on any morning
that her dear young friend, Louis Trevelyan, should not be announced.
Nevertheless, she always saw him when he came, and administered comfort
according to her light. Of course he would have his wife back before
long. That was the only consolation she was able to offer; and she
offered it so often that he began gradually to feel that something
might be done towards bringing about so desirable an event. After what
had occurred they could not live again in Curzon Street nor even in
London for awhile; but Naples was open to them. Lady Milborough said so
much to him of the advantages which always came in such circumstances
from going to Naples, that he began to regard such a trip as almost the
natural conclusion of his adventure. But then there came that very
difficult question what step should be first taken? Lady Milborough
proposed that he should go boldly down to Nuncombe Putney, and make the
arrangement. 'She will only be too glad to jump into your arms,' said
Lady Milborough. Trevelyan thought that if he went to Nuncombe Putney,
his wife might perhaps jump into his arms; but what would come after
that? How would he stand then in reference to his authority? Would she
own that she had been wrong? Would she promise to behave better in
future? He did not believe that she was yet sufficiently broken in
spirit to make any such promise. And he told himself again and again
that it would be absurd in him to allow her to return to him without
such subjection, after all that he had gone through in defence of his
marital rights. If he were to write to her a long letter,
argumentative, affectionate, exhaustive, it might be better. He was
inclined to believe of himself that he was good at writing long,
affectionate, argumentative, and exhaustive letters. But he would not
do even this as yet. He had broken up his house, and scattered all his
domestic gods to the winds, because she had behaved badly to him; and
the thing done was too important to allow of redress being found so
easily.

So he lived on a wretched life in London. He could hardly endure to
show himself at his club, fearing that every one would be talking of
him as the man who was separated from his wife perhaps as the man of
whose wife Colonel Osborne was the dear friend. No doubt for a day or
two there had been much of such conversation; but it had died away from
the club long before his consciousness had become callous. At first he
had gone into a lodging in Mayfair; but this had been but for a day or
two. After that he had taken a set of furnished chambers in Lincoln's
Inn, immediately under those in which Stanbury lived; and thus it came
to pass that he and Stanbury were very much thrown together. As
Trevelyan would always talk of his wife this was rather a bore; but our
friend bore with it, and would even continue to instruct the world
through the columns of the D. R. while Trevelyan was descanting on the
peculiar cruelty of his own position.

'I wish to be just, and even generous; and I do love her with all my
heart,' he said one afternoon, when Hugh was very hard at work.

'"It is all very well for gentlemen to call themselves reformers,"'
Hugh was writing,' "but have these gentlemen ever realised to
themselves the meaning of that word? We think that they have never done
so as long as--" Of course you love her,' said Hugh, with his eyes still
on the paper, still leaning on his pen, but finding by the cessation of
sound that Trevelyan had paused, and therefore knowing that it was
necessary that he should speak.

'As much as ever,' said Trevelyan, with energy.

'"As long as they follow such a leader, in such a cause, into whichever
lobby he may choose to take them--'Exactly so, exactly,' said Stanbury;
'just as much as ever.'

'You are not listening to a word,' said Trevelyan.

'I haven't missed a single expression you have used,' said Stanbury.
'But a fellow has to do two things at a time when he's on the daily
press.'

'I beg your pardon for interrupting you,' said Trevelyan, angrily,
getting up, taking his hat, and stalking off to the house of Lady
Milborough. In this way he became rather a bore to his friends. He
could not divest his mind of the injury which had accrued to him from
his wife's conduct, nor could he help talking of the grief with which
his mind was laden. And he was troubled with sore suspicions, which, as
far as they concerned his wife, had certainly not been merited. It had
seemed to him that she had persisted in her intimacy with Colonel
Osborne in a manner that was not compatible with that wife-like
indifference which he regarded as her duty. Why had she written to him
and received letters from him when her husband had plainly told her
that any such communication was objectionable? She had done so, and as
far as Trevelyan could remember her words, had plainly declared that
she would continue to do so. He had sent her away, into the most remote
retirement he could find for her; but the post was open to her. He had
heard much of Mrs Stanbury, and Priscilla, from his friend Hugh, and
thoroughly believed that his wife was in respectable hands. But what
was to prevent Colonel Osborne from going after her if he chose to do
so? And if he did so choose, Mrs Stanbury could not prevent their
meeting. He was racked with jealousy, and yet he did not cease to
declare to himself that he knew his wife too well to believe that she
would sin. He could not rid himself of his jealousy, but he tried with
all his might to make the man whom he hated the object of it, rather
than the woman whom he loved.

He hated Colonel Osborne with all his heart. It was a regret to him
that the days of duelling were over; so that he could not shoot the
man. And yet, had duelling been possible to him, Colonel Osborne had
done nothing that would have justified him in calling his enemy out or
would even have enabled him to do so with any chance of inducing his
enemy to fight. Circumstances, he thought, were cruel to him beyond
compare, in that he should have been made to suffer so great torment
without having any of the satisfaction of revenge. Even Lady
Milborough, with all her horror as to the Colonel, could not tell him
that the Colonel was amenable to any punishment. He was advised that he
must take his wife away and live at Naples because of this man that he
must banish himself entirely if he chose to repossess himself of his
wife and child and yet nothing could be done to the unprincipled rascal
by whom all his wrong and sufferings were occasioned! Thinking it very
possible that Colonel Osborne would follow his wife, he had a watch set
upon the Colonel. He had found a retired policeman a most discreet man,
as he was assured who, for a consideration, undertook the management of
interesting jobs of this kind. The man was one Bozzle who had not lived
without a certain reputation in the police courts. In these days of his
madness, therefore, he took Mr Bozzle into his pay; and after a while
he got a letter from Bozzle with the Exeter post-mark. Colonel Osborne
had left London with a ticket for Lessboro'. Bozzle also had taken a
place by the same train for that small town. The letter was written in
the railway carriage, and, as Bozzle explained, would be posted by him
as he passed through Exeter. A further communication should be made by
the next day's post, in a letter which Mr Bozzle proposed to address to
Z. A., Post-office, Waterloo Place.

On receiving this first letter, Trevelyan was in an agony of doubt, as
well as misery. What should he do? Should he go to Lady Milborough, or
to Stanbury; or should he at once follow Colonel Osborne and Mr Bozzle
to Lessboro'. It ended in his resolving at last to wait for the letter
which was to be addressed to Z. A. But he spent an interval of horrible
suspense, and of insane rage. Let the laws say what they might, he
would have the man's blood, if he found that the man had even attempted
to wrong him. Then, at last, the second letter reached him. Colonel
Osborne and Mr Bozzle had each of them spent the day in the
neighbourhood of Lessboro', not exactly in each other's company, but
very near to each other. 'The Colonel' had ordered a gig, on the day
after his arrival at Lessboro', for the village of Cockchaffington;
and, for all Mr Bozzle knew, the Colonel had gone to Cockchaffington.
Mr Bozzle was ultimately inclined to think that the Colonel had really
spent his day in going to Cockchaffington. Mr Bozzle himself, knowing
the wiles of such men as Colonel Osborne, and thinking at first that
that journey to Cockchaffington might only be a deep ruse, had walked
over to Nuncombe Putney. There he had had a pint of beer and some bread
and cheese at Mrs Crocket's house, and had asked various questions, to
which he did not receive very satisfactory answers. But he inspected
the Clock House very minutely, and came to a decided opinion as to the
point at which it would be attacked, if burglary were the object of the
assailants. And he observed the iron gates, and the steps, and the
shape of the trees, and the old pigeon-house-looking fabric in which
the clock used to be placed. There was no knowing when information
might be wanted, or what information might not be of use. But he made
himself tolerably sure that Colonel Osborne did not visit Nuncombe
Putney on that day; and then he walked back to Lessboro'. Having done
this, he applied himself to the little memorandum book in which he kept
the records of these interesting duties, and entered a claim against
his employer for a conveyance to Nuncombe Putney and back, including
driver and ostler; and then he wrote his letter. After that he had a
hot supper, with three glasses of brandy and water, and went to bed
with a thorough conviction that he had earned his bread on that day.

The letter to Z. A. did not give all these particulars, but it did
explain that Colonel Osborne had gone off apparently, to
Cockchaffington, and that he Bozzle had himself visited Nuncombe
Putney. 'The hawk hasn't been nigh the dovecot as yet,' said Mr Bozzle
in his letter, meaning to be both mysterious and facetious.

It would be difficult to say whether the wit or the mystery disgusted
Trevelyan the most. He had felt that he was defiling himself with dirt
when he first went to Mr Bozzle. He knew that he was having recourse to
means that were base and low which could not be other than base or low,
let the circumstances be what they might. But Mr Bozzle's conversation
had not been quite so bad as Mr Bozzle's letters; as it may have been
that Mr Bozzle's successful activity was more insupportable than his
futile attempts. But, nevertheless, something must be done. It could
not be that Colonel Osborne should have gone down to the close
neighbourhood of Nuncombe Putney without the intention of seeing the
lady whom his obtrusive pertinacity had driven to that seclusion. It
was terrible to Trevelyan that Colonel Osborne should be there, and not
the less terrible because such a one as Mr Bozzle was watching the
Colonel on his behalf. Should he go to Nuncombe Putney himself? And if
so, when he got to Nuncombe Putney what should he do there? At last, in
his suspense and his grief, he resolved that he would tell the whole to
Hugh Stanbury.

'Do you mean,' said Hugh, 'that you have put a policeman on his track?'

'The man was a policeman once.'

'What we call a private detective. I can't say I think you were right.'

'But you see that it was necessary,' said Trevelyan.

'I can't say that it was necessary. To speak out, I can't understand
that a wife should be worth watching who requires watching.'

'Is a man to do nothing then? And even now it is not my wife whom I
doubt.'

'As for Colonel Osborne, if he chooses to go to Lessboro', why
shouldn't he? Nothing that you can do, or that Bozzle can do, can
prevent him. He has a perfect right to go to Lessboro'.'

'But he has not a right to go to my wife.'

'And if your wife refuses to see him; or having seen him for a man may
force his way in anywhere with a little trouble if she sends him away
with a flea in his ear, as I believe she would.'

'She is so frightfully indiscreet.'

'I don't see what Bozzle can do.'

'He has found Out at any rate that Osborne is there,' said Trevelyan.
'I am not more fond of dealing with such fellows than you are yourself.
But I think it is my duty to know what is going on. What ought I to do
now?'

'I should do nothing except dismiss Bozzle.'

'You know that that is nonsense, Stanbury.'

'Whatever I did I should dismiss Bozzle.' Stanbury was now quite in
earnest, and, as he repeated his suggestion for the dismissal of the
policeman, pushed his writing things away from him. 'If you ask my
opinion, you know, I must tell you what I think. I should get rid of
Bozzle as a beginning. If you will only think of it, how can your wife
come back to you if she learns that you have set a detective to watch
her?'

'But I haven't set the man to watch her.'

'Colonel Osborne is nothing to you, except as he is concerned with her.
This man is now down in her neighbourhood; and, if she learns that, how
can she help feeling it as a deep insult? Of course the man watches her
as a cat watches a mouse.'

'But what am I to do? I can't write to the man and tell him to come
away. Osborne is down there, and I must do something. Will you go down
to Nuncombe Putney yourself, and let me know the truth?'

After much debating of the subject, Hugh Stansbury said that he would
himself go down to Nuncombe Putney alone. There were difficulties about
the D. R.; but he would go to the office of the newspaper and overcome
them. How far the presence of Nora Rowley at his mother's house may
have assisted in bringing him to undertake the journey, perhaps need
not be accurately stated. He acknowledged to himself that the claims of
friendship were strong upon him; and that as he had loudly disapproved
of the Bozzle arrangement, he ought to lend a hand to some other scheme
of action.

Moreover, having professed his conviction that no improper visiting
could possibly take place under his mother's roof, he felt bound to
shew that he was not afraid to trust to that conviction himself. He
declared that he would be ready to proceed to Nuncombe Putney tomorrow
but only on condition that he might have plenary power to dismiss
Bozzle.

'There can be no reason why you should take any notice of the man,'
said Trevelyan.

'How can I help noticing him when I find him prowling about the place?
Of course I shall know who he is.'

'I don't see that you need know anything about him.'

'My dear Trevelyan, you cannot have two ambassadors engaged in the same
service without communication with each other. And any communication
with Mr Bozzle, except that of sending him back to London, I will not
have.' The controversy was ended by the writing of a letter from
Trevelyan to Bozzle, which was confided to Stanbury, in which the
ex-policeman was thanked for his activity and requested to return to
London for the present 'As we are now aware that Colonel Osborne is in
the neighbourhood,' said the letter, 'my friend Mr Stanbury will know
what to do.'

As soon as this was settled Stanbury went to the office of the D. R.
and made arrangement as to his work for three days. Jones could do the
article on the Irish Church upon a pinch like this, although he had not
given much study to the subject as yet; and Puddlethwaite, who was
great in City matters, would try his hand on the present state of
society in Rome, a subject on which it was essential that the D. R.
should express itself at once. Having settled these little troubles
Stanbury returned to his friend, and in the evening they dined together
at a tavern.

'And now, Trevelyan, let me know fairly what it is that you wish,' said
Stanbury.

'I wish to have my wife back again.'

'Simply that. If she will agree to come back, you will make no
difficulty.'

'No; not quite simply that. I shall desire that she shall be guided by
my wishes as to any intimacies she may form.'

'That is all very well; but is she to give any undertaking? Do you
intend to exact any promise from her? It is my opinion that she will be
willing enough to come back, and that when she is with you there will
be no further cause for quarrelling. But I don't think she will bind
herself by any exacted promise; and certainly not through a third
person.'

'Then say nothing about it. Let her write a letter to me proposing to
come and she shall come.'

'Very well. So far I understand. And now what about Colonel Osborne?
You don't want me to quarrel with him I suppose?'

'I should like to keep that for myself,' said Trevelyan, grimly.

'If you will take my advice you will not trouble yourself about him,'
said Stanbury. 'But as far as I am concerned, I am not to meddle or
make with him? Of course,' continued Stanbury, after a pause, 'if I
find that he is intruding himself in my mother's house, I shall tell
him that he must not come there.'

'But if you find him installed in your mother's house as a visitor how
then?'

'I do not regard that as possible.'

'I don't mean living there,' said Trevelyan, 'but coming backwards and
forwards going on in habits of intimacy with with ?' His voice trembled
so as he asked these questions, that he could not pronounce the word
which was to complete them.

'With Mrs Trevelyan, you mean.'

'Yes; with my wife. I don't say that it is so; but it may be so. You
will be bound to tell me the truth.'

'I will certainly tell you the truth.'

'And the whole truth.'

'Yes; the whole truth.'

'Should it be so I will never see her again never. And as for him but
never mind.' Then there was another short period of silence, during
which Stanbury smoked his pipe and sipped his whisky toddy. 'You must
see,' continued Trevelyan, 'that it is absolutely necessary that I
should do something. It is all very well for you to say that you do not
like detectives. Neither do I like them. But what was I to do? When you
condemn me you hardly realise the difficulties of my position.'

'It is the deuce of a nuisance certainly,' said Stansbury, through the
cloud of smoke thinking now not at all of Mrs Trevelyan, but of Mrs
Trevelyan's sister.

'It makes a man almost feel that he had better not marry at all,' said
Trevelyan.

'I don't see that. Of course there may come troubles. The tiles may
fall on your head, you know, as you walk through the streets. As far as
I can see, women go straight enough nineteen times out of twenty. But
they don't like being what I call looked after.'

'And did I look after my wife more than I ought?'

'I don't mean that; but if I were married which I never shall be, for I
shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income I fancy I
shouldn't look after my wife at all. It seems to me that women hate to
be told about their duties.'

'But if you saw your wife, quite innocently, falling into an improper
intimacy taking up with people she ought not to know doing that in
ignorance, which could not but compromise yourself wouldn't you speak a
word then?'

'Oh! I might just say, in an off-hand way, that Jones was a rascal, or
a liar, or a fool, or anything of that sort. But I would never caution
her against Jones. By George, I believe a woman can stand anything
better than that.'

'You have never tried it, my friend.'

'And I don't suppose I ever shall. As for me, I believe Aunt Stanbury
was right when she said that I was a radical vagabond. I dare say I
shall never try the thing myself, and therefore it's very easy to have
a theory. But! must be off. Good night, old fellow. I'll do the best I
can; and, at any rate, I'll let you know the truth.'

There had been a question during the day as to whether Stanbury should
let his sister know by letter that he was expected; but it had been
decided that he should appear at Nuncombe without any previous
notification of his arrival. Trevelyan had thought that this was very
necessary, and when Stanbury had urged that such a measure seemed to
imply suspicion, he had declared that in no other way could the truth
be obtained. He, Trevelyan, simply wanted to know the facts as they
were occurring. It was a fact that Colonel Osborne was down in
the neighbourhood of Nuncombe Putney. That, at least, had been
ascertained. It might very possibly be the case that he would be
refused admittance to the Clock House that all the ladies there would
combine to keep him out. But so Trevelyan urged the truth on this point
was desired. it was essentially necessary to his happiness that he
should know what was being done.

'Your mother and sister,' said he, 'cannot be afraid of your coming
suddenly among them.'

Stanbury, so urged, had found it necessary to yield, but yet he had
felt that he himself was almost acting like a detective policeman, in
purposely falling down upon them without a word of announcement. Had
chance circumstances made it necessary that he should go in such a
manner he would have thought nothing of it. It would simply have been a
pleasant joke to him.

As he went down by the train on the following day, he almost felt
ashamed of the part which he had been called upon to perform.



CHAPTER XXI - SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO COCKCHAFFINGTON

Together with Miss Stanbury's first letter to her sister-in-law a
letter had also been delivered to Mrs Trevelyan. Nora Rowley, as her
sister had left the room with this in her hand, had expressed her
opinion that it had come from Trevelyan; but it had in truth been
written by Colonel Osborne. And when that second letter from Miss
Stanbury had been received at the Clock House that in which she in
plain terms begged pardon for the accusation conveyed in her first
letter Colonel Osborne had started on his deceitful little journey to
Cockchaffington, and Mr Bozzle, the ex-policeman who had him in hand,
had already asked his way to Nuncombe Putney.

When Colonel Osborne learned that Louis Trevelyan had broken up his
establishment in Curzon Street, and had sent his wife away into a
barbarous retirement in Dartmoor for such was the nature of the
information on the subject which was spread among Trevelyan's friends
in London and when he was made aware also that all this was done on his
account because he was so closely intimate with Trevelyan's wife, and
because Trevelyan's wife was, and persisted in continuing to be, so
closely intimate with him his vanity was gratified. Although it might
be true and no doubt was true that he said much to his friends and to
himself of the deep sorrow which he felt that such a trouble should
befall his old friend and his old friend's daughter; nevertheless, as
he curled his grey whiskers before the glass, and made the thost of
such remnant of hair as was left on the top of his head, as he looked
to the padding of his coat, and completed a study of the wrinkles
beneath his eyes, so that in conversation they might be as little
apparent as possible, he felt more of pleasure than of pain in regard
to the whole affair. It was very sad that it should be so, but it was
human. Had it been in his power to set the whole matter right by a
word, he would probably have spoken that word; but as this was not
poisible, as Trevelyan had in his opinion made a gross fool of himself,
as Emily Trevelyan was very nice, and not the less nice in that she
certainly was fond of himself, as great tyranny had been used towards
her, and as he himself had still the plea of old family friendship to
protect his conscience to protect his conscience unless he went so far
as to make that plea an additional sting to his conscience he thought
that, as a man, he must follow up the matter. Here was a young, and
fashionable, and very pretty woman banished to the wilds of Dartmoor
for his sake. And, as far as he could understand, she would not have
been so banished had she consented to say that she would give up her
acquaintance with him. In such circumstances as these was it possible
that he should do nothing? Various ideas ran through his head. He began
to think that if Trevelyan were out of the way, he might might perhaps
be almost tempted to make this woman his wife. She was so nice that he
almost thought that he might be rash enough for that, although he knew
well the satisfaction of being a bachelor but as the thought suggested
itself to him, he was well aware that he was thinking of a thing quite
distant from him. The reader is not to suppose that Colonel Osborne
meditated any making-away with the husband. Our colonel was certainly
not the man for a murder. Nor did he even think of running away with
his friend's daughter. Though he told himself that he could dispose of
his wrinkles satisfactorily, still he knew himself and his powers
sufficiently to be aware that he was no longer fit to be the hero of
such a romance as that. He acknowledged to himself that there was much
labour to be gone through in running away with another man's wife; and
that the results, in respect to personal comfort, are not always happy.
But what if Mrs Trevelyan were to divorce herself from her husband on
the score of her husband's cruelty? Various horrors were related as to
the man's treatment of his wife. By some it was said that she was in
the prison on Dartmoor or, if not actually in the prison, an
arrangement which the prison discipline might perhaps make difficult
that she was in the custody of one of the prison warders who possessed
a prim cottage and a grim wife, just outside the prison walls. Colonel
Osborne did not himself believe even so much as this, but he did
believe that Mrs Trevelyan had been banished to some inhospitable
region, to some dreary comfortless abode, of which, as the wife of a
man of fortune, she would have great ground to complain. So thinking,
he did not probably declare to himself that a divorce should be
obtained, and that, in such event, he would marry the lady but ideas
came across his mind in that direction. Trevelyan was a cruel
Bluebeard; Emily as he was studious to call Mrs Trevelyan was a dear
injured saint. And as for himself, though he acknowledged to himself
that the lumbago pinched him now and again, so that he could not rise
from his chair with all the alacrity of youth, yet, when he walked
along Pall Mall with his coat properly buttoned, he could not but
observe that a great many young women looked at him with admiring eyes.

It was thus with no settled scheme that the Colonel went to work, and
made inquiries, and ascertained Mrs Trevelyan's address in Devonshire.
When he learned it, he thought that he had done much; though, in truth,
there had been no secrecy in the matter. Scores of people knew Mrs
Trevelyan's address besides the newsvendor who supplied her paper, from
whose boy Colonel Osborne's servant obtained the information. But when
the information had been obtained, it was expedient that it should be
used; and therefore Colonel Osborne wrote the following letter:



'Acrobats Club, July 31, 186-

Dear Emily,'

Twice the Colonel wrote Dearest Emily, and twice he tore the sheet on
which the words were written. He longed to be ardent, but still it was
so necessary to be prudent! He was not quite sure of the lady. Women
sometimes tell their husbands, even when they have quarrelled with
them. And, although ardent expressions in writing to pretty women are
pleasant to male writers, it is not pleasant for a gentleman to be
asked what on earth he means by that sort of thing at his tune of life.
The Colonel gave half an hour to the consideration, and then began the
letter, Dear Emily. If prudence be the soul of valour, may it not be
considered also the very mainspring, or, perhaps, the pivot of love?



'Dear Emily

I need hardly tell you with what dismay I have heard of all that has
taken place in Curzon Street. I fear that you must have suffered much,
and that you are suffering now. It is an inexpressible relief to me to
hear that you have your child with you, and Nora. But, nevertheless, to
have your home taken away from you, to be sent out of London, to be
banished from all society! And for what? The manner in which the minds
of some men work is quite incomprehensible.

As for myself, I feel that I have lost the company of a friend whom
indeed I can very ill spare. I have a thousand things to say to you,
and among them one or two which I feel that I must say that I ought to
say. As it happens, an old schoolfellow of mine is Vicar of
Cockchaffington, a village which I find by the map is very near to
Nuncombe Putney. I saw him in town last spring, and he then asked me to
pay him a visit. There is something in his church which people go to
see, and though I don't understand churches much, I shall go and see
it. I shall run down on Wednesday, and shall sleep at the inn at
Lessboro'. I see that Lessboro' is a market town, and I suppose there
is an inn. I shall go over to my friend on the Thursday, but shall
return to Lessboro'. Though a man be ever so eager to see a church
doorway, he need not sleep at the parsonage. On the following day, I
will get over to Nuncombe Putney, and I hope that you will see me.
Considering my long friendship with you, and my great attachment to
your father and mother, I do not think that the strictest martinet
would tell you that you need hesitate in the matter.

I have seen Mr Trevelyan twice at the club, but he has not spoken to
me. Under such circumstances I could not of course speak to him.
Indeed, I may say that my feelings towards him just at present are of
such a nature as to preclude me from doing so with any appearance of
cordiality.

Dear Emily,

Believe me now, as always, your affectionate friend,

Frederic Osborne.'



When he read that letter over to himself a second time he felt quite
sure that he had not committed himself. Even if his friend were to send
the letter to her husband, it could not do him any harm. He was aware
that he might have dilated more on the old friendship between himself
and Sir Marmaduke, but he experienced a certain distaste to the mention
of things appertaining to years long past. It did not quite suit him in
his present frame of mind to speak of his regard in those
quasi-paternal terms which he would have used had it satisfied him to
represent himself simply as her father's friend. His language therefore
had been a little doubtful, so that the lady might, if she were so
minded, look upon him in that tender light in which her husband had
certainly chosen to regard him.

When the letter was handed to Mrs Trevelyan, she at once took it with
her up to her own room, so that she might be alone when she read it.
The handwriting was quite familiar to her, and she did not choose that
even her sister should see it. She had told herself twenty times over
that, while living at Nuncombe Putney, she was not living under the
guardianship of Mrs Stanbury. She would consent to live under the
guardianship of no one, as her husband did not choose to remain with
her and protect her. She had done no wrong, and she would submit to no
other authority, than that of her legal lord and master. Nor, according
to her views of her own position, was it in his power to depute that
authority to others. He had caused the separation, and now she must be
the sole judge of her own actions. In itself, a correspondence between
her and her father's old friend was in no degree criminal or even
faulty. There was no reason, moral, social, or religious, why an old
man, over fifty, who had known her all her life, should not write to
her. But yet she could not say aloud before Mrs Stan-bury, and
Priscilla, and her sister, that she had received a letter from Colonel
Osborne. She felt that the colour had come to her cheek, and that she
could not even walk out of the room as though the letter had been a
matter of indifference to her.

And would it have been a matter of indifference had there been nobody
there to see her? Mrs Trevelyan was certainly not in love with Colonel
Osborne. She was not more so now than she had been when her father's
friend, purposely dressed for the occasion, had kissed her in the
vestry of the church in which she was married, and had given her a
blessing, which was then intended to be semi-paternal as from an old
man to a young woman. She was not in love with him never would be,
never could be in love with him. Reader, you may believe in her so far
as that. But where is the woman, who, when she is neglected, thrown
over, and suspected by the man that she loves, will not feel the desire
of some sympathy, some solicitude, some show of regard from another
man? This woman's life, too, had not hitherto been of such a nature
that the tranquillity of the Clock House at Nuncombe Putney afforded to
her all that she desired. She had been there now a month, and was
almost sick from the want of excitement. And she was full of wrath
against her husband. Why had he sent her there to break her heart in, a
disgraceful retirement, when she had never wronged him? From morning to
night she had no employment, no amusement, nothing to satisfy her
cravings. Why was she to be doomed to such an existence? She had
declared that as long as she could have her boy with her, she would be
happy. She was allowed to have her boy; but she was anything but happy.
When she received Colonel Osborne's letter while she held it in her
hand still unopened, she never for a moment thought that that could
make her happy. But there was in it something of excitement. And she
painted the man to herself in brighter colours now than she had ever
given to him in her former portraits. He cared for her. He was gracious
to her. He appreciated her talents, her beauty, and her conduct. He
knew that she deserved a treatment very different from that accorded to
her by her husband. Why should she reject the sympathy of her father's
oldest friend, because her husband was madly jealous about an old man?
Her husband had chosen to send her away, and to leave her, so that she
must act on her own judgment. Acting on her own judgment, she read
Colonel Osborne's letter from first to last. She knew that he was wrong
to speak of coming to Nuncombe Putney; but yet she thought that she
would see him. She had a dim perception that she was standing on the
edge of a precipice, on broken ground which might fall under her
without a moment's warning, and yet she would not retreat from the
danger. Though Colonel Osborne was wrong, very wrong in coming to see
her, yet she liked him for coming. Though she would be half afraid to
tell her news to Mrs Stanbury, and more than half afraid to tell
Priscilla, yet she liked the excitement of the fear. Nora would scold
her; but Nora's scolding she thought she could answer. And then it was
not the fact that Colonel Osborne was coming down to Devonshire to see
her. He was coming as far as Lessboro' to see his friend at
Cockchaffington. And when at Lessboro', was it likely that he should
leave the neighbourhood without seeing the daughter of his old ally?
And why should he do so?

Was he to be unnatural in his conduct, uncivil, and unfriendly, because
Mr Trevelyan had been foolish, suspicious, and insane?

So arguing with herself, she answered Colonel Osborne's letter before
she had spoken on the subject to any one in the house and this was her
answer:



'My dear Colonel Osborne,

I must leave it to your own judgment to decide whether you will come to
Nuncombe Putney or not. There are reasons which would seem to make it
expedient that you should stay away even though circumstances are
bringing you into the immediate neighbourhood. But of these reasons I
will leave you to be the judge. I will never let it be said that I
myself have had cause to dread the visit of any old friend.
Nevertheless, if you stay away, I shall understand why you do so.

Personally, I shall be glad to see you as I have always been. It seems
odd to me that I cannot write in warmer tones to my father's and
mother's oldest friend. Of course, you will understand that though I
shall readily see you if you call, I cannot ask you to stay. In the
first place, I am not now living in my own house. I am staying with Mrs
Stanbury, and the place is called the Clock House.

Yours very sincerely,

Emily Trevelyan.'

The Clock House, Nuncombe Putney, Monday.'



Soon after she had written it, Nora came into her room, and at once
asked concerning the letter which she had seen delivered to her sister
that morning.

'It was from Colonel Osborne,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'From Colonel Osborne! How very wrong!'

'I don't see that it is wrong at all. Because Louis is foolish and mad,
that cannot make another man wrong for doing the most ordinary thing in
the world.'

'I had hoped it had been from Louis,' said Nora.

'Oh dear, no. He is by no means so considerate. I do not suppose I
shall hear from him, till he chooses to give some fresh order about
myself or my child. He will hardly trouble himself to write to me,
unless he take up some new freak to show me that he is my master.

'And what does Colonel Osborne say?'

'He is coming here.'

'Coming here?' almost shouted Nora.

'Yes; absolutely here. Does it sound to you as if Lucifer himself were
about to show his face. The fact is he happens to have a friend in the
neighbourhood whom he has long promised to visit; and as he must be at
Lessboro', he does not choose to go away without the compliment of a
call. It will be as much to you as to me.'

'I don't want to see him in the least,' said Nora.

'There is his letter. As you seem to be so suspicious you had better
read it.'

Then Nora read it.

'And there is a copy of my answer,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'I shall keep
both, because I know so well what ill-natured things people will say.'

'Dear Emily, do not send it,' said Nora.

'Indeed I shall. I will not be frightened by bugbears And I will not be
driven to confess to any man on earth that I am afraid to see him. Why
should I be afraid of Colonel Osborne? I will not submit to acknowledge
that there can be any danger in Colonel Osborne. Were I to do so I
should be repeating the insult against myself. If my husband wished to
guide me in such matters why did he not stay with me?'

Then she went out into the village and posted the letter. Nora
meanwhile was thinking whether she would call in the assistance of
Priscilla Stanbury; but she did not like to take any such a step in
opposition to her sister.



CHAPTER XXI - SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY

Colonel Osborne was expected at Nuncombe Putney on the Friday, and, it
was Thursday evening before either Mrs Stanbury or Priscilla was told
of his coming. Emily had argued the matter with Nora, declaring that
she would make the communication herself, and that she would make it
when she pleased, and how she pleased. 'If Mrs Stanbury thinks,' said
she, 'that I am going to be treated as a prisoner, or that I will not
judge myself as to whom I may see, or whom I may not see, she is very
much mistaken.' Nora felt that were she to give information to those
ladies in opposition to her sister's wishes, she would express
suspicion on her own part by doing so; and she was silent. On that same
Thursday Priscilla had written her last defiant letter to her aunt that
letter in which she had cautioned her aunt to make no further
accusation without being sure of her facts. To Priscilla's imagination
that coming of Lucifer in person, of which Mrs Trevelyan had spoken,
would hardly have been worse than the coming of Colonel Osborne. When,
therefore, Mrs Trevelyan declared the fact on the Thursday evening,
vainly endeavouring to speak of the threatened visit in an ordinary
voice, and as of an ordinary circumstance, it was as though a
thunderbolt had fallen upon them.

'Colonel Osborne coming here!' said Priscilla, mindful of the Stanbury
correspondence mindful of the evil tongues of the world.

'And why not?' demanded Mrs Trevelyan, who had heard nothing of the
Stanbury correspondence.

'Oh dear, oh dear!' ejaculated Mrs Stanbury, who, of course, was aware
of all that had passed between the Clock House and the house in the
Close, though the letters had been written by her daughter.

Nora was determined to stand up for her sister, whatever might be the
circumstances of the case. 'I wish Colonel Osborne were not coming,'
said she, 'because it makes a foolish fuss; but I cannot understand how
anybody can suppose it to be wrong that Emily should see papa's very
oldest friend in the world.'

'But why is he coming?' demanded Priscilla.

'Because he wants to see an acquaintance at Cockchaffington;' said Mrs
Trevelyan; 'and there is a wonderful church-door there.'

'A church-fiddlestick!' said Priscilla.

The matter was debated throughout all the evening. At one time there
was a great quarrel between the ladies, and then there was a
reconciliation. The point on which Mrs Trevelyan stood with the
greatest firmness was this that it did not become her, as a married
woman 'whose conduct had always been good and who was more careful as
to that than she was even of her name, to be ashamed to meet any man.
'Why should I not see Colonel Osborne, or Colonel anybody else who
might call here with the same justification for calling which his old
friendship gives him?' Priscilla endeavoured to explain to her that her
husband's known wishes ought to hinder her from doing so. 'My husband
should have remained with me, to express his wishes,' Mrs Trevelyan
replied.

Neither could Mrs Stanbury nor could Priscilla bring herself to say
that the man should not be admitted into the house. In the course of
the debate, in the heat of her anger, Mrs Trevelyan declared that were
any such threat held out to her, she would leave the house and see
Colonel Osborne in the Street, or at the inn.

'No, Emily; no,' said Nora.

'But I will. I will not submit to be treated as a guilty woman, or as a
prisoner. They may say what they like, but I won't be shut up.'

'No one has tried to shut you up,' said Priscilla.

'You are afraid of that old woman at Exeter,' said Mrs Trevelyan; for
by this time the facts of the Stanbury correspondence had all been
elicited in general conversation; 'and yet you know how uncharitable
and malicious she is.'

  'We are not afraid of her,' said Priscilla. 'We are afraid of nothing
  but of doing wrong.'

'And will it be wrong to let an old gentleman come into the house,'
said Nora, 'who is nearly sixty, and who has known us ever since we
were born?'

'If he is nearly sixty, Priscilla,' said Mrs Stanbury, 'that does seem
to make a difference.' Mrs Stanbury herself was only just sixty, and
she felt herself to be quite an old woman.

'They may be devils at eighty,' said Priscilla.

'Colonel Osborne is not a devil at all,' said Nora.

'But mamma is so foolish,' said Priscilla. 'The man's age does not
matter in the least.'

'I beg your pardon, my dear,' said Mrs Stanbury, very humbly.

At that time the quarrel was raging, but afterwards came the
reconciliation. Had it not been for the Stanbury correspondence the
fact of Colonel Osborne's threatened visit would have been admitted as
a thing necessary as a disagreeable necessity; but how was the visit to
be admitted and passed over in the teeth of that correspondence?
Priscilla felt very keenly the peculiar cruelty of her position. Of
course, Aunt Stanbury would hear of the visit. Indeed, any secrecy in
the matter was not compatible with Priscilla's ideas of honesty. Her
aunt had apologised humbly for having said that Colonel Osborne had
been at Nuncombe. That apology, doubtless, had been due. Colonel
Osborne had not been at Nuncombe when the accusation had been made, and
the accusation had been unjust and false. But his coming had been
spoken of by Priscilla in her own letters as an occurrence which was
quite out of the question. Her anger against her aunt had been for
saying that the man had come, not for objecting to such a visit. And
now the man was coming, and Aunt Stanbury would know all about it. How
great, how terrible, how crushing would be Aunt Stanbury's triumph!

'I must write and tell her,' said Priscilla.

'I am sure I shall not object,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'And Hugh must be
told,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'You may tell all the world, if you like,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

In this way it was settled among them that Colonel Osborne was to be
received. On the next morning, Friday morning, Colonel Osborne,
doubtless having heard something of Mrs Crocket from his friend at
Cockchaffington, was up early, and had himself driven over to Nuncombe
Putney before breakfast. The ever-watchful Bozzle was, of course, at
his heels or rather, not at his heels on the first two miles of the
journey; for Bozzle, with painful zeal, had made himself aware of all
the facts, and had started on the Nuncombe Putney road half an hour
before the Colonel's fly was in motion. And when the fly passed him he
was lying discreetly hidden behind an old oak. The driver, however, had
caught a glimpse of him as he was topping a hill, and having seen him
about on the previous day, and perceiving that he was dressed in a
decent coat and trousers, and that, nevertheless, he was not a
gentleman, began to suspect that he was somebody. There was a great
deal said afterwards about Bozzle in Mrs Clegg's yard at Lessboro'; but
the Lessboro' mind was never able to satisfy itself altogether
respecting Bozzle and his mission. As to Colonel Osborne and his
mission, the Lessboro' mind did satisfy itself with much certainty. The
horse was hardly taken from out of Colonel Osborne's fly in Mrs
Crocket's yard when Bozzle stepped into the village by a path which he
had already discovered, and soon busied himself among the tombs in the
churchyard. Now, one corner of the churchyard was immediately opposite
to the iron gate leading into the Clock House. 'Drat 'un,' said the
wooden-legged postman, still sitting on his donkey, to Mrs Crocket's
ostler, 'if there be'ant the chap as was here yesterday when I was a
starting, and I zeed 'un in Lezbro' Street thick very morning.' 'He
be'ant arter no good, that 'un,' said the ostler. After that a close
watch was kept upon the watcher.

In the meantime, Colonel Osborne had ordered his breakfast at the Stag
and Antlers, and had asked questions as to the position of the Clock
House. He was altogether ignorant of Mr Bozzle, although Mr Bozzle had
been on his track now for two days and two nights. He had determined,
as he came on to Nuncombe Putney, that he would not be shame-faced
about his visit to Mrs Trevelyan. It is possible that he was not so
keen in the matter as he had. Been when he planned his journey in
London; and, it may be, that he really tried to make himself believe
that he had come all the way to the confines of Dartmoor to see the
porch of Cockchaffington Church. The session in London was over, and it
was necessary for such a man as Colonel Osborne that he should do
something with himself before he went down to the Scotch grouse. He had
long desired to see something of the most picturesque county in
England; and now, as he sat eating his breakfast in Mrs Crocket's
parlour, he almost looked upon his dear Emily as a subsidiary
attraction. 'Oh, that's the Clock House,' he said to Mrs Crocket. 'No,
I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs Stanbury; very respectable lady,
so I have heard; widow of a clergyman; ah, yes; son up in London; I
know him always writing books, is he? Very clever, I dare say. But
there's a lady indeed, two ladies whom I do know. Mrs Trevelyan is
there, I think and Miss Rowley.'

'You be'ant Muster Trevelyan, be you?' said Mrs Crocket, looking at him
very hard.

'No, I'm not Mr Trevelyan.'

'Nor yet "the Colonel" they doo be talking about?'

'Well, yes, I am a colonel. I don't know why anybody should talk about
me. I'll just step out now, however, and see my friends.'

'It's madam's lover,' said Mrs Crocket to herself, 'as sure as eggs is
eggs.' As she said so, Colonel Osborne boldly walked across the village
and pulled the bell at the iron gate, while Bozzle, crouching among the
tombs, saw the handle in his hand. 'There he is,' said Priscilla.
Everybody in the Clock House had known that the fly, which they had
seen, had brought 'the Colonel' into Nuncombe Putney. Everybody had
known that he had breakfasted at the Stag and Antlers. And everybody
now knew that he was at the gate, ringing the bell. 'Into the drawing
room,' said Mrs Stanbury, with a fearful, tremulous whisper to the girl
who went across the little garden in front to open the iron gate. The
girl felt as though Apollyon were there, and as though she were called
upon to admit Apollyon. Mrs Stanbury having uttered her whisper,
hurried way upstairs. Priscilla held her ground in the parlour,
determined to be near the scene of action if there might be need. And
it must be acknowledged that she peeped from behind the curtain,
anxious to catch a glimpse of the terrible man, whose coming to
Nuncombe Putney she regarded as so severe a misfortune.

The plan of the campaign had all been arranged. Mrs Trevelyan and Nora
together received Colonel Osborne in the drawing-room. It was
understood that Nora was to remain there during the whole visit. 'It is
horrible to think that such a precaution should be necessary,' Mrs
Trevelyan had said, 'but perhaps it may be best. There is no knowing
what the malice of people may not invent.'

'My dear girls,' said the Colonel, 'I am delighted to see you,' and he
gave a hand to each.

'We are not very cheerful here,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'as you may
imagine.'

'But the scenery is beautiful,' said Nora, 'and the people we are
living with are very kind and nice.'

'I am very glad of that,' said the Colonel. Then there was a pause, and
it seemed, for a moment, that none of them knew how to begin a general
conversation. Colonel Osborne was quite sure, by this time, that he had
come down to Devonshire with the express object of seeing the door of
the church at Cockchaffington, and Mrs Trevelyan was beginning to think
that he certainly had not come to see her. 'Have you heard from your
father since you have been here?' asked the Colonel.

Then there was an explanation about Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley. Mr
Trevelyan's name was not mentioned; but Mrs Trevelyan stated that she
had explained to her mother all the painful circumstances of her
present life. Sir Marmaduke, as Colonel Osborne was aware, was expected
to be in England in the spring, and Lady Rowley would, of course, come
with him. Nora thought that they might probably now come before that
time; but Mrs Trevelyan declared that it was out of the question that
they should do so. She was sure that her father could not leave the
islands except when he did so in obedience to official orders. The
expense of doing so would be ruinous to him. And what good would he do?
In this way there was a great deal of family conversation, in which
Colonel Osborne was able to take a part; but not a word was said about
Mr Trevelyan.

Nor did 'the Colonel' find an opportunity of expressing a spark of that
sentiment, for the purpose of expressing which he had made this journey
to Devonshire. It is not pleasant to make love in the presence of a
third person, even when that love is all fair and above board; but it
is quite impracticable to do so to a married lady, when that married
lady's sister is present. No more futile visit than this of Colonel
Osborne's to the Clock House was ever made. And yet, though not a word
was spoken to which Mr Trevelyan himself could have taken the slightest
exception, the visit, futile as it was, could not but do an enormous
deal Of harm. Mrs Crocket had already guessed that the fine gentleman
down from London was the lover of the married lady at the Clock House,
who was separated from her husband. The wooden-legged postman and the
ostler were not long in connecting the man among the tombstones with
the visitor to the house. Trevelyan, as we are aware, already knew that
Colonel Osborne was in the neighbourhood. And poor Priscilla Stanbury
was now exposed to the terrible necessity of owning the truth to her
aunt. 'The Colonel,' when he had sat an hour with his young friends,
took his leave; and, as he walked back to Mrs Crocket's, and ordered
that his fly might be got ready for him, his mind was heavy with the
disagreeable feeling that he had made an ass of himself. The whole
affair had been a failure; and though he might be able to pass off the
porch at Cockchaffington among his friends, he could not but be aware
himself that he had spent his time, his trouble, and his money for
nothing. He became aware, as he returned to Lessboro', that had he
intended to make any pleasant use whatever of his position in reference
to Mrs Trevelyan, the tone of his letter and his whole mode of
proceeding should have been less patriarchal. And he should have
contrived a meeting without the presence of Nora Rowley.

As soon as he had left them, Mrs Trevelyan went to her own room, and
Nora at once rejoined Priscilla.

'Is he gone?' asked Priscilla.

'Oh, yes he has gone.'

'What would I have given that he had never come!'

'And yet,' said Nora, 'what harm has he done? I wish he had not come,
because, of course, people will talk! But nothing was more natural than
that he should come over to see us when he was so near us.'

'Nora!'

'What do you mean?'

'You don't believe all that? In the neighbourhood! I believe he came on
purpose to see your sister, and I think that it was a dastardly and
most ungentleman-like thing to do.'

'I am quite sure you are wrong, then altogether wrong,' said Nora.

'Very well. We must have our own opinions. I am glad you can be so
charitable. But he should not have come here to this house, even though
imperative business had brought him into the very village. But men in
their vanity never think of the injury they may do to a woman's name.
Now I must go and write to my aunt. I am not going to have it said
hereafter that I deceived her. And then I shall write to Hugh. Oh dear;
oh dear!'

'I am afraid we are a great trouble to you.'

'I will not deceive you, because I like you. This is a great trouble to
me. I have meant to be so prudent, and with all my prudence I have not
been able to keep clear of rocks. And I have been so indignant with
Aunt Stanbury! Now I must go and eat humble-pie.'

Then she eat humble pie after the following fashion:



'Dear Aunt Stanbury

After what has passed between us, I think it right to tell you that
Colonel Osborne has been at Nuncombe Putney, and that he called at the
Clock House this morning. We did not see him. But Mrs Trevelyan and
Miss Rowley, together, did see him. He remained here perhaps an hour.

'I should not have thought it necessary to mention this to you, the
matter being one in which you are not concerned, were it not for our
former correspondence. When I last wrote, I had no idea that he was
coming nor had mamma. And when you first wrote, he was not even
expected by Mrs Trevelyan. The man you wrote about, was another
gentleman as I told you before. All this is most disagreeable, and
tiresome and would be quite nonsensical, but that circumstances seem to
make it necessary.

As for Colonel Osborne, I wish he had not been here; but his coming
would do no harm only that it will be talked about.

I think you will understand how it is that I feel myself constrained to
write to you. I do hope that you will spare mamma, who is disturbed and
harassed when she gets angry letters. If you have anything to say to
myself, I don't mind it.

Yours truly,

Priscilla Stanbury.'

The Clock House, Friday, August 5.'



She wrote also to her brother Hugh; but Hugh himself reached Nuncombe
Putney before the letter reached him.

Mr Bozzle watched the Colonel out of the house, and watched him out of
the village. When the Colonel was fairly started, Mr Bozzle walked back
to Lessboro'.



CHAPTER XXII - SHEWING HOW MISS STANBURY BEHAVED TO HER TWO NIECES

The triumph of Miss Stanbury when she received her niece's letter was
certainly very great so great that in its first flush she could not
restrain herself from exhibiting it to Dorothy. 'Well well what do you
think, Dolly?'

'About what, aunt? I don't know who the letter is from.'

'Nobody writes to me now so constant as your sister Priscilla. The
letter is from Priscilla. Colonel Osborne has been at the Clock House,
after all. I knew that he would be there. I knew it! I knew it!'

Dorothy, when she heard this, was dumbfounded. She had rested her
defence of her mother and sister on the impossibility of any such visit
being admitted. According to her lights the coming of Colonel Osborne,
after all that had been said, would be like the coming of Lucifer
himself. The Colonel was, to her imagination, a horrible roaring lion.
She had no idea that the erratic manoeuvres of such a beast might be
milder and more innocent than the wooing of any turtle-dove. She would
have asked whether the roaring lion had gone away again, and, if so,
whether he had taken his prey with him, were it not that she was too
much frightened at the moment to ask any question. That her mother and
sister should have been wilfully concerned in such iniquity was quite
incredible to her, but yet she did not know how to defend them. 'But
are you quite sure of it, Aunt Stanbury? May there not be another
mistake?'

'No mistake this time, I think, my dear. Any way, Priscilla says that
he is there.' Now in this there was a mistake. Priscilla had said
nothing of the kind.

'You don't mean that he is staying at the Clock House, Aunt Stanbury?'

'I don't know where he is now. I'm not his keeper. And, I'm glad to
say, I'm not the lady's keeper either. Ah, me! It's a bad business. You
can't touch pitch and not be defiled, my dear. If your mother wanted
the Clock House, I would sooner have taken it for her myself than that
all this should have happened for the family's sake.'

But Miss Stanbury, when she was alone, and when she had read her
niece's three letters again and again, began to understand something of
Priscilla's honesty, and began also to perceive that there might have
been a great difficulty respecting the Colonel, for which neither her
niece nor her sister-in-law could fairly be held to be responsible. It
was perhaps the plainest characteristic of all the Stanburys that they
were never wilfully dishonest. Ignorant, prejudiced, and passionate
they might be. In her anger Miss Stanbury, of Exeter, could be almost
malicious; and her niece at Nuncombe Putney was very like her aunt.
Each could say most cruel things, most unjust things, when actuated by
a mistaken consciousness of perfect right on her own side. But neither
of them could lie even by silence. Let an error be brought home to
either. of them so as to be acknowledged at home and the error would be
assuredly confessed aloud. And, indeed, with differences in the shades,
Hugh and Dorothy were of the same nature. They were possessed of
sweeter tempers than their aunt and sister, but they were filled with
the same eager readiness to believe themselves to be right and to own
themselves to others to be wrong, when they had been constrained to
make such confession to themselves. The chances of life, and something
probably of inner nature, had made Dorothy mild and obedient; whereas,
in regard to Hugh, the circumstances of his life and disposition had
made him obstinate and self-reliant. But in all was to be found the
same belief in self which amounted almost to conceit the same warmth of
affection, and the same love of justice.

When Miss Stanbury had again perused the correspondence, and had come
to see, dimly, how things had gone at Nuncombe Putney when the
conviction came upon her mind that Priscilla had entertained a horror
as to the coming of this Colonel equal to that which she herself had
felt when her imagination painted to her all that her niece had
suffered, her heart was softened somewhat. She had declared to Dorothy
that pitch, if touched, would certainly defile; and she had, at first,
intended to send the same opinion, couched in very forcible words, to
her correspondents at the Clock House. They should not continue to go
astray for want of being told that they were going astray. It must be
acknowledged, too, that there was a certain amount of ignoble wrath in
the bosom of Miss Stanbury because her sister-in-law had taken the
Clock House. She had never been told, and had not even condescended to
ask Dorothy, whether the house was taken and paid for by her nephew on
behalf of his mother, or whether it was paid for by Mr Trevelyan on
behalf of his wife. In the latter case, Mrs Stanbury would, she
thought, be little more than an upper servant, or keeper as she
expressed it to herself. Such an arrangement appeared to her to be
quite disgraceful in a Stanbury; but yet she believed that such must be
the existing arrangement, as she could not bring herself to conceive
that Hugh Stanbury could keep such an establishment over his mother's
head out of money earned by writing for a penny newspaper. There would
be a triumph of democracy in this which would vanquish her altogether.
She had, therefore, been anxious enough to trample on Priscilla and
upon all the affairs of the Clock House; but yet she had been unable to
ignore the nobility of Priscilla's truth, and having acknowledged it to
herself she found herself compelled to acknowledge it aloud. She sat
down to think in silence, and it was not till she had fortified herself
by her first draught of beer, and till she had finished her first
portion of bread and cheese, that she spoke. 'I have written to your
sister herself, this time,' she said. 'I don't know that I ever wrote a
line to her before in my life.'

'Poor Priscilla!' Dorothy did not mean to be severe on her aunt, either
in regard to the letters which had not been written, or to the one
letter which now had been written. But Dorothy pitied her sister, whom
she felt to be in trouble.

'Well; I don't know about her being so poor. Priscilla, I'll be bound,
thinks as well of herself as any of us do.'

'She'd cut her fingers off before she'd mean to do wrong,' said
Dorothy.

'But what does that come to? What's the good of that? It isn't meaning
to do right that will save us. For aught I know, the Radicals may mean
to do right. Mr Beales means to do right perhaps.'

'But, aunt if everybody did the best they could?'

'Tush, my dear! you are getting beyond your depth. There are such
things still, thank God! as spiritual pastors and masters. Entrust
yourself to them. Do what they think right.' Now if aught were known in
Exeter of Miss Stanbury, this was known that if any clergyman
volunteered to give to her, unasked and uninvited, counsel, either
ghostly or bodily, that clergyman would be sent from her presence with
a wigging which he would not soon forget. The thing had been tried more
than once, and the wigging had been complete. There was no more
attentive listener in church than Miss Stanbury; and she would, now and
again, appeal to a clergyman on some knotty point. But for the ordinary
authority of spiritual pastors and masters she shewed more of abstract
reverence than of practical obedience.

'I'm sure Priscilla does the best she can,' said Dorothy, going back to
the old subject.

'Ah well yes. What I want to say about Priscilla is this. It is a
thousand pities she is so obstinate, so pigheaded, so certain that she
can manage everything for herself better than anybody else can for
her.' Miss Stanbury was striving to say something good of her niece,
but found the task to be difficult and distasteful to her.

'She has managed for mamma ever so many years; and since she took it we
have hardly ever been in debt,' said Dorothy.

'She'll do all that, I don't doubt. I don't suppose she cares much for
ribbons and false hair for herself.'

'Who? Priscilla! The idea of Priscilla with false hair!'

'I dare say not I dare say not. I do not think she'd spend her mother's
money on things of that kind.'

'Aunt Stanbury, you don't know her.'

'Ah; very well. Perhaps I don't. But, come, my dear, you are very hard
upon me, and very anxious to take your sister's part. And what is it
all about? I've just written to her as civil a letter as one woman ever
wrote to another. And if I had chosen, I could have could have h m m.'
Miss Stanbury, as she hesitated for words in which to complete her
sentence, revelled in the strength of the vituperation which she could
have poured upon her niece's head, had she chosen to write her last
letter about Colonel Osborne in her severe strain.

'If you have written kindly to her, I am so much obliged to you,' said
Dorothy.

'The truth is, Priscilla has meant to be right. Meaning won't go for
much when the account is taken, unless the meaning comes from a proper
source. But the poor girl has done as well as she has known how. I
believe it is Hugh's fault more than anybody else's.' This accusation
was not pleasant to Dorothy, but she was too intent just now on
Priscilla's case to defend her brother, 'That man never ought to have
been there; and that woman never ought to have been there. There cannot
be a doubt about that. If Priscilla were sitting there opposite to me,
she would own as much. I am sure she would.' Miss Stanbury was quite
right if she meant to assert that Priscilla had owned as much to
herself. 'And because I think so, I am willing to forgive her part in
the matter. To me, personally, she has always been rude most
uncourteous and and and unlike a younger woman to an older one, and an
aunt, and all that. I suppose it is because she hates me.'

'Oh, no, Aunt Stanbury!'

'My dear, I suppose it is. Why else should she treat me in such a way?
But I do believe of her that she would rather eat an honest, dry crust,
than dishonest cake and ale.'

'She would rather starve than pick up a crumb that was dishonest,' said
Dorothy, fairly bursting out into tears.

'I believe it. I do believe it. There; what more can I say? Clock
House, indeed! What matter what house you live in, so that you can pay
the rent of it honestly?'

'But the rent is paid honestly,' said Dorothy, amidst her sobs.

'It's paid, I don't doubt. I dare say the woman's husband and your
brother see to that among them. Oh, that my boy, Hugh, as he used to
be, should have brought us all to this! But there's no knowing what
they won't do among them. Reform, indeed! Murder, sacrilege, adultery,
treason, atheism--that's what Reform means; besides every kind of
nastiness under the sun.' In which latter category Miss Stanbury
intended especially to include bad printer's ink, and paper made of
straw.

The reader may as well see the letter which was as civil a letter as
ever one woman wrote to another, so that the collection of the Stanbury
correspondence may be made perfect.



'The Close, August 6, 186-.

My Dear Niece,

Your letter has not astonished me nearly as much as you expected it
would. I am an older woman than you, and, though you will not believe
it, I have seen more of the world. I knew that the gentleman would come
after the lady. Such gentlemen always do go after their ladies. As for
yourself, I can see all that you have done, and pretty nearly hear all
that you have said, as plain as a pikestaff. I do you the credit of
believing that the plan is none of your making. I know who made the
plan, and a very bad plan it is.

As to my former letters and the other man, I understand all about it.
You were very angry that I should accuse you of having this man at the
house; and you were right to be angry. I respect you for having been
that he has come?

If you will consent to take an old woman's advice, get rid of the whole
boiling of them. I say it in firm love and friendship, for I am

Your affectionate aunt,

Jemima Stanbury.'



The special vaunted courtesy of this letter consisted, no doubt, in the
expression of respect which it contained, and in that declaration of
affection with which it terminated. The epithet was one which Miss
Stanbury would by no means use promiscuously in writing to her nearest
relatives. She had not intended to use it when she commenced her letter
to Priscilla. But the respect of which she had spoken had glowed, and
had warmed. itself into something of temporary love; and feeling at the
moment that she was an affectionate aunt, Miss Stanbury had so put
herself down in her letter. Having done such a deed she felt that
Dorothy, though Dorothy knew nothing about it, ought in her gratitude
to listen patiently to anything that she might now choose to say
against Priscilla.

But Dorothy was in truth very miserable, and in her misery wrote a long
letter that afternoon to her mother which, however, it will not be
necessary to place entire among the Stanbury records begging that she
might be informed as to the true circumstances of the case. She did not
say a word of censure in regard either to her mother or sister; but she
expressed an opinion in the mildest words which she could use, that if
anything had happened which had compromised their names since their
residence at the Clock House, she, Dorothy, had better go home and join
them. The meaning of which was that it would not become her to remain
in the house in the Close, if the house in the Close would be disgraced
by her presence, Poor Dorothy had taught herself to think that the
iniquity of roaring lions spread itself very widely.

In the afternoon she made some such proposition to her aunt in
ambiguous terms. 'Go home!' said Miss Stanbury. 'Now?'

'If you think it best, Aunt Stanbury'

'And put yourself in the middle of all this iniquity and abomination! I
don't suppose you want to know the woman?'

'No, indeed!'

'Or the man?'

'Oh, Aunt Stanbury!'

'It's my belief that no decent gentleman in Exeter would look at you
again if you were to go and live among them at Nuncombe Putney while
all this is going on. No, no. Let one of you be saved out of it, at
least.' Aunt Stanbury had more than once made use of expressions which
brought the faintest touch of gentle pink up to her niece's cheeks. We
must do Dorothy the justice of saying that she had never dreamed of
being looked at by any gentleman, Whether decent or indecent. Her life
at Nuncombe Putney had been of such a nature, that though she knew that
other girls were looked at, and even made love to, and that they got
married and had children, no dim vision of such a career for herself
had ever presented itself to her eyes. She had known very well that her
mother and sister and herself were people apart ladies, and yet so
extremely poor that they could only maintain their rank by the most
rigid seclusion. To live, and work unseen, was what the world had
ordained for her. Then her call to Exeter had come upon her, and she
had conceived that she was henceforth to be the humble companion of a
very imperious old aunt. Her aunt, indeed, was imperious, but did not
seem to require humility in her companion. All the good things that
were eaten and drunk were divided between them with the strictest
impartiality. Dorothy's cushion and hassock in the church and in the
cathedral were the same as her aunt's. Her bed-room was made very
comfortable for her. Her aunt never gave her any orders before company,
and always spoke of her before the servants as one whom they were to
obey and respect. Gradually Dorothy came to understand the meaning of
this but her aunt would sometimes say things about young men which she
did not quite understand. Could it be that her aunt supposed that any
young man would come and wish to marry her her, Dorothy Stanbury? She
herself had not quite so strong an aversion to men in general as that
which Priscilla felt, but she had not as yet found that any of those
whom she had seen at Exeter were peculiarly agreeable to her. Before
she went to bed that night her aunt said a word to her which startled
her more than she had ever been startled before. On that evening Miss
Stanbury had a few friends to drink tea with her. There were Mr and Mrs
Crumbie, and Mrs MacHugh of course, and the Cheritons from Alphington,
and the Miss Apjohns from Helion Villa, and old Mr Powel all the way
from Haldon, and two of the Wrights from their house in the
Northernhay, and Mr Gibson but the Miss Frenches from Heavitree were
not there. 'Why don't you have the Miss Frenches, aunt?' Dorothy had
asked.

'Bother the Miss Frenches! I'm not bound to have them every time.
There's Camilla has been and got herself, a band-box on the back of her
head a great deal bigger than the place inside where her brains ought
to be.' But the band-box at the back of Camilla French's head was not
the sole cause of the omission of the two sisters from the list of Miss
Stanbury's visitors on this occasion.

The party went off very much as usual. There were two whist tables, for
Miss Stanbury could not bear to cut out. At other houses than her own,
when there was cutting out, it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury
was to be allowed to keep her place. 'I'll go away, and sit out there
by myself, if you like,' she would say. But she was never thus
banished; and at her own house she usually contrived that there should
be no system of banishment. She would play dummy whist, preferring it
to the four-handed game; and, when hard driven, and with a meet
opponent, would not even despise double-dummy. It was told of her and
of Mrs MacHugh that they had played double-dummy for a whole evening
together; and they who were given to calumny had declared that the
candles on that evening had been lighted very early. On the present
occasion a great many sixpenny points were scored, and much tea and
cake were consumed. Mr Gibson never played whist nor did Dorothy. That
young John Wright and Mary Cheriton should do nothing but talk to each
other was a thing of course, as they were to be married in a month or
two. Then there was Ida Cheriton, who could not very well be left at
home; and Mr Gibson made himself pleasant to Dorothy and Ida Cheriton,
instead of making himself pleasant to the two Miss Frenches. Gentlemen
in provincial towns quite understand that, from the nature of social
circumstances in the provinces, they should always be ready to be
pleasant at least to a pair at a time. At a few minutes before twelve
they were all gone, and then came the shock.

'Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr Gibson?'

'Think of him, Aunt Stanbury?'

'Yes; think of him think of him. I suppose you know how to think?'

'He seems to me always to preach very drawling sermons.'

'Oh, bother his sermons! I don't care anything about his sermons now.
He is a very good clergyman, and the Dean thinks very much about him.'

'I am glad of that, Aunt Stanbury.' Then came the shock. 'Don't you
think it would be a very good thing if you were to become Mrs Gibson?'

It may be presumed that Miss Stanbury had assured herself that she
could not make progress with Dorothy by 'beating about the bush.' There
was an inaptitude in her niece to comprehend the advantages of the
situations, which made some direct explanation absolutely necessary.
Dorothy stood half smiling, half crying, when she heard the
proposition, her cheeks suffused with that pink colour, and with both
her hands extended with surprise.

'I've been thinking about it ever since you've been here,' said Miss
Stanbury.

'I think he likes Miss French,' said Dorothy, in a whisper.

'Which of them? I don't believe he likes them at all. Maybe, if they go
on long enough, they may be able to toss up for him. But I don't think
it of him. Of course they're after him, but he'll be too wise for them.
And he's more of a fool than I take him to be if he don't prefer you to
them.' Dorothy remained quite silent. To such an address as this it was
impossible that she should reply a word. It was incredible to her that
any man should prefer herself to either of the young women in question;
but she was too much confounded for the expression even of her
humility. 'At any rate you're wholesome, and pleasant and modest,' said
Miss Stanbury.

Dorothy did not quite like being told that she was wholesome; but,
nevertheless, she was thankful to her aunt.

'I'll tell you what it is,' continued Miss Stanbury; 'I hate all
mysteries, especially with those I love. I've saved two thousand
pounds, which I've put you down for in my will. Now, if you and he can
make it up together, I'll give you the money at once. There's no
knowing how often an old woman may alter her will; but when you've got
a thing, you've got it. Mr Gibson would know the meaning of a bird in
the hand as well as anybody. Now those girls at Heavitree will never
have above a few hundreds each, and not that while their mother lives.'
Dorothy made one little attempt at squeezing her aunt's hand, wishing
to thank her aunt for this affectionate generosity; but she had hardly
accomplished the squeeze, when she desisted, feeling strangely averse
to any acknowledgment of such a boon as that which had been offered to
her. 'And now, good night, my dear. If I did not think you a very
sensible young woman, I should not trust you by saying all this.' Then
they parted, and Dorothy soon found herself alone in her bedroom.

To have a husband of her own, a perfect gentleman too, and a clergyman
and to go to him with a fortune! She believed that two thousand pounds
represented nearly a hundred a year. It was a large fortune in those
parts according to her understanding of ladies' fortunes. And that she,
the humblest of the humble, should be selected for so honourable a
position! She had never quite known, quite understood as yet, whether
she had made good her footing in her aunt's house in a manner pleasant
to her aunt. More than once or twice she had spoken even of going back
to her mother, and things had been said which had almost made her think
that her aunt had been angry with her. But now, after a month or two of
joint residence, her aunt was offering to her two thousand pounds and a
husband!

But was it within her aunt's power to offer to her the husband? Mr
Gibson had always been very civil to her. She had spoken more to Mr
Gibson than to any other man in Exeter. But it had never occurred to
her for a moment that Mr Gibson had any special liking for her. Was it
probable that he would ever entertain any feeling of that kind for her?
It certainly had occurred to her before now that Mr Gibson was
sometimes bored by the Miss Frenches but then gentlemen do get bored by
ladies.

And at last she asked herself another question had she any special
liking for Mr Gibson? As far as she understood such matters everything
was blank there. Thinking of that other question, she went to sleep.



CHAPTER XXIII - COLONEL OSBORNE AND MR BOZZLE RETURN TO LONDON

Hugh Stanbury went down on the Saturday, by the early express to
Exeter, on his road to Lessboro'. He took his ticket through to
Lessboro', not purposing to stay at Exeter; but, from the exigencies of
the various trains, it was necessary that he should remain for half an
hour at the Exeter Station. This took place on the Saturday, and
Colonel Osborne's visit to the Clock House had been made on the Friday.
Colonel Osborne had returned to Lessboro', had slept again at Mrs
Clegg's house, and returned to London on the Saturday. It so happened
that, he also was obliged to spend half an hour at the Exeter Station,
and that his half-hour, and Hugh Stanbury's half-hour, were one and the
same. They met, therefore, as a matter of course, upon the platform.
Stanbury was the first to see the other, and he found that he must
determine on the spur of the moment what he would say, and what he
would do. He had received no direct commission from Trevelyan as to his
meeting with Colonel Osborne. Trevelyan had declared that, as to the
matter of quarrelling, he meant to retain the privilege of doing that
for himself; but Stanbury had quite understood that this was only the
vague expression of an angry man. The Colonel had taken a glass of
sherry, and had lighted a cigar, and was quite comfortable having
thrown aside, for a time, that consciousness of the futility of his
journey which had perplexed him when Stanbury accosted him.

'What! Mr Stanbury how do you do? Fine day, isn't it? Are you going up
or down?'

'I'm going to see my own people at Nuncombe Putney, a village, beyond
Lessboro',' said Hugh.

'Ah indeed.' Colonel Osborne of course perceived it once that as this
man was going to the house at which he had just been visiting, it would
be better that he should himself explain what he had done. If he were
to allow this mention of Nuncombe Putney to pass without saying that he
himself had been there, he would be convicted of at least some purpose
of secrecy in what he had been doing. 'Very strange,' said he; 'I was
at Nuncombe Putney myself yesterday.'

'I know you were,' said Stanbury.

'And how did you know it?' There had been a tone of anger in Stanbury's
voice which Colonel Osborne had at once appreciated, and which made him
assume a similar one. As they spoke there was a man standing in a
corner close by the bookstall, with his eye upon them, and that man was
Bozzle, the ex-policeman who was doing his duty with sedulous activity
by seeing 'the Colonel' back to London. Now Bozzle did not know Hugh
Stanbury, and was angry with himself that, he should be so ignorant. It
is the pride of a detective ex-policeman to know everybody that comes
in his way.

'Well, I had been so informed. My friend Trevelyan knew that you were
there--or that you were going there.'

'I don't care who knew that I was going there,' said the Colonel.

'I won't pretend to understand how that may be, Colonel Osborne; but I
think you must be aware, after, what took place in Curzon Street, that
it would have been better that you should not have attempted to see Mrs
Trevelyan. Whether you have seen her I do not know.'

'What business is it of yours, Mr Stanbury, whether I have seen that
lady or not?'

'Unhappily for me, her husband has made it my business.'

'Very unhappily for you, I should say.'

'And the lady is staying at my mother's house.'

'I presume the lady is not a prisoner in your mother's house, and that
your mother's hospitality is not so restricted but that her guest may
see an old friend under her roof.' This, Colonel Osborne said with an
assumed look of almost righteous indignation, which was not at all lost
upon Bozzle. They had returned back towards the bookstall, and Bozzle,
with his eyes fixed on a copy of the 'D. R.' which he had just bought,
was straining his ears to the utmost to catch what was being said.

'You best know whether you have seen her or not.'

'I have seen her.'

'Then I shall take leave to tell you, Colonel Osborne, that you have
acted in a most unfriendly way, and have done that which must tend to
keep an affectionate husband apart from his wife.'

'Sir, I don't at all understand this kind of thing addressed to me. The
father of the lady you are speaking of has been my most intimate friend
for thirty years.' After all, the Coonel was a mean man when he could
take pride in his youth, and defend himself on the score of his age, in
one and the same proceeding.

'I have nothing further to say,' replied Stanbury.

'You have said too much already, Mr Stanbury.'

'I think not, Colonel Osborne. You have, I fear, done an incredible
deal, of mischief by going to Nuncombe Putney; and, after all that you
have heard on the subject, you must have known that it would be
mischievous. I cannot understand how you can force yourself about a
man's wife against the man's expressed wish.'

'Sir, I didn't force myself upon anybody. Sir, I went down to see an
old friend and a remarkable piece of antiquity. And, when another old
friend was in the neighbourhood, close by one of the oldest friends I
have in the world wasn't I to go and see her? God bless my soul! What
business is it of yours? I never heard such impudence in my life!' Let
the charitable reader suppose that Colonel Osborne did not know that he
was lying that he really thought, when he spoke, that he had gone down
to Lessboro' to see the remarkable piece of antiquity.

'Good morning,' said Hugh Stanbury, turning on his heels and walking
away. Colonel Osborne shook himself, inflated his cheeks, and blew
forth the breath out of his mouth, put his thumbs up to the armholes of
his waistcoat, and walked about the platform as though he thought it to
be incumbent on him to show that he was somebody somebody that ought
not to be insulted somebody, perhaps, whom a very pretty woman might
prefer to her own husband, in spite of a small difference in age. He
was angry, but not quite so much angry as proud. And he was safe, too.
He thought that he was safe. When he should come to account for himself
and his actions to his old friend, Sir Marmaduke, he felt that he would
be able to show that he had been, in all respects, true to friendship.
Sir Marmaduke had unfortunately given his daughter to a jealous,
disagreeable fellow, and the fault all lay in that. As for Hugh
Stanbury he would simply despise Hugh Stanbury, and have done with it.

Mr Bozzle, though he had worked hard in the cause, had heard but a word
or two. Eaves-droppers seldom do hear more than that. A porter had
already told him who was Hugh Stanbury that he was Mr Hugh Stanbury,
and that his aunt lived at Exeter. And Bozzle, knowing that the lady
about whom he was concerned was living with a Mrs Stanbury at the house
he had been watching, put two and two together with his natural
cleverness. 'God bless my soul! what business is it of yours?' Those
words were nearly all that Bozzle had been able to hear; but even those
sufficiently indicated a quarrel. 'The lady' was living with Mrs
Stanbury, having been so placed by her husband; and young Stanbury was
taking the lady's part! Bozzle began to fear that the husband had not
confided in him with that perfect faith which he felt to be essentially
necessary to the adequate performance of the duties of his great
profession. A sudden thought, however, struck him. Something might be
done on the journey up to London. He at once made his way back to the
ticket-window and exchanged his ticket second-class for first-class. It
was a noble deed, the expense falling all upon his own pocket; for, in
the natural course of things, he would have charged his employers with
the full first-class fare. He had seen Colonel Osborne seat himself in,
a carriage, and within two minutes he was occupying the opposite place.
The Colonel was aware that he had noticed the man's face lately, but
did not know where.

'Very fine summer weather, sir,' said Bozzle.

'Very fine,' said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper.

'They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir.'

The answer to this was no more than a grunt. But Bozzle was not
offended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, in
and out of office; and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and
was all before him.

'A very nice little secluded village is Nuncombe Putney,' said Bozzle,
as the train was leaving the Salisbury station.

At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had got in,
and Bozzle. was alone with the Colonel.

'I dare say,' said the Colonel, 'who by this time had relinquished his
shield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretend
to compose himself, as soon as he heard Bozzle's voice. He had been
looking at Bozzle, and though he had not discovered the man's trade,
had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers a thing to
be avoided, by one engaged, as had been he himself, on a special and
secret mission.

'Saw you there calling at the Clock House,' said Bozzle.

'Very likely,' said the Colonel, throwing his head well back into the
corner, shutting his eyes, and uttering a slight preliminary snore.

'Very nice family of ladies at the Clock House,' said Bozzle. The
Colonel answered him by a more developed snore. 'Particularly Mrs T,'
said Bozzle.

The Colonel could not stand this. He was so closely implicated with Mrs
Trevelyan at the present moment that he could not omit to notice an
address so made to him. 'What the devil is that to you, sir?' said he,
jumping up and confronting Bozzle in his wrath.

But policemen have always this advantage in their difficulties, that
they know to a fraction what the wrath of men is worth, and what it can
do. Sometimes it can dismiss a policeman, and sometimes break his head.
Sometimes it can give him a long and troublesome job, and sometimes it
may be wrath to the death. But in nineteen out of twenty cases it is
not a fearful thing, and the policeman knows well when he need not fear
it. On the present occasion Bozzle was not at all afraid of Colonel
Osborne's wrath.

'Well, sir, not much, indeed, if you come to that. 'Only you was there,
sir.'

'Of course I was there,' said the Colonel.

'And a very nice young gentleman is Mr Stanbury,' said Bozzle.

To this Colonel Osborne made no reply, but again had resort to his
newspaper in the most formal manner.

'He's a going down to his family, no doubt,' continued Bozzle.

'He may be going to the devil for what I know,' said the Colonel, who
could not restrain himself.

'I suppose they're all friends of Mrs T.'s?' asked Bozzle.

'Sir,' said the Colonel, 'I believe that you're a spy.'

'No, Colonel, no; no, no; I'm no spy. I wouldn't demean myself to be
such. A spy is a man as has no profession, and nothing to justify his
looking into things. Things must be looked into, Colonel; or how's a
man to know where he is? or how's a lady to know where she is? But as
for spies, except in the way of evidence, I don't think nothing of
'em.' Soon after this, two more passengers entered the train, and
nothing more was said between Bozzle and the Colonel.

The Colonel, as soon as he reached London, went home to his lodgings,
and then to his club, and did his best to enjoy himself. On the
following Monday he intended to start for Scotland. But he could not
quite enjoy himself because of Bozzle. He felt that he was being
watched; and there is nothing that any man hates so much as that,
especially when a lady is concerned. Colonel Osborne knew that his
visit to Nuncombe Putney had been very innocent; but he did not, like
the feeling that even his innocence had been made the subject of
observation.

Bozzle went away at once to Trevelyan, whom he found at his chambers.
He himself had had no very deep-laid scheme in his addresses to Colonel
Osborne. He had begun to think that very little would come of the
affair especially after Hugh Stanbury had appeared upon the scene and
had felt that there was nothing to be lost by presenting himself before
the eyes of the Colonel. It was necessary that he should make a report
to his employer, and the report might be made a little more full after
a few words with the man whom he had been 'looking into.' 'Well, Mr
Trewillian,' he said, seating himself on a chair close against the
wall, and holding his hat between the knees 'I've seen the parties, and
know pretty much all about it.'

'All I want to know, Mr Bozzle, is, whether Colonel Osborne has been at
the Clock House?'

'He has been there, Mr Trewillian. There is no earthly dobt about that.
From hour to hour I can tell you pretty nearly where he's been since he
left London.' Then Bozzle took out his memorandum-book.

'I don't care about all that,' said Trevelyan.

'I dare say not, sir; but it may be wanted all the same. Any gentleman
acting in our way can't be too particular can't have too many facts.
The smallest little tiddly things, and Bozzle as he said this seemed to
enjoy immensely the flavour of his own epithet 'the smallest little
"tiddly" things do so often turn up trumps when you get your evidence
into court.'

'I'm not going to get any evidence into court.'

'Maybe not, sir. A gentleman and lady is always best out of court as
long as things can hang on any way but sometimes things won't hang on
no way.'

Trevelyan, who was conscious that the employment of Bozzle was
discreditable, and whose affairs in Devonshire were now in the hands
of, at any rate, a more honourable ally, was at present mainly anxious
to get rid of the ex-policeman. 'I have no doubt you've been very
careful, Mr Bozzle,' said he.

'There isn't no one in the business could be more so, Mr Trewillian.'

'And you have found out what it was necessary that I should know.
Colonel Osborne did go to the Clock House?'

'She was let in at the front door on Friday the 5th by Sarah French,
the housemaid, at 10.37 a.m., and was let out again by the same young
woman at 11.44 a.m. Perhaps you'd like to have a copy of the entry, Mr
Trewillian?'.

'No, no, no.'

'It doesn't matter. Of course it'll be with me when it's wanted. Who
was with him, exactly, at that time, I can't say. There is things, Mr
Trewillian, one can't see. But I don't think as he saw neither Mrs
Stanbury, nor Miss Stanbury not to speak to. I did just have one word,
promiscuous, with Sarah French, after he was gone. Whether the other
young lady was with 'em or not, and if so for how long, I can't say.
There is things, Mr Trewillian, which one can't see.'

How Trevelyan hated the man as he went on with his odious details
details not one of which possessed the slightest importance. 'It's all
right, I dare say, Mr Bozzle. And now about the account.'

'Quite so, Mr Trewillian. But there was one question just one
question.'

'What question?' said Trevelyan, almost angrily.

'And there's another thing I must tell you, too, Mr Trewillian. I come
back to town in the same carriage with the Colonel. I thought it
better.'

'You did not tell him who you were?'

'No, Mr Trewillian; I didn't tell him that. I don't think he'd say if
you was to ask him that I told him much of anything. No, Mr Trewillian,
I didn't tell him nothing. I don't often tell folks much till the time
comes. But I thought it better, and I did have a word or two with the
gent just a word or two. He's not so very downy, isn't the Colonel for
one that's been at it so long, Mr Trewillian.'

'I dare say not. But if you could just let me have the account, Mr
Bozzle--'

'The account? Oh, yes that is necessary; ain't it? These sort of
inquiries do come a little expensive, Mr Trewillian; because time goes
for so much; and when one has to be down on a thing, sharp, you know,
and sure, so that counsel on the other side can't part you from it,
though he shakes you like a dog does a rat and one has to get oneself
up ready for all that, you know, Mr Trewillian as I was saying, one
can't count one's shillings when one has such a job as this in hand.
Clench your nail that's what I say; be it even so. Clench your nail
that's what you've got to do.'

'I dare say we shan't quarrel about the money, Mr Bozzle.'

'Oh dear no. I find I never has any words about the money. But there's
that one question. There's a youg Mr Stanbury has gone down, as knows
all about it. What's he up to?'

'He's my particular friend,' said Trevelyan.

'Oh h. He do know all about it, then?'

'We needn't talk about that, if you please, Mr Bozzle.'

'Because there was words between him and the Colonel upon the platform
and very angry words. The young man went at the Colonel quite
open-mouthed savage-like. It's not the way such things should be done,
Mr Trewillian; and though of course it's not for me to speak she's your
lady still, when you has got a thing of this kind in hand, one head is
better than a dozen. As for myself, Mr Trewillian, I never wouldn't
look at a case not if I knew it unless I was to have it all to myself.
But of course there was no bargain, and so I says nothing.'

After considerable delay the bill was made out on the spot, Mr Bozzle
copying down the figures painfully from his memorandum-book, with his
head much inclined on one side. Trevelyan asked him, almost in despair,
to name the one sum; but this Bozzle declined to do, saying that right
was right. He had a scale of pilfering of his own, to which he had
easily reconciled his conscience; and beyond that he prided himself on
the honesty of his accounts. At last the bill was made out, was paid,
and Bozzle was gone. Trevelyan, when he was alone, threw himself back
on a sofa, and almost wept in despair. To what a depth of degradation
had he not been reduced!



CHAPTER XXIV - NIDDON PARK

As Hugh Stanbury went over to Lessboro', and from thence to Nuncombe
Putney, he thought more of himself and Nora Rowley than he did of Mr
and Mrs Trevelyan. As to Mrs Trevelyan and Colonel Osborne, he felt
that he knew everything that it was necessary that he should know. The
man had been there, and had seen Mrs Trevelyan. Of that there could be
no doubt. That Colonel Osborne had been wickedly indifferent to the
evil consequences of such a visit, and that all the women concerned had
been most foolish in permitting him to make it, was his present
conviction. But he did not for a moment doubt that the visit had in
itself been of all things the most innocent. Trevelyan had sworn that
if his wife received the man at Nuncombe Putney, he would never see her
again. She had seen him, and this oath would be remembered, and there
would be increased difficulties. But these difficulties, whatever they
might be, must be overcome. When he had told himself this, then he
allowed his mind to settle itself on Nora Rowley.

Hitherto he had known Miss Rowley only as a fashionable girl living
with the wife of an intimate friend of his own in London. He had never
been staying. in the same house with her. Circumstances had never given
to him the opportunity of assuming the manner of an intimate friend,
justifying him in giving advice, and authorising him to assume that
semi-paternal tone which is by far the easiest preliminary to
love-making. When a man can tell a young lady what she ought to read,
what she ought to do, and whom she ought to know, nothing can be easier
than to assure her that, of all her duties, her first duty is to prefer
himself to all the world. And any young lady who has consented to
receive lessons from such a teacher, will generally be willing to
receive this special lesson among others. But Stanbury had hitherto had
no such opportunities. In London Miss Rowley had been a fashionable
young lady, living in Mayfair, and he had been well, anything but a
fashionable young man. Nevertheless, he had seen her often, had sat by
her very frequently, was quite sure that he loved her dearly, and had,
perhaps, some self-flattering idea in his mind that had he stuck to his
honourable profession as a barrister, and were he possessed of some
comfortable little fortune of his own, he might, perhaps, have been
able, after due siege operations, to make this charming young woman his
own. Things were quite changed now. For the present, Miss Rowley
certainly could not be regarded as a fashionable London young lady. The
house in which he would see her was, in some sort, his own. He would be
sleeping under the same roof with her, and would have all the
advantages which such a position could give him. He would have no
difficulty now in asking, if he should choose to ask; and he thought
that she might be somewhat softer, somewhat more likely to yield at
Nuncombe Putney, than she would have been in London. She was at
Nuncombe in weak circumstances, to a certain degree friendless; with
none of the excitement of society around her, with no elder sons
buzzing about her and filling her mind, if not her heart, with the
glories of luxurious primogeniture. Hugh Stanbury certainly did not
dream that any special elder son had as yet been so attracted as to
have made. a journey to Nuncombe Putney on Nora's behalf. But should he
on this account because she would be, as. it were, without means of
defence from his attack should he therefore take advantage of her
weakness? She would, of course, go back to her London life after some
short absence, and would again, if free, have her chance among the
favoured ones of the earth. What had he to offer to her? He had taken
the Clock House for his mother, and it would be quite as much as he
could do, when Mrs Trevelyan should have left the village, to keep up
that establishment and maintain himself in London quite as much as he
could do, even though the favours of the 'D. R.' should flow upon him
with their fullest tides. In such circumstances, would it be honourable
in him to ask a girl to love him because he found her defenceless in
his mother's house?

'If there bain't another for Nuncombe,' said Mrs. Clegg's Ostler to Mrs
Clegg's Boots, as Stanbury was driven off in a gig.

'That be young Stanbury, a-going of whome.'

'They be all a-going for the Clock House. Since the old 'ooman took to
thick there house, there be folk a-comin' and a-goin' every day loike.'

'It's along of the madam that they keeps there, Dick,' said the Boots.

'I didn't care if there'd be madams allays. They're the best as is
going for trade anyhow,' said the ostler. What the ostler said was
true. When there comes to be a feeling that a woman's character is in
any way tarnished, there comes another feeling that everybody on the
one side may charge double, and that everybody on the other side must
pay double, for everything. Hugh Stanbury could not understand why he
was charged a shilling a mile, instead of ninepence, for the gig to
Nuncombe Putney. He got no satisfactory answer, and had to pay the
shilling. The truth was, that gigs to Nuncombe Putney had gone up,
since a lady, separated from her husband, with a colonel running after
her, had been taken in at the Clock House.

'Here's Hugh!' said Priscilla, hurrying to the front door. And Mrs
Stanbury hurried after her. Her son Hugh was the apple of her eye, the
best son that ever lived, generous, noble, a thorough man almost a god!

'Dear, dear, oh dear! Who'd have expected it? God bless you, my boy!
Why didn't you write? Priscilla, what is there in the house that he can
eat?'



'Plenty of bread and cheese,' said Priscilla, laughing, with her hand
inside her brother's arm. For though Priscilla hated all other men, she
did not hate her brother Hugh. 'If you wanted things nice to eat
directly you got here, you ought to have written.'

'I shall want my dinner, like any other Christian in due time,' said
Hugh. 'And how is Mrs Trevelyan and how is Miss Rowley?'

He soon found himself in company with those two ladies, and experienced
some immediate difficulty in explaining the cause of his sudden coming.
But this was soon put aside by Mrs Trevelyan.

'When did you see my husband?' she asked.

'I saw him yesterday. He was quite well.'

'Colonel Osborne has been here,' she said.

'I know that he has been here. I met him at the station at Exeter.
Perhaps I should not say so, but I wish he had remained away.'

'We all wish it,' said Priscilla.

Then Nora spoke. 'But what could we do, Mr Stanbury? It seemed so
natural that he should call when he was in the neighbourhood. We have
known him so long; and how could we refuse to see him?'

'I will not let any one think that I'm afraid to see any man on earth,'
said Mrs Trevelyan. 'If he had ever in his life said a word that he
should not have said, a word that would have been an insult, of course
it would have been different. But the notion of it is preposterous. Why
should I not have seen him?'

'I think he was wrong to come,' said Hugh.

'Of course he was wrong wickedly wrong,' said Priscilla.

Stanbury, finding that the subject was openly discussed between them,
declared plainly the mission that had brought him to Nuncombe.
'Trevelyan heard that he was coming, and asked me to let him know the
truth,'

'Now you can tell him the truth,' said Mrs Trevelyan, with something of
indignation in her tone, as though she thought that Stanbury had taken
upon himself a task of which he ought to be ashamed.

'But Colonel Osborne came specially to pay a visit to Cockchaffington,'
said Nora, 'and not to see us. Louis ought to know that.'

'Nora, how can you demean yourself to care about such trash?' said Mrs
Trevelyan. 'Who cares why he came here? His visit to me was a thing of
course. If Mr Trevelyan disapproves of it, let him say so, and not send
secret messengers.'

'Am I a secret messenger?' said Hugh Stanbury.

'There has been a man here, inquiring of the servants,' said Priscilla.
So that odious Bozzle had made his foul mission known to them!
Stanbury, however, thought it best to say nothing of Bozzle not to
acknowledge that he had ever heard of Bozzle. 'I am sure Mrs Trevelyan
does not mean you,' said Priscilla.

'I do not know what I mean,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'I am so harassed and fevered by these suspicions that I am driven
nearly mad.' Then she left the room for a minute and returned with two
letters. 'There, Mr Stanbury; I got that note from Colonel Osborne, and
wrote to him that reply. You know all about it now. Can you say that I
was wrong to see him?'

'I am sure that he was wrong to come,' said Hugh.

'Wickedly wrong,' said Priscilla, again.

'You can keep the letters, and show, them to my husband,' said Mrs
Trevelyan; 'then he will know all about it.' But Stanbury declined to
keep the letters.

He was to remain the Sunday at Nuncombe Putney and return to London on
the Monday. There was, therefore, but one day on which he could say
what he I had to say to Nora Rowley. When he came down to breakfast on
the Sunday morning he had almost made up his mind that he had nothing
to say to her. As for Nora, she was in a state of mind much less near
to any fixed purpose. She had told, herself that she loved this man had
indeed done so in the clearest way, by acknowledging the fact of her
love, to another suitor, by pleading to that other suitor the fact of
her love as an insuperable reason why he should be rejected. There was
no longer any doubt about it to her. When Priscilla had declared that
Hugh Stanbury was at the door, her heart had gone into her mouth.
Involuntarily she had pressed her hands to her sides, and had held her
breath. Why had he come there? Had he come there for, her? Oh! if he
had come there for her, and if she might dare to forget all the future,
how sweet sweetest of all things in heaven or earth might be an August
evening with him among the lanes! But she, too, had endeavoured to be
very prudent. She had told herself that she was quite unfit to be the
wife of a poor man that she would be only a burden round his neck, and
not an aid to him. And in so telling herself, she had told herself also
that she had been a fool not to accept Mr Glascock. She should have
dragged out from her heart the image of this man who had never even
whispered a word of love in her ears, and should have constrained
herself to receive with affection a man in loving whom there ought to
be no difficulty. But when she had been repeating those lessons to
herself, Hugh Stanbury had not been in the house. Now he was there and
what must be her answer if he should whisper that word of love? She had
an idea that it would be treason in her to disown the love she felt, if
questioned concerning her heart by the man to whom it had been given.

They all went to church on the Sunday morning, and up to that time Nora
had not been a moment alone with the man. It had been decided that they
should dine early, and then ramble out, when the evening would be less
hot than the. day had been, to a spot called Niddon Park. This was
nearly three miles from Nuncombe, and was a beautiful wild slope of
ground full of ancient, blighted, blasted, but still half-living oaks
oaks that still brought forth leaves overlooking a bend of the river
Teign. Park, in the usual sense of the word, there was none, nor did
they who lived round Nuncombe Putney know whether Niddon Park had ever
been enclosed. But of all the spots in that lovely neighbourhood,
Priscilla Stanbury swore that it was the loveliest; and, as it had
never yet been seen by Mrs Trevelyan or her sister, it was determined
that they would walk there on this August afternoon. There were four of
them and as was natural, they fell into parties of two and two. But
Priscilla walked with Nora, and Hugh Stanbury walked with his friend's
wife. Nora was talkative, but demure in her manner, and speaking now
and again as though she were giving words and not thoughts. She felt
that there was something to hide, and was suffering from disappointment
that their party should not have been, otherwise divided. Had Hugh
spoken to her and asked her to be his wife, she could not have accepted
him, because she knew that they were both poor, and that she was not
fit to keep a poor man's house. She had declared to herself most
plainly that that must be her course but yet she was disappointed, and
talked in the knowledge that she had something to conceal.

When they were seated beneath an old riven, withered oak, looking down
upon the river, they were still divided in the same way. In seating
herself she had been very anxious not to disarrange that arrangement
almost equally anxious not to seem to adhere to it with any special
purpose. She was very careful that there should be nothing seen in her
manner that was in any way special but in the meantime she was
suffering an agony of trouble. He did not care for her in the least.
She was becoming sure of that. She had given all her love to a man who
had none to give her in return. As she thought of this she almost
longed for the offer of that which she knew she could not have accepted
had it been offered to her. But she talked on about the scenery, about
the weather descanting on the pleasure of living where such loveliness
was within reach. Then there came a pause for a moment. 'Nora' said
Priscilla, 'I do not know what you are thinking about, but it is not of
the beauty of Niddon Park. Then there came a faint sound as of an
hysterical sob, and then a gurgle in the throat, and then a pretence
at laughter.

'I don't believe I am thinking of anything at all' said Nora.

After which Hugh insisted on descending to the bank of the river, but,
as the necessity of re-climbing the slope was quite manifest, none of
the girls would go with him. 'Come, Miss Rowley' said he, 'will you not
show them that a lady can go up and down a hill as well as a man?'

'I had rather not go up and down the hill' said she.

Then he understood that she was angry with him; and in some sort
surmised the cause of her anger. Not that he believed that she loved
him; but it seemed possible to him that she resented the absence of his
attention. He went down, and scrambled out on the rocks into the bed of
the river, while the girls above looked down upon him, watching the
leaps that he made. Priscilla and. Mrs Trevelyan called to him, bidding
him beware; but Nora called not at all. He was whistling as he made his
jumps, but still he heard their voices, and knew that he did not hear
Nora's voice. He poised himself on the edge of a rock in the middle of
the stream, and looked up the river and down the river, turning himself
carefully on his narrow foothold; but he was thinking only of Nora.
Could there be anything nobler than to struggle on with her, if she
only would be willing? But then she was young; and should she yield to
such a request from him, she would not know what she was yielding. He
turned again, jumping from rock to rock till he reached the bank, and
then made his way again up to the withered oak.

'You would not have repented it if you had come down with me' he said
to Nora.

'I am not so sure of that' she answered.

When they started to return she stepped on gallantly with Priscilla;
but Priscilla was stopped by some chance, having some word. to say to
her brother, having some other word to say to Mrs Trevelyan. Could it
be that her austerity had been softened, and that in kindness they
contrived that Nora should be left some yards behind them with her
brother? Whether it were kindness, or an unkind error, so it was. Nora,
when she perceived what destiny was doing for her, would not interfere
with destiny. If he chose to speak to her she would hear him and would
answer him. She knew very well what answer he would give him. She had
her answer quite ready at her fingers' ends. There was no doubt about
her answer.

They had walked half a mile together and he had spoken of nothing but
the scenery. She had endeavoured to appear to be excited. Oh, yes, the
scenery of Devonshire was delightful. She hardly wanted anything more
to make her happy. If only this misery respecting her sister could
be set right!

'And you, you yourself' said he, 'do you mean that there is nothing you
want in leaving London?'

'Not much, indeed.'

'It sometimes seemed to me that that kind of life was was very pleasant
to you.'

'What kind of life, Mr Stanbury?'

'The life that you were living going out, being admired, and having the
rich and dainty all around you.'

'I don't dislike people because they are rich' she said.

'No; nor do I; and I despise those who affect to dislike them. But all
cannot be rich.'

'Nor all dainty, as you choose to call them.'

'But they who have once been dainty as I call them never like to divest
themselves of their daintiness. You have been one of the dainty, Miss
Rowley.'

'Have I?'

'Certainly; I doubt whether you would be happy if you thought that your
daintiness had departed from you.'

'I hope, Mr Stanbury, that nothing nice and pleasant has departed from
me. If I have ever been dainty, dainty I hope. I may remain. I will
never, at, any rate, give it up of my own accord'. Why she said this,
she could never explain to herself. She had certainly not intended to
rebuff him when she had been saying it. But he spoke not a. word to her
further as they walked home, either of her mode of life or of his own.



CHAPTER XXV - HUGH STANBURY SMOKES HIS PIPE

Nora Rowley, when she went to bed, after her walk to Niddon Park in
company with Hugh Stanbury, was full of wrath against, him. But she
could not own her anger to herself, nor could she even confess to
herself though she was breaking her heart that there really existed for
her the slightest cause of grief. But why had he been so stern to her?
Why had he gone out of his way to be uncivil to her? He had called her
'dainty' meaning to imply by the epithet that she was one of the
butterflies of the day, caring for nothing but sunshine, and an
opportunity of fluttering her silly wings. She had understood well what
he meant. Of course he was right to be cold to her if his heart was
cold, but he need not have insulted her by his ill-concealed rebukes.
Had he been kind to her, he might have rebuked her as much as he liked.
She quite appreciated the delightful intimacy of a loving word of
counsel from the, man she loved how nice it is, as it were, to play at
marriage, and to hear beforehand something of the pleasant weight of
gentle marital authority. But there had been nothing of that in his
manner to her. He had told her that she was dainty and had so told it
her, as she thought, that she might, learn thereby, that under no
circumstances would he have any other tale to tell her. If he had no
other tale, why had he not been silent? Did he think that she was
subject to his rebuke merely because she lived under his mother's roof?
She would soon shew him that her residence at the Clock House gave him
no such authority over her. Then amidst her wrath and despair, she
cried herself asleep.

While she was sobbing in bed, he was sitting, with a, short, black pipe
stuck into his mouth, on the corner of the churchyard wall opposite.
Before he had left the house he and Priscilla had spoken together for
some minutes about Mrs Trevelyan. 'Of course she was wrong to see him'
said Priscilla. 'I hesitate to wound, her by so saying, because she has
been ill-used though I did tell her so, when she asked me. She could
have lost nothing by declining his visit.'

'The worst of it is that Trevelyan swears, that he will never receive
her again if she received him.'

'He must unswear it' said Priscilla, 'that is all. It is out of the
question that a man should take a girl from her home, and make her his
wife, and then throw her off for so little of an offence as this. She
might compel him by law to take her back'

'What would she get by that?'

'Little enough' said Priscilla; 'and it was little enough she, got by
marrying him. She would have had bread, and meat, and raiment without
being married, I suppose.'

'But it was a love-match.'

'Yes and now she is at Nuncombe Putney, and he is roaming about in
London. He has to pay ever so much a year for his love-match, and she
is crushed into nothing by it. How long will she have to remain here,
Hugh?'

'How can I say? I suppose there is no reason against her remaining as
far as you are concerned?'

'For me personally, none. Were she much worse than I think she is, I
should not care in the least for myself, if I thought that we were
doing her good helping to bring her back. She can't hurt me. I am so
fixed, and dry, and established that nothing anybody says will affect
me. But mamma doesn't like it.'

'What is it she dislikes?'

'The idea that she is harbouring a married woman, of whom people say,
at least, that she has a lover.'

'Is she to be turned out because people are slanderers?'

'Why should mamma suffer because this woman, who is a stranger to her,
has been imprudent? If she were your wife, Hugh--'

'God forbid!'

'If we were in any way bound to her, of course we would do our duty.
But if it makes mamma unhappy I am sure you will not press it. I think
Mrs Merton has spoken to her. And then Aunt Stanbury has written such
letters!'

'Who cares for Aunt Jemima?'

'Everybody cares for her except you and I. And now this man who has
been here asking the servant. questions has upset her greatly. Even
your coming has done so, knowing, as she does, that you have come, not
to see us, but to make inquiries about Mrs Trevelyan. She is so annoyed
by it, that she does not sleep.

'Do you wish her to be taken away at once?' asked Hugh almost in an
angry tone.

'Certainly not. That would be impossible. We have agreed to take her,
and must bear with it. And I would not have her moved from this, if I
thought that if she stayed awhile it might be arranged that she might
return from us direct to her husband.'

'I shall try that, of course now.'

'But if he will not have her if he be so obstinate, so foolish, and so
wicked, do not leave her here longer than you can help. Then Hugh
explained that Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to be in England in,
the spring, and that it would be very desirable that the poor woman
should not be sent abroad to look for a home before that. 'If it must
be so, it must' said Priscilla. 'But eight months is a long time.'

Hugh went out to smoke his pipe on the church-wall in a moody, unhappy
state of mind. He had hoped to have done so well in regard to Mrs
Trevelyan. Till he had met Colonel Osborne, he felt sure, almost sure,
that she would have refused to see that pernicious trouble of the peace
of families. In this he. found that he had been disappointed; but he
had not expected that Priscilla would have been so much opposed to the
arrangement which he had made about the house, and then he had been
buoyed up by the anticipation of some delight in meeting Nora Rowley.
There was, at any rate, the excitement of seeing her to, keep his
spirits from flagging. He had seen her, and had had the opportunity of
which he had so long been thinking. He had seen her and had had every
possible advantage on his side. What could any man desire better than
the privilege of walking home with the girl he loved through country
lanes of a summer evening? They had been an hour together or might have
been, had lie chosen to prolong, the interview. But the words which had
been spoken between them had had not the slightest interest unless it
were that they had tended to make the interval between him and her
wider than ever. He had asked her he thought that he had asked whether
it would grieve her to abandon that delicate, dainty mode of life to
which she had been accustomed; and she had replied that she would never
abandon it of her own accord. Of course she had intended him to take
her at her word.

He blew forth quick clouds of heavy smoke, as he attempted to make
himself believe that this was all for the best. What would such a one
as he was do with a wife? Or, seeing as he did see, that marriage
itself was quite out of the question, how could it be good either for
him or her that they should be tied together by a long engagement? Such
a future would not at all suit the purpose of his life. In his life
absolute freedom would be needed freedom from unnecessary ties, freedom
from unnecessary burdens. His income was most precarious and he
certainly would not make it less so by submission to any closer
literary thraldom. And he believed himself to be a Bohemian too much of
a Bohemian to enjoy a domestic fireside with children and slippers. To
be free to go where he liked, and when he liked, to think as he
pleased, to be driven nowhere by conventional rules, to use his days,
Sundays as well as Mondays, as he pleased to use them; to turn
Republican, if his mind, should take him that way or Quaker, or Mormon
or Red Indian, if he wished it, and in so turning to do no damage to
any one but himself that was the life which he had planned for himself.
His aunt Stanbury had not read his character altogether wrongly, as he
thought, when she had once declared that decency and godliness were
both distasteful to him. Would it not be destruction to such a one as
he was, to fall into an interminable engagement with any girl, let her
be ever so sweet?

But yet, he felt as he sat there filling pipe after pipe, smoking away
till past midnight, that though he could not bear the idea of trammels,
though he was totally unfit for matrimony, either present or in
prospect he felt that he had within his breast a double identity, and
that that other division of himself would be utterly crushed if it were
driven to divest itself of the idea of love. Whence was to come his
poetry, the romance of his life, the springs of clear water in which
his ignoble thoughts were to be dipped till they should: become pure,
if love was to be banished altogether from the list of delights that
were possible to him? And then he began to speculate on love that love
of which poets wrote, and of which he found that some sparkle was
necessary to give light to his life. Was it not the one particle of
divine breath given to man, of which he had heard since he was a boy?
And how was this love to be come at, and was it to be a thing of
reality, or merely an idea? Was it a pleasure to be attained or a
mystery that charmed by the difficulties of the distance a distance
that never could be so passed that the thing should really be reached?
Was love to be ever a delight, vague as is that feeling of unattainable
beauty which far-off mountains give, when you know that you can never
place yourself amidst their unseen valleys? And if love could be
reached the love of which the poets sing, and of which his own heart
was ever singing what were to be its pleasures? To press a hand, to
kiss a lip, to clasp a waist, to hear even the low voice of the
vanquished, confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheek upon
your shoulder what. is it all but to have reached the once mysterious
valley of your far-off mountain, and to have found that it is as other
valleys rocks and stones, with a little, grass, and a thin stream of
running water? But beyond that pressing of the hand, and that kissing
of the lips beyond that short-lived pressure of the plumage which is
common to birds and men what could love do beyond that? There were
children with dirty faces and household bills, and a wife, who must,
perhaps, always darn the stockings and be sometimes cross. Was love to
lead only to this a dull life, with a woman who had lost the beauty
from her cheeks, and the gloss from her hair, and the music from her
voice, and the fire from her eye and the grace from her step, and whose
waist an arm should no longer be able to span? Did the love of the
poets lead to that, and that only? Then, through the cloud of smoke,
there came upon him some dim idea of self-abnegation that the
mysterious valley among the mountains, the far-off prospect of which
was so charming to him which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact,
the capacity of caring more for other human beings than for himself.
The beauty of it all was not so much in the thing loved, as in the
loving. 'Were she a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless' he said to, himself,
'it might be the same. Only she must be a woman.' Then he blew off a
great cloud of smoke, and went into bed lost amid poetry, philosophy,
love, and tobacco.

It had been arranged overnight that he was to start the next morning at
half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his breakfast
before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. She was one of
those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming down to make the
tea at any possible hour at five, at four, if it were needed and who
would never want to go to bed again when the ceremony was performed.
But when Nora made her appearance Nora, who had beer dainty both
Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. They could not say why she was there
nor could Nora tell herself. She had not forgiven him. She had no
thought of being gentle and loving to him. She declared to herself that
she had no wish of saying good-bye to him once again. But yet she was
in the room, waiting for him, when he came down to his breakfast. She
had been unable to sleep, and. had reasoned with herself as to the
absurdity of lying in, bed awake, when she preferred to be up and out
of the house. It was true that she had not been out of her bed at seven
any morning since she had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no
reasons why she should not be more active on this special morning.
There was a noise in the house, and she never could sleep when there
was a noise. She was quite sure that she was not going down because she
wished to see Hugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it would be
a disgrace to her to be deterred from going down, simply because the
man was there. So she descended to the parlour, and was standing near
the open window when Stanbury bustled into the room, some quarter of an
hour after the proper time. Priscilla was there also, guessing
something of the truth, and speculating whether these two young people,
should they love each other, would be the better or the worse for such
love. There must be marriages if only that the world might go on in
accordance with the Creator's purpose. But, as Priscilla could see,
blessed were they who were not called upon to assist in the scheme. To
her eyes all days seemed to be days of wrath, and all times, times of
tribulation. And it was all mere vanity and vexation of spirit. To go
on and bear it till one was dead helping others to bear it, if such
help might be of avail that was her theory of life. To make it pleasant
by eating, and drinking, and dancing, or even by falling in love, was,
to her mind, a vain crunching of ashes between the teeth. Not to have
ill things said of her and of, hers, not to be disgraced, not to be
rendered incapable of some human effort, not to have actually to starve
such was the extent of her ambition in this world. And for the next she
felt so assured of, the goodness of God that she could not bring
herself to doubt of happiness in a world that was to be eternal. Her
doubt was this, whether it was really the next world which would be
eternal. Of eternity she did not doubt but might there not be, many
worlds? These, things, however, she kept almost entirely to herself.
'You down!' Priscilla had said.

'Well, yes; I could not sleep when I heard you all moving. And the
morning is so fine, and I thought that perhaps you would go out and
walk after your brother has gone.' Priscilla promised that she would
walk, and then the tea was made.

'Your sister and I are going out for an early walk' said Nora, when she
was greeted by Stanbury. Priscilla said, nothing, but thought she
understood it all.

'I wish I were going with you' said Hugh. Nora, remembering how very
little he had made of his opportunity on the evening before, did not
believe him.

The eggs and fried bacon were eaten in a hurry, and very little was
said. Then there came the moment for parting. The brother and sister
kissed each other, and Hugh took Nora by the hand 'I hope you make
yourself happy here' he said.

'Oh, yes if it were only for myself I should want nothing.'

'I will do the best, I can with Trevelyan.'

'The best will be to make him and every one understand that the fault
is altogether his, and not Emily's.'

'The best will be to make each think that there has been no real
fault,' said Hugh.

'There should be no talking of faults,' said Priscilla. 'Let the
husband take his wife back as he is bound to do.'

These words occupied hardly a minute in the saying, but during that
minute Hugh Stanbury held Nora by the hand. He held it fast. She would
not attempt to withdraw it, but neither would she return his pressure
by the muscle of a single finger. What right had he to press her hand;
or to make any sign of love, any pretence of loving, when he had gone
out of his way to tell her that she was not good enough for him? Then
he started, and Nora and Priscilla put on their hats arid left the
house.

'Let us go to Niddon Park,' said Nora.

'To Niddon Park again?'

'Yes; it is so beautiful! And I should like to see it by the morning
light. There is plenty of time.'

So they walked to Niddon Park in the morning, as they had done on the
preceding evening. Their conversation at first regarded Trevelyan and
his wife, and the old trouble; but Nora could not keep herself from
speaking of Hugh Stanbury.

'He would not have come,' she said, 'unless Louis had sent him.'

'He would not have come now, I think.'

'Of course not why should he before Parliament was hardly over, too?
But he won't remain in town now, will he?'

'He says somebody must remain and I think he will be in London till
near Christmas.'

'How disagreeable! But I suppose he doesn't care. It's all the same to
a man like him. They don't shut the clubs up, I dare say. Will he come
here at Christmas?'

'Either then or for the New Year--just for a day or two.'

'We shall be gone then, I suppose?' said Nora.

'That must depend on Mr Trevelyan,' said Priscilla.

'What a life for two women to lead to depend upon the caprice of a man
who must be mad! Do you think that Mr Trevelyan will care for what your
brother says to him?'

'I do not know Mr Trevelyan.

'He is very fond of your brother, and I suppose men friends do listen
to each other. They never seem to listen to women. Don't you think
that, after all, they despise women? They look on them as dainty,
foolish things.'

'Sometimes women despise men,' said Priscilla.

'Not very often do they? And then women are so dependent on men. A
woman can get nothing without a man.'

'I manage to get on somehow,' said Priscilla.

'No, you don't, Miss Stanbury if you think of it. You want mutton. And
who kills the sheep?

'But who cooks it?'

'But the men-cooks are the best,' said Nora; 'and the men-tailors, and
the men to wait at table, and the men poets, and the men-painters, and
the men-nurses. All the things that women do, men do better.'

'There are two things they can't do,' said Priscilla.

'What: are they?'

'They can't suckle babies, and they can't forget themselves.'

'About the babies, of course not. As for forgetting themselves I am not
quite so sure that I can forget myself. That is just where your brother
went down last night.'

They had at this moment reached the top of the steep slope below which
the river ran brawling among the rocks, and Nora seated herself exactly
where she had sat on the previous evening.

'I have been down scores of times,' said Priscilla.

  'Let us go now.'

'You wouldn't go when Hugh asked you yesterday.'

'I didn't care then. But do come now if you don't mind the climb.' Then
they went down the slope and reached the spot from whence Hugh Stanbury
had jumped from rock to rock across the stream. 'You have never been
out there, have you?' said Nora.

'On the rocks? Oh, dear, no! I should be sure to fall.'

'But he went; just like a goat.'

'That's one of the things that men can do, I suppose,' said Priscilla.
'But I don't see any great glory in, being like a goat.'

'I do. I should like to be able to go, and I think I'll try. It is so
mean to be dainty and weak.'

'I don't think it at all dainty to keep dry feet.'

'But he didn't get his feet wet,' said Nora. 'Or if he did, he didn't
mind. I can see at once that I should be giddy and tumble down if I
tried it.'

'Of course you would.'

'But he didn't tumble down.'

'He has been doing it all his life,' said Priscilla.

'He can't do it up in London. When I think of myself, Miss Stanbury, I
am so ashamed. There is nothing that I can do. I couldn't write an
article for a newspaper.

'I think I could. But I fear no one would read it.'

'They read his,' said Nora, 'or else he wouldn't be paid for writing
them.' Then they climbed back again up the hill, and during the
climbing there were no words spoken. The slope was not much of a hill
was no more than the fall from the low ground of the valley to the
course which the river had cut for itself; but it was steep while it
lasted; and both the young women were forced to pause for a minute
before they could proceed upon their journey. As they walked home
Priscilla spoke of the scenery, and of the country, and of the nature
of the life which she and her mother and sister had passed at Nuncombe
Putney. Nora said but little till they were just entering the village,
and then she went back to the subject of her thoughts. 'I would
sooner,' said she, 'write for a newspaper than do anything else in the
world.'

'Why so?'

'Because it is so noble to teach people everything! And then a man who
writes for a newspaper must know so many things himself! I believe
there are women who do it, but very few. One or two have done it, I
know.'

'Go and tell that to Aunt Stanbury, and hear what she will say about
such women.'

'I suppose she is very prejudiced.'

'Yes; she is; but she is a clever woman. I am inclined to think women
had better not write for newspapers.'

'And why not?' Nora asked.

'My reasons would take me a week to explain, and I doubt whether I have
them very clear in my own head. In the first place there is that
difficulty about the babies. Most of them must get married, you know.'

'But not all,' said Nora.

'No; thank God; not all.'

'And if you are not married you might write for a newspaper. At any
rate, if I were you, I should be very proud of my brother.'

'Aunt Stanbury is not at all proud of her nephew,' said Priscilla, as
they entered the house.



CHAPTER XXVI - A THIRD PARTY IS SO OBJECTIONABLE

Hugh Stanbury went in search of Trevelyan immediately on his return to
London, and found his friend at his rooms in Lincoln's Inn.

'I have executed my commission,' said Hugh, endeavouring to speak of
what he had done in a cheery voice.

'I am much obliged to you, Stanbury very much; but I do not know that I
need trouble you to tell me anything about it.'

'And why not?'

'I have learned it all from that man.'

'What man?'

'From Bozzle. He has come back, and has been with me, and has learned
everything.'

'Look here, Trevelyan when you asked me to go down to Devonshire, you
promised me that there should be nothing more about Bozzle. I expect
you to put that rascal, and all that he has told you, out of your head
altogether. You are bound to do so for my sake, and you will be very
wise to do so for your own.'

'I was obliged to see him when he came.'

'Yes, and to pay him, I do not doubt. But that is all done, and should
be forgotten.'

'I can't forget it. Is it true or untrue that he found that man down
there? Is it true or untrue that my wife received Colonel Osborne at
your mother's house? Is it true or untrue that Colonel: Osborne went
down there with the express object of seeing her? Is it true or untrue
that they had corresponded? It is nonsense to bid me to forget all
this. You might as well ask me to forget that I had desired her neither
to write to him, nor to see him.'

'If I understand the matter,' said Trevelyan, 'you are incorrect in one
of your assertions.'

'In which?'

'You must excuse me if I am wrong, Trevelyan; but I don't think you
ever did tell your wife not to see this man, or not to write to him?'

'I never told her! I don't understand what you mean.'

'Not in so many words. It is my belief that she has endeavoured to obey
implicitly every clear instruction that you have given her.'

'You are wrong absolutely and altogether wrong. Heaven and earth! Do
you mean to tell me now, after all that has taken place, that she did
not know my wishes?'

'I have not said that. But you, have chosen to place her in such a
position, that though your word would go for much with her, she cannot
bring herself to respect your wishes.'

'And you call that being dutiful and affectionate!'

'I call it human and reasonable; and I think that it is compatible with
duty and affection. Have you consulted her wishes?'

'Always!'

'Consult them now then, and bid her come back to you.'

'No never! As far as I can see, I will never do so. The moment she is
away from me this man goes to her, and she receives him. She must have
known that she was wrong and you must know it.'

'I do not think that she is half so wrong as you yourself,' said
Stanbury. To this Trevelyan made no answer, and they both remained
silent some minutes. Stanbury had a communication to make before he
went, but it was one which he wished to delay as long as there was a
chance that his friend's heart might be softened one which he need not
make if Trevelyan would consent to receive his wife back to his house.
There was the day's paper lying on the table, and Stanbury had taken it
up and was reading it or pretending to read it.

'I will tell you what I propose to do,' said Trevelyan.

'Well.'

'It is best both for her and for me that we should be apart.'

'I cannot understand how you can be so mad as to say so.'

'You don't understand what I feel. Heaven and earth! To have a man
coming and going. But, never mind. You do not see it, and nothing will
make you see it. And there is no reason why you should.'

'I certainly do not see it. I do not believe that your wife cares more
for Colonel Osborne, except as an old friend of her father's, than she
does for the fellow that sweeps the crossing. It is a matter in which I
am bound to tell you what I think.'

'Very well. Now, if you have freed your mind, I will tell you my
purpose. I am bound to do so, because your people are concerned in it.
I shall go abroad.'

'And leave her in England?'

'Certainly. She will be safer here than she can, be abroad unless she
should choose to go back with her father to the islands.'

'And take the boy?'

'No I could not permit that. What I intend is this. I will give her 800
pounds a year, as long as I have reason to believe that she has no
communication whatever, either by word of mouth or by letter, with that
man. If she does, I will put the case immediately into the hands of my
lawyer, with instructions to him to ascertain from counsel what
severest steps I can take.'

'How I hate that word severe, when applied to a woman.'

'I dare say you do when applied to another man's wife. But there will
be no severity in my first proposition. As for the child if I approve
of the place in which she lives, as I do at present he shall remain
with her for nine months in the year till he is six years old. Then he
must come to me. And he shall come to me altogether if she sees or
hears from that man. I believe that 800 pounds a year will enable her
to live with all comfort under your mother's roof.''

'As to that,' said Stanbury, slowly, 'I suppose I had better tell you
at once, that the Nuncombe Putney arrangement cannot be considered as
permanent.'

'Why not?'

'Because my mother is timid, and nervous, and altogether unused to the
world.'

'That unfortunate woman is to be sent away even from Nuncombe Putney!'

'Understand me, Trevelyan.'

'I understand you. I understand you most thoroughly. Nor do I wonder at
it in the least. Do not suppose that I am angry with your mother, or
with you, or with your sister. I have no right to expect that they
should keep her after that man has made his way into their house. I can
well conceive that no honest, high-minded lady would do so.'

'It is not that at all.'

'But it is that. How can you tell me that it isn't? And yet you would
have me believe that I am not disgraced!' As he said this Trevelyan got
up, and walked about the room, tearing his hair with his hands. He was
in truth a wretched man, from whose mind all expectation of happiness,
was banished, who regarded his own position as one of incurable
ignominy, looking upon himself as one who had been made unfit for
society by no fault of his own. 'What was he to do with the wretched
woman who could be kept from the evil of her pernicious vanity by no
gentle custody, whom no most distant retirement would make safe from
the effects of her own ignorance, folly, and obstinacy? 'When is she to
go?' he asked in a low, sepulchral tone as though these new tidings
that had come upon him had been fatal laden with doom, and finally
subversive of all chance even of tranquillity.

'When you and she may please.'

'That is all very well but let me know the truth. I would not have your
mother's house contaminated; but may she remain there for a week?'

Stanbury jumped from his seat with an oath. 'I tell you what it is,
Trevelyan if you speak of your wife in that way, I will not listen to
you. It is unmanly and untrue to say that her presence can contaminate
any house.'

'That is very fine. It may be chivalrous in you to tell me on her
behalf that I am a liar and that I am not a man.'

'You drive me to it.'

'But what am I to think when you are forced to declare that this
unfortunate woman can not be allowed to remain at your mother's house a
house which has been especially taken with reference to a shelter for
her? She has been received with the idea that she would be discreet.
She has been indiscreet, past belief, and she is to be turned out most
deservedly. Heaven and earth! Where shall I find a roof for her head?'
Trevelyan as he said this was walking about the room with his hands
stretched up towards the ceiling; and as his friend was attempting to
make him comprehend that there was no intention on the part of anyone
to banish Mrs Trevelyan from the Clock House, at least for some months
to come not even till after Christmas unless some satisfactory
arrangement could be sooner made the door of the room was opened by the
boy, who called himself a clerk, and who acted as Trevelyan's servant
in the chambers, and a third person was shown into the room. That third
person was Mr Bozzle. As no name was given, Stanbury did not at first
know Mr Bozzle, but he had not had his eye on Mr Bozzle for half a
minute before he recognised the ex-policeman by the outward attributes
and signs of his profession. 'Oh; is that you, Mr Bozzle?' said
Trevelyan, as soon as the great man had made his bow of salutation.
'Well what is it?'

'Mr Hugh Stanbury, I think,' said Bozzle, making another bow to the
young barrister.

'That's my name,' said Stanbury.

'Exactly so, Mr S. The identity is one as I could prove on oath in any
court in England. You was on the railway platform at Exeter on Saturday
when we was waiting for the 12 express 'buss wasn't you now, Mr S?'

'What's that to you?'

'Well as it do happen, it is something to me. And, Mr S, if you was
asked that question in any court in England or before even one of the
metropolitan bekes, you wouldn't deny it.'

'Why the devil should I deny it? What's all this about, Trevelyan?'

'Of course you can't deny it, Mr S. When I'm down on a fact, I am down
on it. Nothing else wouldn't do in my profession.'

'Have you anything to say to me, Mr Bozzle?' asked Trevelyan.

'Well I have; just a word.'

'About your journey to Devonshire?'

'Well in a way it is about my journey to Devonshire. It's all along of
the same job, Mr Trewillian.'

'You can speak before my friend here,' said Trevelyan. Bozzle had taken
a great dislike to Hugh Stanbury, regarding the barrister with a
correct instinct as one who was engaged for the time in the same
service with himself and who was his rival in that service. When thus
instigated to make as it were a party of three in this delicate and
most confidential matter, and to take his rival, into his confidence,
he shook his head slowly and looked Trevelyan hard in the face 'Mr
Stanbury is my particular friend,' said Trevelyan, 'and knows well the
circumstances of this unfortunate affair. You can say anything before
him.'

Bozzle shook his head again. 'I'd rayther not, Mr Trewillian,' said he.
'Indeed I'd rayther not. It's something very particular.'

'If you take my advice,' said Stanbury, 'you will not hear him
yourself.'

'That's your advice, Mr S.?' asked Mr Bozzle.

'Yes that's my advice. I'd never have anything to do with such a fellow
as you as long as I could help it.'

'I dare say not, Mr S.; I dare say not. We're hexpensive, and we're
haccurate neither of which is much in your line, Mr S., if I understand
about it rightly.'

'Mr Bozzle, if you've got anything to tell, tell it,' said Trevelyan,
angrily.

'A third party is so objectionable,' pleaded Bozzle.

'Never mind. That is my affair.'

'It is your affair, Mr Trewillian. There's not a doubt of that. The
lady is your wife.'

'Damnation!' shouted Trevelyan.

'But the credit, sir,' said Bozzle. 'The credit is mine. And here is Mr
S. has been down a interfering with me, and doing no 'varsal good, as
I'll undertake to prove by evidence before the affair is over.'

'The affair is over,' said Stanbury.

'That's as you think, Mr S. That's where your information goes to, Mr
S. Mine goes a little beyond that, Mr S. I've means as you can know
nothing about, Mr S. I've irons in the fire, what you're as ignorant on
as the babe as isn't born.'

'No doubt you have, Mr Bozzle,' said Stanbury.

'I has. And now if it be that I must speak before a third party, Mr
Trewillian, I'm ready. It ain't that I'm no ways ashamed. I've done my
duty, and knows how to do it. And let a counsel be ever so sharp, I
never yet was so 'posed but what I could stand up and hold my own. The
Colonel, Mr Trewillian got a letter from your lady this morning.'

'I don't believe it,' said Stanbury, sharply.

'Very likely not, Mr S. It ain't in my power to say anything whatever
about you believing or not believing. But Mr T.'s lady has wrote the
letter; and the Colonel he has received it. You don't look after these
things, Mr S. You don't know the ways of 'em. But it's my business. The
lady has wrote the letter, and the Colonel why, he has received it.'
Trevelyan had become white with rage when Bozzle first mentioned this
continued correspondence between his wife and Colonel Osborne. It never
occurred to him to doubt the correctness of the policeman's
information, and he regarded Stanbury's assertion of incredulity as
being simply of a piece with his general obstinacy in the matter. At
this moment he began to regret that he had called in the assistance of
his friend, and that he had not left the affair altogether in the hands
of that much more satisfactory, but still more painful, agent, Mr
Bozzle. He had again seated himself, and for a moment or two remained
silent on his chair. 'It ain't my fault, Mr Trewillian,' continued
Bozzle, 'if this little matter oughtn't never to have been mentioned
before a third party.'

'It is of no moment,' said Trevelyan, in a low voice. 'What does it
signify who knows it now?'

'Do not believe it, Trevelyan,' said Stanbury.

'Very well, Mr S. Very well. Just as you like. Don't believe it. Only
it's true, and it's my business to find them things out. It's my
business, and I finds 'em out. Mr Trewillian can do as he likes about
it. If it's right, why, then it is right. It ain't for me to say
nothing about that. But there's the fact. The lady, she has wrote
another letter; and the Colonel why, he has received it. There ain't
nothing wrong about the post-office. If I was to say what was inside of
that billydou why, then I should be proving what I didn't know; and
when it came to standing up in court, I shouldn't be able to hold my
own. But as for the letter, the lady wrote it, and the Colonel he
received it.'

'That will do, Mr Bozzle,' said Trevelyan.

'Shall I call again, Mr Trewillian?'

'No yes. I'll send to you, when I want you. You shall hear from me.'

'I suppose I'd better be keeping my eyes open about the Colonel's
place, Mr Trewillian?'

'For God's sake, Trevelyan, do not have anything more to do with this
man!'

'That's all very well for you, Mr S.,' said Bozzle. 'The lady ain't
your wife.'

'Can you imagine anything more disgraceful than all this?' said
Stanbury.

'Nothing; nothing; nothing!' answered Trevelyan.

'And I'm to keep stirring, and be on the move?' again suggested Bozzle,
who prudently required to be fortified by instructions before he
devoted his time and talents even to so agreeable a pursuit as that in
which he had been engaged.

'You shall hear from me,' said Trevelyan.

'Very well very well. I wish you good-day, Mr Trewillian. Mr S., yours
most obedient. There was one other point, Mr Trewillian.'

'What point?' asked Trevelyan, angrily.

'If the lady was to join the Colonel--'

'That will do, Mr Bozzle,' said Trevelyan, again jumping up from his
chair. 'That will do.' So saying, he opened the door, and Bozzle, with
a bow, took his departure. 'What on earth am I to do? How am I to save
her?' said the wretched husband, appealing to his friend.

Stanbury endeavoured with all his eloquence to prove that this latter
piece of information from the spy must be incorrect. If such a letter
had been written by Mrs Trevelyan to Colonel Osborne, it must have been
done while he, Stanbury, was staying at the Clock House. This seemed to
him to be impossible; but he could hardly explain why it should be
impossible. She had written to the man before, and had received him
when he came to Nuncombe Putney. Why was it even improbable that she
should have written to him again? Nevertheless, Stanbury felt sure that
she had sent no such letter. 'I think I understand her feelings and her
mind,' said he; 'and if so, any such correspondence would be
incompatible with her previous conduct.' Trevelyan only smiled at this
or pretended to smile. He would not discuss the question; but believed
implicitly what Bozzle had told him in spite of all Stanbury's
arguments. 'I can say nothing further,' said Stanbury.

'No, my dear fellow. There is nothing further to be said, except this,
that I will have my unfortunate wife removed from the decent protection
of your mother's roof with the least possible delay. I feel that I owe
Mrs Stanbury the deepest apology for having sent such an inmate to
trouble her repose.'

'Nonsense!'

'That is what I feel.'

'And I say that it is nonsense. If you had never sent that wretched
blackguard down to fabricate lies at Nuncombe Putney, my mother's
repose would have been all right. As it is, Mrs Trevelyan can remain
where she is till after Christmas. There is not the least necessity for
removing her at once. I only meant to say that the arrangement should
not be regarded as altogether permanent. I must go to my work now.
Goodbye.'

'Good-bye, Stanbury.'

Stanbury paused at the door, and then once more turned round. 'I
suppose it is of no use my saying anything further; but I wish you to
understand fully that I regard your wife as a woman much ill-used, and
I think you are punishing her, and yourself, too, with a cruel severity
for an indiscretion of the very slightest kind.'



CHAPTER XXVII - MR TREVELYAN'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE

Trevelyan, when he was left alone, sat for above a couple of hours
contemplating the misery of his; position, and endeavouring to teach
himself by thinking what ought to be his future conduct. It never
occurred to him during these thoughts that it would be well that he
should at once take back his wife, either as a matter of duty, or of
welfare, for himself or for her. He had taught himself to believe that
she had disgraced him; and, though this feeling of disgrace made him so
wretched that he wished that he were dead, he would allow himself to
make no attempt at questioning the correctness of his conviction.
Though he were to be shipwrecked for ever, even that seemed to be
preferable to supposing that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he loved
his wife dearly, and, in the white heat of his anger endeavoured to be
merciful to her. When Stanbury accused him of severity, he would not
condescend to defend himself; but he told himself then of his great
mercy. Was he not as fond of his own boy as any other father, and had
he not allowed her to take the child because he had felt that a
mother's love was more imperious, more craving in its nature, than the
love of a father? Had that been severe? And had he not resolved to
allow her every comfort which her unfortunate position the self-imposed
misfortune of her position would allow her to enjoy? She had come to
him without a shilling; and yet, bad as her treatment of him had been,
he was willing to give enough not only to support her, but her sister
also, with every comfort. Severe! No; that, at least, was an undeserved
accusation. He had been anything but severe. Foolish he might have
been, in taking a wife from a home in which she had been unable to
learn the discretion of a matron; too trusting he had been, and too
generous but certainly not severe. But, of course, as he said to
himself, a young man like Stanbury would take the part of a woman with
whose sister he was in love. Then he turned his thoughts upon Bozzle,
and there came over him a crushing feeling of ignominy, shame, moral
dirt, and utter degradation, as he reconsidered his dealings with that
ingenious gentleman. He was paying a rogue to watch the steps of a man
whom he hated, to pry into the home secrets, to read the letters, to
bribe the servants, to record the movements of this rival, this
successful rival, in his wife's affections! It was a filthy thing and
yet what could he do? Gentlemen of old, his own grandfather or his
father, would have taken such a fellow as Colonel Osborne by the throat
and have caned him, and afterwards would have shot him, or have stood
to be shot.

All that was changed now but it was not his, fault that it was changed.
He was willing enough to risk his life, could any opportunity of
risking it in this cause be obtained for him. But were he to cudgel
Colonel Osborne, he would be simply arrested, and he would then be told
that he had disgraced himself foully by striking a man old enough to be
his father!

How was he to have avoided the employment of some such man as Bozzle?
He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury; and what was
the result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attempt
to deny that there had been a correspondence, and that there had been a
visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretended such
blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreed in
condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wanted facts,
not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him; but Bozzle, either
by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He did not doubt but that
Bozzle was right about that letter written only yesterday, and received
on that very morning. His wife, who had probably been complaining of
her wrongs to Stanbury, must have retired from that conversation to her
chamber, and immediately have written this letter to her lover! With
such a woman as that what can be done in these days otherwise than by
the aid of such a one as Bozzle? He could not confine his wife in a
dungeon. He could not save himself from the disgrace of her misconduct,
by any rigours of surveillance on his own part. As wives are managed
nowadays, he could not forbid to her the use of the post-office could
not hinder her from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel, who carried on
his wickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had given
her every chance to amend her conduct; but, if she were resolved on
disobedience, he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts,
however, it was necessary that he should know.

And now, what should he do? How should he go to work to make her
understand that she could not write even a letter without his knowing
it; and that if she did either write to the man or see him he would
immediately take the child from her, and provide for her only in such
fashion as the law should demand from him? For himself, and his won
live, he thought that he had determined what he would do. It was
impossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamed to
enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agony to
speak. They who knew of him, knew also of his disgrace, and no longer
asked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and sat
alone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuit
was open to him. He spend his time in thinking of his wife, and of the
disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this, he knew,
was unmanly and shameful, and it was absolutely necessary for him that
he should in some way change it. He would go out of England, and would
travel if only he could so dispose of his wife that she might be safe
from any possible communication with Colonel Osborne. If that could be
effected, nothing that money could do should be spared for her. If that
could not be effected he would remain at home and crush her.

That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his wife, which
was as follows:



Dear Emily,

I have learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you have
corresponded with Colonel Osborne since you have been at Nuncombe
Putney, and also that you have seen him there. This has been done in
direct opposition to my expressed wishes, and I feel myself compelled
to tell you that such conduct is disgraceful to you, and disgracing to
me. I am quite at a loss to understand how you can reconcile to
yourself so flagrant a disobedience of my instructions, and so perverse
a disregard to the opinion of the world at large.

But I do not write now for the sake of finding fault with you. It is
too late for me to have any hope that I can do so with good effect,
either as regards your credit or my happiness. Nevertheless, it is my
duty to protect both you and myself from further shame; and I wish to
tell you what are my intentions with that view. In the first place, I
warn you that I keep a watch on you. The doing so is very painful to
me, but it is absolutely necessary. You cannot see Colonel Osborne, or
write to him, without my knowing it. I pledge you my word that in
either case that is, if you correspond with him or see him I will at
once take our boy away from you. I will not allow him to remain, even
with a mother, who shall so misconduct herself. Should Colonel Osborne
address a letter to you, I desire that you will put it under an
envelope addressed to me.

If you obey my commands on this head I will leave our boy with you nine
months out of every year till he shall be six years old. Such, at
least, is my present idea, though I will not positively bind myself to
adhere to it. And I will allow you 800 pounds per year, for your own
maintenance and that of your sister. I am greatly grieved to find from
my friend Mr Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborne
has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs
Stanbury's house. I do not wonder that it should be so. I shall
immediately seek for a future home for you, and when I have found one
that is suitable, I will have you conveyed to it.

I must now further explain my purposes and I must beg you to remember
that I am driven to do so by your direct disobedience to my expressed
wishes. Should there be any further communication between you and
Colonel Osborne, not only will I take your child away from you, but I
will also limit the allowance to be made to you to a bare sustenance.
In such case, I shall put the matter into the hands of a lawyer, and
shall probably feel myself driven to take steps towards freeing myself
from a connection which will be disgraceful to my name.

For myself, I shall live abroad during the greater part of the year.
London has become to me uninhabitable, and all English pleasures are
distasteful.

Yours affectionately,

Louis Trevelyan.'



When he had finished this he read it twice, and believed that he had
written, if not an affectionate, at any rate a considerate letter. He
had no bounds to the pity which he felt for himself in reference to the
injury which was being done to him, and he thought that the offers
which he was making, both in respect to his child and the money, were
such as to entitle him to his wife's warmest gratitude. He hardly
recognised the force of the language which he used when he told her
that her conduct was disgraceful, 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 she should never come back to you.'.

'That shall be as she behaves herself.'

'But tell her so. Let there be some one bright spot in what you say to
her, on which her mind may fix itself. If she be not altogether
hardened, that letter will drive her to despair.'

But Trevelyan would not give up the letter, nor indicate by a word that
he would reconsider the question of its propriety. He escaped as soon
as he could from Lady Milborough's room, and almost declared as he did
so, that he would never enter her doors again. She, had utterly failed
to see the matter in the proper light. When she talked of Naples she
must surely have been unable to comprehend the extent of the ill-usage
to which he, the husband, had been subjected. How was it possible that
he should live under the same roof with a wife who claimed to herself
the right of receiving visitors of whom he disapproved a visitor a
gentleman one whom the world called her lover? He gnashed his teeth and
clenched his fist as he thought of his old friend's ignorance of the
very first law in a married man's code of laws.

But yet when he was out in the streets he did not post his letter at
once; but thought of it throughout the whole day, trying to prove the
weight of every phrase that he had used. Once or twice his heart almost
relented. Once he had the letter in his hand, that he might tear it.
But he did not tear it. He put it back into his pocket, and thought
again of his grievance. Surely it was his first duty in such an
emergency to be firm!

It was certainly a wretched life that he was leading. In the evening he
went all alone to an eating-house for his dinner, and then, sitting
with a miserable glass of sherry before him, he again read and re-read
the epistle which he had written. Every harsh word that it contained
was, in some sort, pleasant to his ear. She had hit him hard, and
should he not hit her again? And then, was it not his bounden duty to
let her know the truth? Yes; it was his duty to be firm.

So he went out and posted the letter.



CHAPTER XXVIII - GREAT TRIBULATION

Trevelyan's letter to his wife fell like a thunderbolt among them at
Nuncombe Putney. Mrs Trevelyan was altogether unable to keep it to
herself indeed she made no attempt at doing so. Her husband had told
her that she was to be banished from the Clock House because her
present hostess was unable to endure her misconduct, and of course she
demanded the reasons of the charge that was thus brought against her.
When she first read the letter, which she did in the presence of her
sister, she towered in her passion.

'Disgraced him! I have never disgraced him. It is he that has disgraced
me. Correspondence! Yes he shall see it all. Unjust, ignorant, foolish
man! He does not remember that the last instructions he really gave me,
were to bid me see Colonel Osborne. Take my boy away! Yes. Of course, I
am a woman and must suffer. I will write to Colonel Osborne, and will
tell him the truth, and will send my letter to Louis. He shall know how
he has ill-treated me! I will not take a penny of his money not a
penny. Maintain you! I believe he thinks that we are beggars. Leave
this house because of my conduct! What can Mrs Stanbury have said? What
can any of them have said? I will demand to be told. Free himself from
the connection! Oh, Nora, Nora! that it should come to this! that I
should be thus threatened, who have been as innocent as a baby! If it
were not for my child, I think that I should destroy myself!'

Nora said what she could to comfort her sister, insisting chiefly on
the promise that, the child should not be taken away. There was no
doubt as to the husband's power in the mind of either of them; and
though, as regarded herself, Mrs Trevelyan would have defied her
husband, let his power be what it might, yet she acknowledged to
herself that she was in some degree restrained by the fear that she
would find herself deprived of her only comfort.

'We must just go where he bids us till papa comes,' said Nora.

'And when papa is here, what help will there be then? He will not let
me go back to the islands with my boy. For myself I might die, or get
out of his way anywhere. I can see that. Priscilla Stanbury is right
when she says that no woman should trust herself to any man. Disgraced!
That I should live to be told by my husband that I had disgraced him by
a lover!'

There was some sort of agreement made between the two sisters as to the
manner in which Priscilla should be interrogated respecting the
sentence of banishment which had been passed. They both agreed that it
would be useless to make inquiry of Mrs Stanbury. If anything had
really been said to justify the statement made in Mr Trevelyan's
letter, it must have come from Priscilla, and have reached Trevelyan
through Priscilla's brother. They, both of them, had sufficiently
learned the ways of the house to be sure that Mrs Stanbury had not been
the person active in the matter. They went down, therefore, together,
and found Priscilla seated at her desk in the parlour. Mrs Stanbury was
also in the room, and it had been presumed between the sisters that the
interrogation should be made in that lady's absence; but Mrs Trevelyan
was too hot in the matter for restraint, and she at once opened out her
budget of grievance.

'I have a letter from my husband,' she said and then paused. But
Priscilla, seeing from the fire in her eyes that she was much moved,
made no reply, but turned to listen to what might further be said. 'I
do not know why I should trouble you with his suspicions,' continued
Mrs Trevelyan, 'or read to you what he says about Colonel Osborne.' As
she spoke she was holding her husband's letter open in her hands.
'There is nothing in it that you do not know. He says I have
corresponded with him. So I have and he shall see the correspondence.
He says that Colonel Osborne visited me. He did come to see me and
Nora.'

'As any other old man might have done,' said Nora.

'It was not likely that I should openly confess myself to be afraid to
see my father's old friend. But the truth is, my husband does not know
what a woman is.'

She had begun by declaring that she would not trouble her friend with
any statement of her husband's complaints against her; but now she had
made her way to the subject, and could hardly refrain herself.
Priscilla understood this, and thought that it would be wise to
interrupt her by a word that might bring her back to her original
purpose. 'Is there anything,' said she, 'which we can do to help you?'

'To help me? No God only can help me. But Louis informs me that I am to
be turned out of this house, because you demand that we should go.'

'Who says that?' exclaimed Mrs Stanbury.

'My husband. Listen; this is what he says "I am greatly grieved to hear
from my friend Mr Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel
Osborne has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs
Stanbury's house." Is that true? Is that true?' In her general mode of
carrying herself, and of enduring the troubles of her life, Mrs
Trevelyan was a strong woman; but now her grief was too much for her,
and she burst out into tears. 'I am the most unfortunate woman that
ever was born!' she sobbed out through her tears.

'I never said that you were to go,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'But your son has told Mr Trevelyan that we must go,' said Nora, who
felt that her sense of injury against Hugh Stanbury was greatly
increased by what had taken place. To her mind he was the person most
important in the matter. Why had he desired that they should be sent
away from the Clock House? She was very angry with him, and declared to
herself that she hated him with all her heart. For this man she had
sent away that other lover a lover who had really loved her! And she
had even confessed that it was so!

'There is a misunderstanding about this,' said Priscilla.

'It must be with your brother, then,' said Nora.

'I think not,' said Priscilla: 'I think that it has been with Mr
Trevelyan.' Then she went on to explain, with much difficulty, but
still with a slow distinctness that was peculiar to her, what had
really taken place. 'We have endeavoured,' she said, 'to show you my
mother and I that we have not misjudged you; but it is certainly true
that I told my brother that I did not think the arrangement a good one
quite as a permanence.' It was very difficult, and her cheeks were red
as she spoke, and her lips faltered. It was an exquisite pain to her to
have to give the pain which her words would convey; but there was no
help for it as she said to herself more than once at the time there was
nothing to be done but to tell the truth.

'I never said so,' blurted out Mrs Stanbury, with her usual weakness.

'No, mother. It was my saying. In discussing what was best for us all,
with Hugh, I told him what I have just now explained.'

'Then of course we must go,' said Mrs Trevelyan, who had gulped down
her sobs and was resolved to be firm to give way to no more tears, to
bear all without sign of womanly weakness.

'You will stay with us till your father comes,' said Priscilla.

'Of course you will,' said Mrs Stanbury 'you and Nora. We have got to
be such friends, now.'

'No,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'As to friendship for me, it is out of the
question. We must pack up, Nora, and go somewhere. Heaven knows where!'

Nora was now sobbing. 'Why your brother should want to turn us out
after he has sent us here !'

'My brother wants nothing of the kind,' said Priscilla. 'Your sister
has no better friend than my brother.'

'It will be better, Nora, to discuss the matter no further,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. 'We must go away somewhere; and the sooner the better. To be
an unwelcome guest is always bad; but to be unwelcome for such a reason
as this is terrible.'

'There is no reason,' said Mrs Stanbury; 'indeed there is none.'

'Mrs Trevelyan will understand us better when she is less excited,'
said Priscilla. 'I am not surprised that she should be indignant now. I
can only say again that we hope you will stay with us till Sir
Marmaduke Rowley shall be in England.'

'That is not what your brother means,' said Nora.

'Nor is it what I mean,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'Nora, we had better go to
our own room. I suppose I must write to my husband; indeed, of course I
must, 'that I may send him the the correspondence. I fear I cannot walk
out into the street, Mrs Stanbury, and make you quit of me till I hear
from him. And if I were to go to an inn at once, people would speak
evil of me and I have no money.'

'My dear, how can you think of such a thing!' said Mrs Stanbury.

'But you may be quite sure that we shall be gone within three days or
four at the furthest. Indeed, I will pledge myself not to remain longer
than that even though I should have to go to the poor-house. Neither I
nor my sister will stay in any family to contaminate it. Come, Nora.'
And so speaking she sailed out of the room, and her sister followed
her.

'Why did you say anything about, it? Oh dear, oh dear! why did you
speak to Hugh? See what you have done?'

'I am sorry that I did speak,' replied Priscilla, slowly.

'Sorry! Of course you are sorry; but what good is that?'

'But, mother; I do not think that I was wrong. I feel sure that the
real fault in all this is with Mr Trevelyan as it has been all through.
He should not have written to her as he has done.'

'I suppose Hugh did tell him.'

'No doubt and I told Hugh; but not after the fashion in which he has
told her. I blame myself mostly for this that we ever consented to come
to this house. We had no business here. Who is to pay the rent?'

'Hugh insisted upon taking it.'

'Yes and he will pay the rent; and we shall be a drag upon him, as
though he had been fool enough to have a wife and a family of his own.
And what good have we done? We had not strength enough to say that that
wicked man should not see her when he came for he is a wicked man.'

'If we had done that she would have been as bad then as she is now.'

'Mother, we had no business to meddle either with her badness or her
goodness. What had we to do with the wife of such a one as Mr
Trevelyan, or with any woman who was separated from her husband?'

'It was Hugh who thought we should be of service to them.'

'Yes and I do not blame him. He is in a position to be of service to
people. He can do work and earn money, and has a right to think and to
speak. We have a right to think only for ourselves, and we should not
have yielded to him. How are we to get back again out of this house to
our cottage?'

'They are pulling the cottage down, Priscilla.'

'To some other cottage, mother. Do you not feel while we are living
here that we are pretending to be what we are not? After all, Aunt
Stanbury was right, though it was not her business to meddle with us.
We should never have come here. That poor woman now regards us as her
bitter enemies.'

'I meant to do for the best,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'The fault was mine, mother.'

'But you meant it for the best, my dear.'

'Meaning for the best is trash. I don't know that I did mean it for the
best. While we were at the cottage we paid our way and were honest.
What is it people say of us now?'

'They can't say any harm.'

'They say that we are paid by the husband to keep his wife, and paid
again by the lover to betray the husband.'

'Priscilla!'

  'Yes it is shocking enough. But that comes of people going out of
  their proper course. We were too humble and low to have a right to
  take any part in such a matter. How true it is that while one crouches
  on the ground, one can never fall.'

The matter was discussed in the Clock House all day, between Mrs
Stanbury and Priscilla, and between Mrs Trevelyan and Nora, in their
rooms and in the garden; but nothing could come of such discussions. No
change could be made till further instructions should have been
received from the angry husband; nor could any kind of argument be even
invented by Priscilla which might be efficacious in inducing the two
ladies to remain at the Clock House, even should Mr Trevelyan allow
them to do so. They all felt the intolerable injustice, as it appeared
to them of their subjection to the caprice of an unreasonable and
ill-conditioned man; but to all of them it seemed plain enough that in
this matter the husband must exercise his own will at any rate, till
Sir Marmaduke should be in England. There were many difficulties
throughout the day. Mrs Trevelyan would not go down to dinner, sending
word that she was ill, and that she would, if she were allowed, have
some tea in her own room. And Nora said that she would remain with her
sister. Priscilla went to them more than once; and late in the evening
they all met in the parlour. But any conversation seemed to he
impossible; and Mrs Trevelyan, as she went up to her room at night,
again declared that she would rid the house of her presence as soon as
possible.

One thing, however, was done on that melancholy day. Mrs Trevelyan
wrote to her husband, and enclosed Colonel Osborne's letter to herself,
and a copy of her reply. The reader will hardly require to be told that
no such further letter had been written by her as that of which Bozzle
had given information to her husband. Men whose business it is to
detect hidden and secret things, are very apt to detect things which
have never been done. What excuse can a detective make even to himself
for his own existence if he can detect nothing? Mr Bozzle was an
active-minded man, who gloried in detecting, and who, in the special
spirit of his trade, had taught himself to believe that all around him
were things secret and hidden, which would be within his power of
unravelling if only the slightest clue were put in his hand. He lived
by the crookednesses of people, and therefore was convinced that
straight doings in the world were quite exceptional. Things dark and
dishonest, fights fought and races run that they might be lost, plants
and crosses, women false to their husbands, sons false to their
fathers, daughters to their mothers, servants to their masters, affairs
always secret, dark, foul, and fraudulent, were to him the normal
condition of life. It was to be presumed that Mrs Trevelyan should
continue to correspond with her lover that old Mrs Stanbury should
betray her trust by conniving at the lover's visit that everybody
concerned should be steeped to the hips in lies and iniquity. When,
therefore, he found at Colonel Osborne's rooms that the Colonel had
received a letter with the Lessboro' post-mark, addressed in the
handwriting of a woman, he did not scruple to declare that Colonel
Osborne had received, on that morning, a letter from Mr Trevelyan's
'lady.' But in sending to her husband what she called with so much
bitterness, 'the correspondence,' Mrs Trevelyan had to enclose simply
the copy of one sheet note from herself.

But she now wrote again to Colonel Osborne, and enclosed to her
husband, not a copy of what she had written, but the note itself. It
was as follows:



'Nuncombe Putney, Wednesday, August 10.

'My dear Colonel Osborne,

'My husband has desired me not to see you, or to write to you, or to
hear from you again. I must therefore beg you to enable me to obey him
at any rate, till papa comes to England.

Yours truly,

Emily Trevelyan.



And then she wrote to her husband, and in the writing of this letter
there was much doubt, much labour, and many changes. We will give it as
it was written when completed:



'I have received your letter, and will obey your commands to the best
of my power. In order that you may not be displeased by any further
unavoidable correspondence between me and Colonel Osborne, I have
written to him a note, which I now send to you. I send it that you may
forward it. If you do not choose to do so, I cannot be answerable
either for his seeing me, or for his writing to me again.

I send also copies of all the correspondence I have had with Colonel
Osborne since you turned me out of your house. When he came to call on
me, Nora remained with me while he was here. I blush while I write this
not for myself, but that I should be so suspected as to make such a
statement necessary.

You say that I have disgraced you and myself. I have done neither. I am
disgraced but it is you that have disgraced me. I have never spoken a
word or done a thing, as regards you, of which I have cause to be
ashamed.

I have told Mrs Stanbury that I and Nora will leave her house as soon
as we can be made to know where we are to go. I beg that this may be
decided instantly, as else we must walk out into the street without a
shelter. After what has been said, I cannot remain here.

My sister bids me say that she will relieve you of all burden
respecting herself as soon as possible. She will probably be able to
find a home with my aunt, Mrs Outhouse, till papa comes to England. As
for myself, I can only say that till he comes, I shall do exactly what
you order.

Emily Trevelyan.

Nuncombe Putney, August 10.



'Mr S. You don't know the ways of 'em. But it's my business. The lady
has wrote the letter, and the Colonel why, he has received it.'
Trevelyan had become white with rage when Bozzle first mentioned this
continued correspondence between his wife and Colonel Osborne. It never
occurred to him to doubt the correctness of the policeman's
information, and he regarded Stanbury's assertion of incredulity as
being simply of a piece with his general obstinacy in the matter. At
this moment he began to regret that he had called in the assistance of
his friend, and that he had not left the affair altogether in the hands
of that much more satisfactory, but still more painful, agent, Mr
Bozzle. He had again seated himself, and for a moment or two remained
silent on his chair. 'It ain't my fault, Mr Trewillian,' continued
Bozzle, 'if this little matter oughtn't never to have been mentioned
before a third party.'

'It is of no moment,' said Trevelyan, in a low voice. 'What does it
signify who knows it now?'

'Do not believe it, Trevelyan,' said Stanbury.

'Very well, Mr S. Very well. Just as you like. Don't believe it. Only
it's true, and it's my business to find them things out. It's my
business, and I finds 'em out. Mr Trewillian can do as he likes about
it. If it's right, why, then it is right. It ain't for me to say
nothing about that. But there's the fact. The lady, she has wrote
another letter; and the Colonel why, he has received it. There ain't
nothing wrong about the post-office. If I was to say what was inside of
that billydou why, then I should be proving what I didn't know; and
when it came to standing up in court, I shouldn't be able to hold my
own. But as for the letter, the lady wrote it, and the Colonel he
received it.'

'That will do, Mr Bozzle,' said Trevelyan.

'Shall I call again, Mr Trewillian?'

'No yes. I'll send to you, when I want you. You shall hear from me.'

'I suppose I'd better be keeping my eyes open about the Colonel's
place, Mr Trewillian?'

'For God's sake, Trevelyan, do not have anything more to do with this
man!'

'That's all very well for you, Mr S.,' said Bozzle. 'The lady ain't
your wife.'

'Can you imagine anything more disgraceful than all this?' said
Stanbury.

'Nothing; nothing; nothing!' answered Trevelyan.

'And I'm to keep stirring, and be on the move?' again suggested Bozzle,
who prudently required to be fortified by instructions before he
devoted his time and talents even to so agreeable a pursuit as that in
which he had been engaged.

'You shall hear from me,' said Trevelyan.

'Very well very well. I wish you good-day, Mr Trewillian. Mr S., yours
most obedient. There was one other point, Mr Trewillian.'

'What point?' asked Trevelyan, angrily.

'If the lady was to join the Colonel--'

'That will do, Mr Bozzle,' said Trevelyan, again jumping up from his
chair. 'That will do.' So saying, he opened the door, and Bozzle, with
a bow, took his departure. 'What on earth am I to do? How am I to save
her?' said the wretched husband, appealing to his friend.

Stanbury endeavoured with all his eloquence to prove that this latter
piece of information from the spy must be incorrect. If such a letter
had been written by Mrs Trevelyan to Colonel Osborne, it must have been
done while he, Stanbury, was staying at the Clock House. This seemed to
him to be impossible; but he could hardly explain why it should be
impossible. She had written to the man before, and had received him
when he came to Nuncombe Putney. Why was it even improbable that she
should have written to him again? Nevertheless, Stanbury felt sure that
she had sent no such letter. 'I think I understand her feelings and her
mind,' said he; 'and if so, any such correspondence would be
incompatible with her previous conduct.' Trevelyan only smiled at this
or pretended to smile. He would not discuss the question; but believed
implicitly what Bozzle had told him in spite of all Stanbury's
arguments. 'I can say nothing further,' said Stanbury.

'No, my dear fellow. There is nothing further to be said, except this,
that I will have my unfortunate wife removed from the decent protection
of your mother's roof with the least possible delay. I feel that I owe
Mrs Stanbury the deepest apology for having sent such an inmate to
trouble her repose.'

'Nonsense!'

'That is what I feel.'

'And I say that it is nonsense. If you had never sent that wretched
blackguard down to fabricate lies at Nuncombe Putney, my mother's
repose would have been all right. As it is, Mrs Trevelyan can remain
where she is till after Christmas. There is not the least necessity for
removing her at once. I only meant to say that the arrangement should
not be regarded as altogether permanent. I must go to my work now.
Goodbye.'

'Good-bye, Stanbury.'

Stanbury paused at the door, and then once more turned round. 'I
suppose it is of no use my saying anything further; but I wish you to
understand fully that I regard your wife as a woman much ill-used, and
I think you are punishing her, and yourself, too, with a cruel severity
for an indiscretion of the very slightest kind.'



CHAPTER XXIX - MR AND MRS OUTHOUSE

Both Mr Outhouse and his wife were especially timid in taking upon
themselves the cares of other people. Not on that account is it to be
supposed that they were bad or selfish. They were both given much to
charity, and bestowed both in time and money more than is ordinarily
considered necessary even from persons in their position. But what they
gave, they gave away from their own quiet hearth. Had money been
wanting to the daughters of his wife's brother, Mr Outhouse would have
opened such small coffer as he had with a free hand. But he would have
much preferred that his benevolence should be used in a way that would
bring upon him no further responsibility and no questionings from
people whom he did not know and could not understand.

The Rev. Oliphant Outhouse had been Rector of St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East for the last fifteen years, having married the
sister of Sir Marmaduke Rowley then simply Mr Rowley, with a colonial
appointment in Jamaica of 120 pounds per annum twelve years before his
promotion, while he was a curate in one of the populous borough
parishes. He had thus been a London clergyman all his life; but he knew
almost as little of London society as though he had held a cure in a
Westmoreland valley. He had worked hard, but his work had been
altogether among the poor. He had no gift of preaching, and had
acquired neither reputation nor popularity. But he could work and
having been transferred because of that capability to the temporary
curacy of St. Diddulph's out of one diocese into another he had
received the living from the bishop's hands when it became vacant.

A dreary place was the parsonage of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East for the
abode of a gentleman. Mr Outhouse had not, in his whole parish, a
parishioner with whom he could consort. The greatest men around him
were the publicans, and the most numerous were men employed in and
around the docks. Dredgers of mud, navvies employed on suburban canals,
excavators, loaders and unloaders of cargo, cattle drivers, whose
driving, however, was done mostly on board ship such and such like were
the men who were the fathers of the families of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East.
And there was there, not far removed from the muddy estuary of a little
stream that makes its black way from the Essex marshes among the houses
of the poorest of the poor into the Thames, a large commercial
establishment for turning the carcasses of horses into manure. Messrs
Flowsem and Blurt were in truth the great people of St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East; but the closeness of their establishment was
not an additional attraction to the parsonage. They were liberal,
however, with their money, and Mr Outhouse was disposed to think custom
perhaps having made the establishment less objectionable to him than it
was at first that St. Diddulph's-in-the-East would be more of a
Pandemonium than it now was, if by any sanitary law Messrs. Flowsem and
Blurt were compelled to close their doors. 'Non olet,' he would say
with a grim smile when the charitable cheque of the firm would come
punctually to hand on the first Saturday after Christmas.

But such a house as his would be, as he knew, but a poor residence for
his wife's nieces. Indeed, without positively saying that he was
unwilling to receive them, he had, when he first heard of the breaking
up of the house in Curzon Street, shewn that he would rather not take
upon his shoulders so great a responsibility. He and his wife had
discussed the matter between them, and had come to the conclusion that
they did not know what kind of things might have been done in Curzon
Street. They would think no evil, they said; but the very idea of a
married woman with a lover was dreadful to them. It might be that their
niece was free from blame. They hoped so. And even though her sin had
been of ever so deep a dye, they would take her in if it were indeed
necessary. But they hoped that such help from them might not be needed.
They both knew how to give counsel to a poor woman, how to rebuke a
poor man how to comfort, encourage, or to upbraid the poor. Practice
had told them how far they might go with some hope of doing good and at
what stage of demoralisation no good from their hands was any longer
within the scope of fair expectation. But all this was among the poor.
With what words to encourage such a one as their niece Mrs Trevelyan to
encourage her or to rebuke her, as her conduct might seem to make
necessary they both felt that They were altogether ignorant. To them
Mrs Trevelyan was a fine lady. To Mr Outhouse, Sir Marmaduke had ever
been a fine gentleman, given much to worldly things, who cared more for
whist and a glass of wine than for anything else, and who thought that
he had a good excuse for never going to church in England because he
was called upon, as he said, to show himself in the governor's pew
always once on Sundays, and frequently twice, when he was at the seat
of his government. Sir Marmaduke manifestly looked upon church as a
thing in itself notoriously disagreeable. To Mr Outhouse it afforded
the great events of the week. And Mrs Outhouse would declare that to
hear her husband preach was the greatest joy of her life. It may be
understood therefore that though the family connection between the
Rowleys and the Outhouses had been kept up with a semblance of
affection, it had never blossomed forth into cordial friendship.

When therefore the clergyman of St. Diddulph's received a letter from
his niece, Nora, begging him to take her into his parsonage till Sir
Marmaduke should arrive in the course of the spring, and hinting also a
wish that her uncle Oliphant should see Mr Trevelyan and if possible
arrange that his other niece should also come to the parsonage, he was
very much perturbed in spirit. There was a long consultation between
him and his wife before anything could be settled, and it may be
doubted whether anything would have been settled, had not Mr Trevelyan
himself made his way to the parsonage, on the second day of the family
conference. Mr and Mrs Outhouse had both seen the necessity of sleeping
upon the matter. They had slept upon it, and the discourse between them
on the second day was so doubtful in its tone that more sleeping would
probably have been necessary had not Mr Trevelyan appeared and
compelled them to a decision.

'You must remember that I make no charge against her,' said Trevelyan,
after the matter had been discussed for about an hour.

'Then why should she not come back to you?' said Mr Outhouse, timidly.

'Some day she may if she will be obedient. But it cannot be now. She
has set me at defiance; and even yet it is too clear from the tone of
her letter to me that she thinks that she has been right to do so. How
could we live together in amity when she addresses me as a cruel
tyrant?'

'Why did she go away at first?' asked Mrs Outhouse.

'Because she would compromise my name by an intimacy which I did not
approve. But I do not come here to defend myself, Mrs Outhouse. You
probably think that I have been wrong. You are her friend; and to you,
I will not even say that I have been right. What I want you to
understand is this. She cannot come back to me now. It would not be for
my honour that she should do so.'

'But, sir would it not be for your welfare, as a Christian?' asked Mr
Outhouse.

'You must not be angry with me, if I say that I will not discuss that
just now. I did not come here to discuss it.'

'It is very sad for our poor niece,' said Mrs Outhouse. 'It is very sad
for me,' said Trevelyan, gloomily 'very sad, indeed. My home is
destroyed; my life is made solitary; I do not even see my own child.
She has her boy with her, and her sister. I have nobody.'

'I can't understand, for the life of me; why you should not live
together just like any other people,' said Mrs Outhouse, whose woman's
spirit was arising in her bosom. 'When people are married, they must
put up with something at least, most always.' This she added, lest it
might be for a moment imagined that she had had any cause for complaint
with her Mr Outhouse.

'Pray excuse me, Mrs Outhouse; but I cannot discuss that. The question
between us is this can you consent to receive your two nieces till
their father's return and if so, in what way shall I defray the expense
of their living? You will of course understand that I willingly
undertake the expense not only of my wife's maintenance and of her
sister's also, but that I will cheerfully allow anything that may be
required either for their comfort or recreation.'

'I cannot take my nieces into my house as lodgers,' said Mr Outhouse.

'No, not as lodgers; but of course you can understand that it is for me
to pay for my own wife. I know I owe you an apology for mentioning it
but how else could I make my request to you?'

'If Emily and Nora come here they must come as our guests,' said Mrs
Outhouse.

'Certainly,' said the clergyman. 'And if I am told they are in want of
a home they shall find one here till their father comes. But I am bound
to say that as regards the elder I think her home should be elsewhere.'

'Of course it should,' said Mrs Outhouse. 'I don't know anything about
the law, but it seems to me very odd that a young woman should be
turned out in this way. You say she has done nothing?'

'I will not argue the matter,' said Trevelyan.

'That's all very well, Mr Trevelyan,' said the lady, 'but she's my own
niece, and if I don't stand up for her I don't know who will. I never
heard such a thing in my life as a wife being sent away after such a
fashion as that. We wouldn't treat a cookmaid so; that we wouldn't. As
for coming here, she shall come if she pleases, but I shall always say
that it's the greatest shame I ever heard of.'

Nothing came of this visit at last. The lady grew in her anger; and Mr
Trevelyan, in his own defence, was driven to declare that his wife's
obstinate intimacy with Colonel Osborne had almost driven him out of
his senses. Before he left the parsonage he was brought even to tears
by his own narration of his own misery whereby Mr Outhouse was
considerably softened, although Mrs Outhouse became more and more stout
in the defence of her own sex. But nothing at last came of it.
Trevelyan insisted on paying for his wife, wherever she might be
placed; and when he found that this would not be permitted to him at
the parsonage, he was very anxious to take some small furnished house
in the neighbourhood, in which the two sisters might live for the next
six months under the wings of their uncle and aunt But even Mr Outhouse
was moved to pleasantry by this suggestion, as he explained the nature
of the tenements which were common at St. Diddulph's. Two rooms, front
and back, they might have for about five-and sixpence a week in a house
with three other families. 'But perhaps that is not exactly what you'd
like,' said Mr Outhouse. The interview ended with no result, and Mr
Trevelyan took his leave, declaring to himself that he was worse off
than the foxes, who have holes in which to lay their heads but it must
be presumed that his sufferings in this respect were to be by attorney;
as it was for his wife, and not for himself, that the necessary hole
was now required.

As soon as he was gone Mrs Outhouse answered Nora's letter, and without
meaning to be explicit, explained pretty closely what had taken place.
The spare bedroom at the parsonage was ready to receive either one or
both of the sisters till Sir Marmaduke should be in London, if one or
both of them should choose to come. And though there was no nursery at
the parsonage for Mr and Mrs Outhouse had been blessed with no children
still room should be made for the little boy. But they must come as
visitors 'as our own nieces,' said Mrs Outhouse. And she went on to say
that she would have nothing to do with the quarrel between Mr Trevelyan
and his wife. All such quarrels were very bad but as to this quarrel
she could take no part either one side or the other. Then she stated
that Mr Trevelyan had been at the parsonage, but that no arrangement
had been made, because Mr Trevelyan had insisted on paying for their
board and lodging.

This letter reached Nuncombe Putney before any reply was received by
Mrs Trevelyan from her husband. This was on the Saturday morning, and
Mrs Trevelyan had pledged herself to Mrs Stanbury that she would leave
the Clock House on the Monday. Of course, there was no need that she
should do so. Both Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla would now have willingly
consented to their remaining till Sir Marmaduke should be in England.
But Mrs Trevelyan's high spirit revolted against this after all that
had been said. She thought that she should hear from her husband on the
morrow, but the post on Sunday brought no letter from Trevelyan. On the
Saturday they had finished packing up so certain was Mrs Trevelyan that
some instructions as to her future destiny would be sent to her by her
lord.

At last they decided on the Sunday that they would both go at once to
St. Diddulph's; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that this
was the decision of the elder sister. Nora would willingly have yielded
to Priscilla's entreaties, and have remained. But Emily declared that
she could not, and would not, stay in the house. She had a few pounds
what would suffice for her' journey; and as Mr Trevelyan had not
thought proper to send his orders to her, she would go without them.
Mrs Outhouse was her aunt, and her nearest relative in England. Upon
whom else could she lean in this time of her great affliction? A
letter, therefore, was written to Mrs Outhouse, saying that the whole
party, including the boy and nurse, would be at St. Diddulph's on the
Monday evening, and the last cord was put to the boxes.

'I suppose that he is very angry,' Mrs Trevelyan said to her sister,
'but I do not feel that I care about that now. He shall have nothing to
complain of in reference to any gaiety on my part. I will see no one. I
will have no correspondence. But I will not remain here, after what he
has said to me, let him be ever so angry. I declare, as I think of it,
it seems to me that no woman was ever so cruelly treated as I have
been.' Then she wrote one further line to her husband.



'Not having received any orders from you, and having promised Mrs
Stanbury that I would leave this house on Monday, I go with Nora to my
aunt, Mrs Outhouse, to-morrow.

E. T.'



On the Sunday evening the four ladies drank tea together, and they all
made an effort to be civil, and even affectionate, to each other. Mrs
Trevelyan had at last allowed Priscilla to explain how it had come to
pass that she had told her brother that it would be better both for her
mother and for herself that the existing arrangements should be brought
to an end, and there had come to be an agreement between them that they
should all part in amity. But the conversation on the Sunday evening
was very difficult.

'I am sure we shall always think of you both with the greatest
kindness,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'As for me,' said Priscilla, 'your being with us has been a delight
that I cannot describe only it has been wrong.'

'I know too well,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'that in our present
circumstances we are unable to carry delight with us anywhere.'

'You hardly understand what our life has been,' said Priscilla; 'but
the truth is that we had no right to receive you in such a house as
this. It has not been our way of living, and it cannot continue to be
so. It is not wonderful that people should talk of us. Had it been
called your house, it might have been better.'

'And what will you do now?' asked Nora.

'Get out of this place as soon as we can. It is often hard to go back
to the right path; but it may always be done or at least attempted.'

'It seems to me that I take misery with me wherever I go,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'My dear, it has not been your fault,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'I do not like to blame my brother,' said Priscilla, 'because he has
done his best to be good to us all and the punishment will fall
heaviest upon him, because he must pay for it.'

'He should not be allowed to pay a shilling,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

Then the morning came, and at seven o'clock the two sisters, with the
nurse and child, started for Lessboro' Station in Mrs Crocket's open
carriage, the luggage having been sent on in a cart. There were many
tears shed, and any one looking at the party would have thought that
very dear friends were being torn asunder.

'Mother,' said Priscilla, as soon as the parlour door was shut, and the
two were alone together, 'we must take care that we never are brought
again into such a mistake as that. They who protect the injured should
be strong themselves.'



CHAPTER XXX - DOROTHY MAKES UP HER MIND

It was true that most ill-natured things had been said at Lessboro' and
at Nuncombe Putney about Mrs Stanbury and the visitors at the Clock
House, and that these ill-natured things had spread themselves to
Exeter. Mrs Ellison of Lessboro', who was not the most good-natured
woman in the world, had told Mrs Merton of Nuncombe that she had been
told that the Colonel's visit to the lady had been made by express
arrangement between the Colonel and Mrs Stanbury. Mrs Merton, who was
very good-natured, but not the wisest woman in the world, had declared
that any such conduct on the part of Mrs Stanbury was quite impossible
'What does it matter which it is Priscilla or her mother?' Mrs Ellison
had said. 'These are the facts. Mrs Trevelyan has been sent there to be
out of the way of this Colonel; and the Colonel immediately comes down
and sees her at the Clock House. But when people are very poor they do
get driven to do almost anything.'

Mrs Merton, not being very wise, had conceived it to be her duty to
repeat this to Priscilla; and Mrs Ellison, not being very good-natured,
had conceived it to be hers to repeat it to Mrs MacHugh at Exeter. And
then Bozzle's coming had become known.

'Yes, Mrs MacHugh, a policeman in mufti down at Nuncombe! I wonder what
our friend in the Close here will think about it! I have always said,
you know, that if she wanted to keep things straight at Nuncombe, she
should have opened her purse-strings.'

From all which it may be understood, that Priscilla Stanbury's desire
to go back to their old way of living had not been without reason.

It may be imagined that Miss Stanbury of the Close did not receive with
equanimity the reports which reached her. And, of course, when she
discussed the matter either with Martha or with Dorothy, she fell back
upon her own early appreciation of the folly of the Clock House
arrangement. Nevertheless, she had called Mrs Ellison very bad names,
when she learned from her friend Mrs MacHugh what reports were being
spread by the lady from Lessboro'.

'Mrs Ellison! Yes; we all know Mrs Ellison. The bitterest tongue in
Devonshire, and the falsest! There are some people at Lessboro' who
would be well pleased if she paid her way there as well as those poor
women do at Nuncombe. I don't think much of what Mrs Ellison says.'

'But it is bad about the policeman,' said Mrs MacHugh.

'Of course it's bad. It's all bad. I'm not saying that it's not bad.
I'm glad I've got this other young woman out of it. It's all that young
man's doing. If I had a son of my own, I'd sooner follow him to the
grave than hear him call himself a Radical.'

Then, on a sudden, there came to the Close news that Mrs Trevelyan and
her sister were gone. On the very Monday on which they went, Priscilla
sent a note on to her sister, in which no special allusion was made to
Aunt Stanbury, but which was no doubt written with the intention that
the news should be communicated.

'Gone; are they? As it is past wishing that they hadn't come, it's the
best thing they could do now. And who is to pay the rent of the house,
now they have gone?' As this was a point on which Dorothy was not
prepared to trouble herself at present, she made no answer to the
question.

Dorothy at this time was in a state of very great perturbation on her
own account. The reader may perhaps remember that she had been much
startled by a proposition that had been made to her in reference to her
future life. Her aunt had suggested to her that she should become Mrs
Gibson. She had not as yet given any answer to that proposition, and
had indeed found it to be quite impossible to speak about it at all.
But there can be no doubt that the suggestion had opened out to her
altogether new views of life. Up to the moment of her aunt's speech to
her, the idea of her becoming a married woman had never presented
itself to her. In her humility it had not occurred to her that she
should be counted as one among the candidates for matrimony. Priscilla
had taught her to regard herself indeed, they had both regarded
themselves as born to eat and drink, as little as might be, and then to
die. Now, when she was told that she could, if she pleased, become Mrs
Gibson, she was almost lost in a whirl of new and confused ideas. Since
her aunt had spoken, Mr Gibson himself had dropped a hint or two which
seemed to her to indicate that he also must be in the secret. There had
been a party, with a supper, at Mrs Crumbie's, at which both the Miss
Frenches had been present. But Mr Gibson had taken her, Dorothy
Stanbury, out to supper, leaving both Camilla and Arabella behind him
in the drawing-room! During the quarter of an hour afterwards in which
the ladies were alone while the gentlemen were eating and drinking,
both Camilla and Arabella continued to wreak their vengeance. They
asked questions about Mrs Trevelyan, and suggested that Mr Gibson might
be sent over to put things right. But Miss Stanbury had heard them, and
had fallen upon them with a heavy hand.

'There's a good deal expected of Mr Gibson, my dears,' she said, 'which
it seems to me Mr Gibson is not inclined to perform.'

'It is quite indifferent to us what Mr Gibson may be inclined to
perform,' said Arabella. 'I'm sure we shan't interfere with Miss
Dorothy.'

As this was said quite out loud before all the other ladies, Dorothy
was overcome with shame. But her aunt comforted her when they were
again at home.

'Laws, my dear; what does it matter? When you're Mrs Gibson, you'll be
proud of it all.'

Was it then really written in the book of the Fates that she, Dorothy
Stanbury, was to become Mrs Gibson? Poor Dorothy began to feel that she
was called upon to exercise an amount of thought and personal decision
to which she had not been accustomed. Hitherto, in the things which she
had done, or left undone, she had received instructions which she could
obey. Had her mother and Priscilla told her positively not to go to her
aunt's house, she would have remained at Nuncombe without complaint.
Had her aunt since her coming given her orders as to her mode of life
enjoined, for instance, additional church attendances, or desired her
to perform menial services in the house she would have obeyed, from
custom, without a word. But when she was told that she was to marry Mr
Gibson, it did seem to her to be necessary to do something more than
obey. Did she love Mr Gibson? She tried hard to teach herself to think
that she might learn to love him. He was a nice-looking man enough,
with sandy hair, and a head rather bald, with thin lips, and a narrow
nose, who certainly did preach drawling sermons; but of whom everybody
said that he was a very excellent clergyman. He had a house and an
income, and all Exeter had long since decided that he was a man who
would certainly marry. He was one of those men of whom it may be said
that they have no possible claim to remain unmarried. He was fair game,
and unless he surrendered himself to be bagged before long, would
subject himself to just and loud complaint. The Miss Frenches had been
aware of this, and had thought to make sure of him among them. It was a
little hard upon them that the old maid of the Close, as they always
called Miss Stanbury, should interfere with them when their booty was
almost won. And they felt it to be the harder because Dorothy Stanbury
was, as they thought, so poor a creature. That Dorothy herself should
have any doubt as to accepting Mr Gibson, was an idea that never
occurred to them. But Dorothy had her doubts. When she came to think of
it, she remembered that she had never as yet spoken a word to Mr
Gibson, beyond such little trifling remarks as are made over a
tea-table. She might learn to love him, but she did not think that she
loved him as yet.

'I don't suppose all this will make any difference to Mr Gibson,' said
Miss Stanbury to her niece, on the morning after the receipt of
Priscilla's note stating that the Trevelyans had left Nuncombe.

Dorothy always blushed when Mr Gibson's name was mentioned, and she
blushed now. But she did not at all understand her aunt's allusion. 'I
don't know what you mean, aunt,' she said.

'Well, you know, my dear, what they say about Mrs Trevelyan and the
Clock House is not very nice. If Mr Gibson were to turn round and say
that the connection wasn't pleasant, no one would have a right to
complain.'

The faint customary blush on Dorothy's cheeks which Mr Gibson's name
had produced now covered her whole face even up to the roots of her
hair. 'If he believes bad of mamma, I'm sure, Aunt Stanbury, I don't
want to see him again.'

'That's all very fine, my dear, but a man has to think of himself, you
know.'

'Of course he thinks of himself. Why shouldn't he? I dare say he thinks
of himself more than I do.'

'Dorothy, don't be a fool. A good husband isn't to be caught every
day.'

'Aunt Stanbury, I don't want to catch any man.'

'Dorothy, don't be a fool.'

'I must say it. I don't suppose Mr Gibson thinks of me the least in the
world.'

'Psha! I tell you he does.'

'But as for mamma and Priscilla, I never could like anybody for a
moment who would be ashamed of them.'

She was most anxious to declare that, as far as she knew herself and
her own wishes at present, she entertained no partiality for Mr Gibson
no feeling which could become partiality even if Mr Gibson was to
declare himself willing to accept her mother and her sister with
herself. But she did not dare to say so. There was an instinct within
her which made it almost impossible to her to express an objection to a
suitor before the suitor had declared himself to be one. She could
speak out as touching her mother and her sister but as to her own
feelings she could express neither assent or dissent.

'I should like to have it settled soon,' said Miss Stanbury, in a
melancholy voice. Even to this Dorothy could make no reply. What did
soon mean? Perhaps in the course of a year or two. 'If it could be
arranged by the end of this week, it would be a great comfort to me.'
Dorothy almost fell off her chair, and was stricken altogether dumb. 'I
told you, I think, that Brooke Burgess is coming here?'

'You said he was to come some day.'

'He is to be here on Monday. I haven't seen him for more than twelve
years; and now he's to be here next week! Dear, dear! When I think
sometimes of all the hard words that have been spoken, and the harder
thoughts that have been in people's minds, I often regret that the
money ever came to me at all. I could have done without it, very well
very well.'

'But all the unpleasantness is over now, aunt.'

'I don't know about that. Unpleasantness of that kind is apt to rankle
long. But I wasn't going to give up my rights. Nobody but a coward does
that. They talked of going to law and trying the will, but they
wouldn't have got much by that. And then they abused me for two years.
When they had done and got sick of it, I told them they should have it
all back again as soon as I am dead. It won't be long now. This Burgess
is the elder nephew, and he shall have it all.'

'Is not he grateful?'

'No. Why should he be grateful? I don't do it for special love of him.
I don't want his gratitude; nor anybody's gratitude. Look at Hugh. I
did love him.'

'I am grateful, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Are you, my dear? Then show it by being a good wife to Mr Gibson, and
a happy wife. I want to get everything settled while Burgess is here.
If he is to have it, why should I keep him out of it whilst I live? I
wonder whether Mr Gibson would mind coming and living here, Dolly?'

The thing was coming so near to her that Dorothy began to feel that she
must, in truth, make up her mind, and let her aunt know also how it had
been made up. She was sensible enough to perceive that if she did not
prepare herself for the occasion she would find herself hampered by an
engagement simply because her aunt had presumed that it was out of the
question that she should not acquiesce. She would drift into marriage
with Mr Gibson against her will. Her greatest difficulty was the fact
that her aunt clearly had no doubt on the subject. And as for herself,
hitherto her feelings did not, on either side, go beyond doubts.
Assuredly it would be a very good thing for her to become Mrs Gibson,
if only she could create for herself some attachment for the man. At
the present moment her aunt said nothing more about Mr Gibson, having
her mind much occupied with the coming of Mr Brooke Burgess.

'I remember him twenty years ago and more; as nice a boy as you would
wish to see. His father was the fourth of the brothers. Dear, dear!
Three of them are gone; and the only one remaining is old Barty, whom
no one ever loved.'

The Burgesses had been great people in Exeter, having been both bankers
and brewers there, but the light of the family had paled; and though
Bartholomew Burgess, of whom Miss Stanbury declared that no one had
ever loved him, still had a share in the bank, it was well understood
in the city that the real wealth in the firm of Cropper and Burgess,
belonged to the Cropper family. Indeed the most considerable portion of
the fortune that had been realised by old Mr Burgess had come into the
possession of Miss Stanbury herself. Bartholomew Burgess had never
forgiven his brother's will, and between him and Jemima Stanbury the
feud was irreconcileable. The next brother, Tom Burgess, had been a
solicitor at Liverpool, and had done well there. But Miss Stanbury knew
nothing of the Tom Burgesses as she called them. The fourth brother,
Harry Burgess, had been a clergyman, and this Brooke Burgess, Junior,
who was now coming to the Close, had been left with a widowed mother,
the eldest of a large family. It need not now be told at length how
there had been ill-blood also between this clergyman and the heiress.
There had been attempts at friendship, and at one time Miss Stanbury
had received the Rev. Harry Burgess and all his family at the Close but
the attempts had not been successful; and though our old friend had
never wavered in her determination to leave the money all back to some
one of the Burgess family, and with this view had made a pilgrimage to
London some twelve years since, and had renewed her acquaintance with
the widow and the children, still there had been no comfortable
relations between her and any of the Burgess family. Old Barty Burgess,
whom she met in the Close, or saw in the High Street every day of her
life, was her great enemy. He had tried his best so at least she was
convinced to drive her out of the pale of society, years upon years
ago, by saying evil things of her. She had conquered in that combat.
Her victory had been complete, and she had triumphed after a most
signal fashion. But this triumph did not silence Barty's tongue, nor
soften his heart. When she prayed to be forgiven, as she herself
forgave others, she always exempted Barty Burgess from her prayers.
There are things which flesh and blood cannot do. She had not liked
Harry Burgess' widow, nor, for the matter of that, Harry Burgess
himself. When she had last seen the children she had not liked any of
them much, and had had her doubts even as to Brooke. But with that
branch of the family she was willing to try again. Brooke was now
coming to the Close, having received, however, an intimation, that if,
during his visit to Exeter, he chose to see his Uncle Barty, any such
intercourse must be kept quite in the background. While he remained in
Miss Stanbury's house he was to remain there as though there were no
such person as Mr Bartholomew Burgess in Exeter.

At this time Brooke Burgess was a man just turned thirty, and was a
clerk in the Ecclesiastical Record Office, in Somerset House. No doubt
the peculiar nature and name of the public department to which he was
attached had done something to recommend him to Miss Stan-bury.
Ecclesiastical records were things greatly to be reverenced in her
eyes, and she felt that a gentleman who handled them and dealt with
them would probably be sedate, gentlemanlike, and conservative. Brooke
Burgess, when she had last seen him, was just about to enter upon the
duties of the office. Then there had come offence, and she had in truth
known nothing of him from that day to this. The visitor was to be at
Exeter on the following Monday, and very much was done in preparation
of his coming. There was to be a dinner party on that very day, and
dinner parties were not common with Miss Stanbury. She had, however,
explained to Martha that she intended to put her best foot forward.
Martha understood perfectly that Mr Brooke Burgess was to be received
as the heir of property. Sir Peter Mancrudy, the great Devonshire
chemist, was coming to dinner, and Mr and Mrs Powel from Haldon people
of great distinction in that part of the county Mrs MacHugh of course;
and, equally of course, Mr Gibson. There was a deep discussion between
Miss Stanbury and Martha as to asking two of the Cliffords, and Mr and
Mrs Noel from Doddiscombeleigh. Martha had been very much in favour of
having twelve. Miss Stanbury had declared that with twelve she must
have two waiters from the greengrocers, and that two waiters would
overpower her own domesticities below stairs. Martha had declared that
she didn't care about them any more than if they were puppy dogs. But
Miss Stanbury had been quite firm against twelve. She had consented to
have ten for the sake of artistic arrangement at the table; 'They
should be pantaloons and petticoats alternate, you know,' she had said
to Martha and had therefore asked the Cliffords. But the Cliffords
could not come, and then she had declined to make any further attempt.
Indeed, a new idea had struck her. Brooke Burgess, her guest, should
sit at one end of the table, and Mr Gibson, the clergyman, at the
other. In this way the proper alternation would be effected. When
Martha heard this, Martha quite understood the extent of the good
fortune that was in store for Dorothy. If Mr Gibson was to be welcomed
in that way, it could only be in preparation of his becoming one of the
family.

And Dorothy herself became aware that she must make up her mind. It was
not so declared to her, but she came to understand that it was very
probable that something would occur on the coming Monday which would
require her to be ready with her answer on that day. And she was
greatly tormented by feeling that if she could not bring herself to
accept Mr Gibson should Mr Gibson propose to her, as to which she
continued to tell herself that the chance of such a thing must be very
remote indeed but that if he should propose to her, and if she could
not accept him, her aunt ought to know that it would be so before the
moment came. But yet she could not bring herself to speak to her aunt
as though any such proposition were possible.

It happened that during the week, on the Saturday, Priscilla came into
Exeter. Dorothy met her sister at the railway station, and then the two
walked together two miles and back along the Crediton Road. Aunt
Stanbury had consented to Priscilla coming to the Close, even though it
was not the day appointed for such visits; but the walk had been
preferred, and Dorothy felt that she would be able to ask for counsel
from the only human being to whom she could have brought herself to
confide the fact that a gentleman was expected to ask her to marry him.
But it was not till they had turned upon their walk, that she was able
to open her mouth on the subject even to her sister. Priscilla had been
very full of their own cares at Nuncombe, and had said much of her
determination to leave the Clock House and to return to the retirement
of some small cottage. She had already written to Hugh to this effect,
and during their walk had said much of her own folly in having
consented to so great a change in their mode of life. At last Dorothy
struck in with her story.

'Aunt Stanbury wants me to make a change too.'

'What change?' asked Priscilla anxiously.

'It is not my idea, Priscilla, and I don't think that there can be
anything in it. Indeed, I'm sure there isn't. I don't see how it's
possible that there should be.'

'But what is it, Dolly?'

'I suppose there can't be any harm in my telling you.'

'If it's anything concerning yourself, I should say not. If it concerns
Aunt Stanbury, I dare say she'd rather you held your tongue.'

'It concerns me most,' said Dorothy.

'She doesn't want you to leave her, does she?'

'Well; yes; no. By what she said last I shouldn't leave her at all in
that way. Only I'm sure it's not possible.'

'I am the worst hand in the world, Dolly, at guessing a riddle.'

'You've heard of that Mr Gibson, the clergyman haven't you?'

'Of course I have.'

'Well--. Mind, you know, it's only what Aunt Stanbury says. He has never
so much as opened his lips to me himself, except to say, "How do you
do?" and that kind of thing.'

'Aunt Stanbury wants you to marry him?'

'Yes!'

'Well?'

'Of course it's out of the question,' said Dorothy, sadly.

'I don't see why it should be out of the question,' said Priscilla,
proudly. 'Indeed, if Aunt Stanbury has said much about it, I should say
that Mr Gibson himself must have spoken to her.'

'Do you think he has?'

'I do not believe that my aunt would raise false hopes,' said
Priscilla.

'But I haven't any hopes. That is to say, I had never thought about
such a thing.'

'But you think about it now, Dolly?'

'I should never have dreamed about it, only for Aunt Stanbury.'

'But, dearest, you are dreaming of it now, are you not?'

'Only because she says that it is to be so. You don't know how generous
she is. She says that if it should be so, she will give me ever so much
money two thousand pounds!'

'Then I am quite sure that she and Mr Gibson must understand each
other.'

'Of course,' said Dorothy, sadly, 'if he were to think of such a thing
at all, it would only be because the money would be convenient.'

'Not at all,' said Priscilla, sternly with a sternness that was very
comfortable to her listener. 'Not at all. Why should not Mr Gibson love
you as well as any man ever loved any woman? You are nice-looking,'
Dorothy blushed beneath her hat even at her sister's praise 'and
good-tempered, and lovable in every way. And I think you are just
fitted to make a good wife. And you must not suppose, Dolly, that
because Mr Gibson wouldn't perhaps, have asked you without the money,
that therefore he is mercenary. It so often happens that a gentleman
can't marry unless the lady has some money!'

'But he hasn't asked me at all.'

'I suppose he will, dear.'

'I only know what Aunt Stanbury says.'

'You may be sure that he will ask you.'

'And what must I say, Priscilla?'

'What must you say? Nobody can tell you that, dear, but yourself. Do
you like him?'

'I don't dislike him.'

'Is that all?'

'I know him so very little, Priscilla. Everybody says he is very good
and then it's a great thing, isn't it, that he should be a clergyman?'

'I don't know about that.'

'I think it is. If it were possible that I should ever marry any one, I
should like a clergyman so much the best.'

'Then you do know what to say to him.'

'No, I don't, Priscilla. I don't know at all.'

'Look here, dearest. What my aunt offers to you is a very great step in
life. If you can accept this gentleman I think you would be happy and I
think, also, which should be of more importance for your consideration,
that you would make him happy. It is a brighter prospect, dear Dolly,
than to live either with us at Nuncombe, or even with Aunt Stanbury as
her niece.'

'But if I don't love him, Priscilla?'

'Then give it up, and be as you are, my own, own, dearest sister.'

'So I will,' said Dorothy, and at that time her mind was made up.



CHAPTER XXXI - MR BROOKE BURGESS

The hour at which Mr Brooke Burgess was to arrive had come round, and
Miss Stanbury was in a twitter, partly of expectation, and partly, it
must be confessed, of fear. Why there should be any fear she did not
herself know, as she had much to give and nothing to expect. But she
was afraid, and was conscious of it, and was out of temper because she
was ashamed of herself. Although it would be necessary that she should
again dress for dinner at six, she had put on a clean cap at four, and
appeared at that early hour in one of her gowns which was not
customarily in use for home purposes at that early hour. She felt that
she was 'an old fool' for her pains, and was consequently cross to poor
Dorothy. And there were other reasons for some display of harshness to
her niece. Mr Gibson had been at the house that very morning, and
Dorothy had given herself airs. At least, so Miss Stanbury thought. And
during the last three or four days, whenever Mr Gibson's name had been
mentioned, Dorothy had become silent, glum, and almost obstructive.
Miss Stanbury had been at the trouble of explaining that she was
specially anxious to have that little matter of the engagement settled
at once. She knew that she was going to behave with great generosity
that she was going to sacrifice, not her money only, of which she did
not think much, but a considerable portion of her authority, of which
she did think a great deal; and that she was about to behave in a
manner which demanded much gratitude. But it seemed to her that Dorothy
was not in the least grateful. Hugh had proved himself to be 'a mass of
ingratitude,' as she was in the habit of saying. None of the Burgesses
had ever shewn to her any gratitude for promises made to them, or,
indeed, for any substantial favours conferred upon them. And now
Dorothy, to whom a very seventh heaven of happiness had been opened a
seventh heaven, as it must be computed in comparison with her low
expectations now Dorothy was already shewing how thankless she could
become. Mr Gibson had not yet declared his passion, but he had freely
admitted to Miss Stanbury that he was prepared to do so. Priscilla had
been quite right in her suggestion that there was a clear understanding
between the clergyman and her aunt.

'I don't think he is come after all,' said Miss Stanbury, looking at
her watch. Had the train arrived at the moment that it was due, had the
expectant visitor jumped out of the railway carriage into a fly, and
had the driver galloped up to the Close, it might have been possible
that the wheels should have been at the door as Miss Stanbury spoke.

'It's hardly time yet, aunt.'

'Nonsense; it is time. The train comes in at four. I dare say he won't
come at all.'

'He is sure to come, aunt.'

'I've no doubt you know all about it better than any one else. You
usually do.' Then five minutes were passed in silence. 'Heaven and
earth! what shall I do with these people that are coming? And I told
them especially that it was to meet this young man! It's the way I am
always treated by everybody that I have about me.'

'The train might be ten minutes late, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Yes and monkeys might chew tobacco. There there's the omnibus at the
Cock and Bottle; the omnibus up from the train. Now, of course, he
won't come.'

'Perhaps he's walking, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Walking with his luggage on his shoulders? Is that your idea of the
way in which a London gentleman goes about? And there are two flies
coming up from the train, of course.' Miss Stanbury was obliged to fix
the side of her chair very close to the window in order that she might
see that part of the Close in which the vehicles of which she had
spoken were able to pass.

'Perhaps they are not coming from the train, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Perhaps a fiddlestick! You have lived here so much longer than I have
done that, of course, you must know all about it.' Then there was an
interval of another ten minutes, and even Dorothy was beginning to
think that Mr Burgess was not coming. 'I've given him up now,' said
Miss Stanbury. 'I think I'll send and put them all off.' Just at that
moment there came a knock at the door. But there was no cab. Dorothy's
conjecture had been right. The London gentleman had walked, and his
portmanteau had been carried behind him by a boy. 'How did he get
here?' exclaimed Miss Stanbury, as she heard the strange voice speaking
to Martha downstairs. But Dorothy knew better than to answer the
question.

'Miss Stanbury, I am very glad to see you,' said Mr Brooke Burgess, as
he entered the room. Miss Stanbury courtesied, and then took him by
both hands. 'You wouldn't have known me, I dare say,' he continued. 'A
black beard and a bald head do make a difference.'

'You are not bald at all,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I am beginning to be thin enough at the top. I am so glad to come to
you, and so much obliged to you for having me! How well I remember the
old room!'

'This is my niece, Miss Dorothy Stanbury, from Nuncombe Putney.'
Dorothy was about to make some formal acknowledgment of the
introduction, when Brooke Burgess came up to her, and shook her hand
heartily. 'She lives with me,' continued the aunt.

'And what has become of Hugh?' said Brooke.

'We never talk of him,' said Miss Stanbury gravely.

'I hope there's nothing wrong? I hear of him very often in London.'

'My aunt and he don't agree that's all,' said Dorothy.

'He has given up his profession as a barrister in which he might have
lived like a gentleman,' said Miss Stanbury, 'and has taken to writing
for a penny newspaper.'

'Everybody does that now, Miss Stanbury.'

'I hope you don't, Mr Burgess.'

'I! Nobody would print anything that I wrote. I don't write for
anything, certainly.'

'I'm very glad to hear it,' said Miss Stanbury.

Brooke Burgess, or Mr Brooke, as he came to be called very shortly by
the servants in the house, was a good-looking man, with black whiskers
and black hair, which, as he said, was beginning to be thin on the top
of his head, and pleasant small bright eyes. Dorothy thought that next
to her brother Hugh he was the most good-natured looking man she had
ever seen. He was rather below the middle height, and somewhat inclined
to be stout. But he would boast that he could still walk his twelve
miles in three hours, and would add that as long as he could do that he
would never recognise the necessity of putting himself on short
commons. He had a well-cut nose, not quite aquiline, but tending that
way, a chin with a dimple on it, and as sweet a mouth as ever declared
the excellence of a man's temper. Dorothy immediately began to compare
him with her brother Hugh, who was to her, of all men, the most
godlike. It never occurred to her to make any comparison between Mr
Gibson and Mr Burgess. Her brother Hugh was the most godlike of men;
but there was something godlike also about the new corner. Mr Gibson,
to Dorothy's eyes, was by no means divine;

'I used to call you Aunt Stanbury,' said Brooke Burgess to the old
lady; 'am I to go on doing it now?'

'You may call me what you like,' said Miss Stanbury. 'Only dear me I
never did see anybody so much altered.' Before she went up to dress
herself for dinner, Miss Stanbury was quite restored to her good
humour, as Dorothy could perceive.

The dinner passed off well enough. Mr Gibson, at the head of the table,
did, indeed, look very much out of his element, as though he conceived
that his position revealed to the outer world those ideas of his in
regard to Dorothy, which ought to have been secret for a while longer.
There are few men who do not feel ashamed of being paraded before the
world as acknowledged suitors, whereas ladies accept the position with
something almost of triumph. The lady perhaps regards herself as the
successful angler, whereas the gentleman is conscious of some
similitude to the unsuccessful fish. Mr Gibson, though he was not yet
gasping in the basket, had some presentiment of this feeling, which
made his present seat of honour unpleasant to him. Brooke Burgess, at
the other end of the table, was as gay as a lark. Mrs MacHugh sat on
one side of him, and Miss Stanbury on the other, and he laughed at the
two old ladies, reminding them of his former doings in Exeter how he
had hunted Mrs MacHugh's cat, and had stolen Aunt Stanbury's best
apricot jam, till everybody began to perceive that he was quite a
success. Even Sir Peter Mancrudy laughed at his jokes, and Mrs Powel,
from the other side of Sir Peter, stretched her head forward so that
she might become one of the gay party.

'There isn't a word of it true,' said Miss Stanbury. 'It's all pure
invention, and a great scandal. I never did such a thing in my life.'

'Didn't you though?' said Brooke Burgess. 'I remember it as well as if
it was yesterday, and old Dr. Ball, the prebendary, with the carbuncles
on his nose, saw it too!'

'Dr. Ball had no carbuncles on his nose,' said Mrs MacHugh. 'You'll say
next that I have carbuncles on my nose.'

'He had three. I remember each of them quite well, and so does Sir
Peter.'

Then everybody laughed; and Martha, who was in the room, knew that
Brooke Burgess was a complete success.

In the meantime Mr Gibson was talking to Dorothy; but Dorothy was
endeavouring to listen to the conversation at the other end of the
table. 'I found it very dirty on the roads to-day outside the city,'
said Mr Gibson.

'Very dirty,' said Dorothy, looking round at Mr Burgess, as she spoke.

'But the pavement in the High Street was dry enough.'

'Quite dry,' said Dorothy. Then there came a peal of laughter from Mrs
MacHugh and Sir Peter, and Dorothy wondered whether anybody before had
ever made those two steady old people laugh after that fashion.

'I should so like to get a drive with you up to the top of Haldon
Hill,' said Mr Gibson. 'When the weather gets fine, that is. Mrs Powel
was talking about it.'

'It would be very nice,' said Dorothy.

'You have never seen the view from Haldon Hill yet?' asked Mr Gibson.
But to this question Dorothy could make no answer. Miss Stanbury had
lifted one of the table-spoons, as though she was going to strike Mr
Brooke Burgess with the bowl of it. And this during a dinner party!
From that moment Dorothy turned herself round, and became one of the
listeners to the fun at the other end of the table; Poor Mr Gibson soon
found himself 'nowhere.'

'I never saw a man so much altered in my life,' said Mrs MacHugh, up in
the drawing-room.

'I don't remember that he used to be clever.'

'He was a bright boy!' said Miss Stanbury.

'But the Burgesses all used to be such serious, straitlaced people,'
said Mrs MacHugh. 'Excellent people,' she added, remembering the source
of her friend's wealth; 'but none of them like that.'

'I call him a very handsome man,' said Mrs Powel. 'I suppose he's not
married yet?'

'Oh, dear no,' said Miss Stanbury. 'There's time enough for him yet.'

'He'll find plenty here to set their caps at him,' said Mrs MacHugh.

'He's a little old for my girls,' said Mrs Powel, laughing. Mrs Powel
was the happy mother of four daughters, of whom the eldest was only
twelve.

'There are others who are more forward,' said Mrs MacHugh. 'What a
chance it would be for dear Arabella French!'

'Heaven forbid!' said Miss Stanbury.

'And then poor Mr Gibson wouldn't any longer be like the donkey between
two bundles of hay,' said Mrs Powel. Dorothy was quite determined that
she would never marry a man who was like a donkey between two bundles
of hay.

When the gentlemen came up into the drawing-room Dorothy was seated
behind the urn and tea-things at a large table, in such a position as
to be approached only at one side. There was one chair at her left
hand, but at her right hand there was no room for a seat only room for
some civil gentleman to take away full cups and bring them back empty.
Dorothy was not sufficiently ready-witted to see the danger of this
position till Mr Gibson had seated himself in the chair. Then it did
seem cruel to her that she should be thus besieged for the rest of the
evening as she had been also at dinner. While the tea was being
consumed Mr Gibson assisted at the service, asking ladies whether they
would have cake or bread and butter; but when all that was over Dorothy
was still in her prison, and Mr Gibson was still the jailer at the
gate. She soon perceived that everybody else was chatting and laughing,
and that Brooke Burgess was the centre of a little circle which had
formed itself quite at a distance from her seat. Once, twice, thrice
she meditated an escape, but she had not the courage to make the
attempt. She did not know how to manage it. She was conscious that her
aunt's eye was upon her, and that her aunt would expect her to listen
to Mr Gibson. At last she gave up all hope of moving, and was anxious
simply that Mr Gibson should confine himself to the dirt of the paths
and the noble prospect from Haldon Hill.

'I think we shall have more rain before we have done with it,' he said.
Twice before during the evening he had been very eloquent about the
rain.

'I dare say we shall,' said Dorothy. And then there came the sound of
loud laughter from Sir Peter, and Dorothy could see that he was poking
Brooke Burgess in the ribs. There had never been anything so gay before
since she had been in Exeter, and now she was hemmed up in that corner,
away from it all, by Mr Gibson!

'This Mr Burgess seems to be different from the other Burgesses,' said
Mr Gibson.

'I think he must be very clever,' said Dorothy.

'Well yes; in a sort of a way. What people call a Merry Andrew.'

'I like people who make me laugh and laugh themselves,' said Dorothy.

'I quite agree with you that laughter is a very good thing in its
place. I am not at all one of those who would make the world altogether
grave. There are serious things, and there must be serious moments.'

'Of course,' said Dorothy.

'And I think that serious conversation upon the whole has more
allurements than conversation which when you come to examine it is
found to mean nothing. Don't you?'

'I suppose everybody should mean something when he talks.'

'Just so. That is exactly my idea,' said Mr Gibson. 'On all such
subjects as that I should be so sorry if you and I did not agree. I
really should.' Then he paused, and Dorothy was so confounded by what
she conceived to be the dangers of the coming moment that she was
unable even to think what she ought to say. She heard Mrs MacHugh's
clear, sharp, merry voice, and she heard her aunt's tone of pretended
anger, and she heard Sir Peter's continued laughter, and Brooke Burgess
as he continued the telling of some story; but her own trouble was too
great to allow of her attending to what was going on at the other end
of the room. 'There is nothing as to which I am so anxious as that you
and I should agree about serious things,' said Mr Gibson.

'I suppose we do agree about going to church,' said Dorothy. She knew
that she could have made no speech more stupid, more senseless, more
inefficacious but what was she to say in answer to such an assurance?

'I hope so,' said Mr Gibson; 'and I think so. Your aunt is a most
excellent woman, and her opinion has very great weight with me on all
subjects even as to matters of church discipline and doctrine, in
which, as a clergyman, I am of course presumed to be more at home. But
your aunt is a woman among a thousand.'

'Of course I think she is very good.'

'And she is so right about this young man and her property. Don't you
think so?'

'Quite right, Mr Gibson.'

'Because, you know, to you, of course, being her near relative, and the
one she has singled out as the recipient of her kindness, it might have
been cause for some discontent.'

'Discontent to me, Mr Gibson!'

'I am quite sure your feelings are what they ought to be. And for
myself, if I ever were that is to say, supposing I could be in any way
interested .But perhaps it is premature to make any suggestion on that
head at present.'

'I don't at all understand what you mean, Mr Gibson.'

'I thought that perhaps I might take this opportunity of expressing-.
But, after all, the levity of the moment is hardly in accordance with
the sentiments which I should wish to express.'

'I think that I ought to go to my aunt now, Mr Gibson, as perhaps she
might want something.' Then she did push back her chair and stand upon
her legs-and Mr Gibson, after pausing for a moment, allowed her to
escape. Soon after that the visitors went, and Brooke Burgess was left
in the drawing-room with Miss Stanbury and Dorothy.

'How well I recollect all the people,' said Brooke; 'Sir Peter, and old
Mrs MacHugh; and Mrs Powel who then used to be called the beautiful
Miss Noel. And I remember every bit of furniture in the room.'

'Nothing changed except the old woman, Brooke,' said Miss Stanbury.

'Upon my word you are the least changed of all except that you don't
seem to be so terrible as you were then.'

'Was I very terrible, Brooke?'

'My mother had told me, I fancy, that I was never to make a noise, and
be sure not to break any of the china. You were always very
good-natured, and when you gave me a silver watch I could hardly
believe the extent of my own bliss.'

'You wouldn't care about a watch from an old worn now, Brooke?'

'You try me. But what rakes you are here! It's past eleven o'clock, and
I must go and have a smoke.'

'Have a what?' said Miss Stanbury, with a startled air.

'A smoke. You needn't be frightened, I don't mean in the house.'

'No I hope you don't mean that.'

'But I may take a turn round the Close with a pipe mayn't I?'

'I suppose all young men do smoke now,' said Miss Stanbury,
sorrowfully.

'Every one of them; and they tell me that the young women mean to take
to it before long.'

'If I saw a young woman smoking, I should blush for my sex; and though
she were the nearest and dearest that I had, I would never speak to her
never. Dorothy, I don't think Mr Gibson smokes.'

'I'm sure I don't know, aunt.'

'I hope he doesn't. I do hope that he does not. I cannot understand
what pleasure it is that men take in making chimneys of themselves, and
going about smelling so that no one can bear to come near them.'

Brooke merely laughed at this, and went his way, and smoked his pipe
out in the Close, while Martha sat up to let him in when he had
finished it. Then Dorothy escaped at once to her room, fearful of being
questioned by her aunt about Mr Gibson. She had, she thought now, quite
made up her mind. There was nothing in Mr Gibson that she liked. She
was by no means so sure as she had been when she was talking to her
sister, that she would prefer a clergyman to any one else. She had
formed no strong ideas on the subject of lovemaking, but she did think
that any man who really cared for her, would find some other way of
expressing his love than that which Mr Gibson had adopted. And then Mr
Gibson had spoken to her about her aunt's money in a way that was
distasteful to her. She thought that she was quite sure that if he
should ask her, she would not accept him.

She was nearly undressed, nearly safe for the night, when there came a
knock at the door, and her aunt entered the room. 'He has come in,'
said Miss Stanbury.

'I suppose he has had his pipe, then.'

'I wish he didn't smoke. I do wish he didn't smoke. But I suppose an
old woman like me is only making herself a fool to care about such
things. If they all do it I can't prevent them. He seems to be a very
nice young man in other things; does he not, Dolly?'

'Very nice indeed, Aunt Stanbury.'

'And he has done very well in his office. And as for his saying that he
must smoke, I like that a great deal better than doing it on the sly.'

'I don't think Mr Burgess would do anything on the sly, aunt.'

'No, no; I don't think he would. Dear me; he's not at all like what I
fancied.'

'Everybody seemed to like him very much.'

'Didn't they. I never saw Sir Peter so much taken. And there was quite
a flirtation between him and Mrs MacHugh. And now, my dear, tell me
about Mr Gibson.'

'There is nothing to tell, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Isn't there? From what I saw going on, I thought there would be
something to tell. He was talking to you the whole evening.'

'As it happened he was sitting next to me of course.'

'Indeed he was sitting next to you so much so that I thought everything
would be settled.'

'If I tell you something, Aunt Stanbury, you mustn't be angry with me.'

'Tell me what? What is it you have to tell me?'

'I don't think I shall ever care for Mr Gibson not in that way.'

'Why not, Dorothy?'

'I'm sure he doesn't care for me. And I don't think he means it.'

'I tell you he does mean it. Mean it! Why, I tell you it has all been
settled between us. Since I first spoke to you I have explained to him
exactly what I intend to do, He knows that he can give up his house and
come and live here. I am sure he must have said something about it to
you tonight.'

'Not a word, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Then he will.'

'Dear aunt, I do so wish you would prevent it. I don't like him. I
don't indeed.'

'Not like him!'

'No I don't care for him a bit, and I never shall. I can't help it,
Aunt Stanbury. I thought I would try, but I find it would be
impossible. You can't want me to marry a man if I don't love him.'

'I never heard of such a thing in my life. Not love him! And why
shouldn't you love him? He's a gentleman. Everybody respects him. He'll
have plenty to make you comfortable all your life! And then why didn't
you tell me before?'

'I didn't know, Aunt Stanbury. I thought that perhaps--'

'Perhaps what?'

'I could not say all at once that I didn't care for him, when I had
never so much as thought about it for a moment before.'

'You haven't told him this?'

'No, I have not told him. I couldn't begin by telling him, you know.'

'Then I must pray that you will think about it again. Have you imagined
what a great thing for you it would be to be established for life so
that you should never have any more trouble again about a home, or
about money, or anything? Don't answer me now, Dorothy, but think of
it. It seemed to me that I was doing such an excellent thing for both
of you.' So saying Miss Stanbury left the room, and Dorothy was enabled
to obey her, at any rate, in one matter. She did think of it. She laid
awake thinking of it almost all the night. But the more she thought of
it, the less able was she to realise to herself any future comfort or
happiness in the idea of becoming Mrs Gibson.



CHAPTER XXXII - THE 'FULL MOON' AT ST. DIDDULPH'S

The receipt of Mrs Trevelyan's letter on that Monday morning was a
great surprise both to Mr and Mrs Outhouse. There was no time for any
consideration, no opportunity for delaying their arrival till they
should have again referred the matter to Mr Trevelyan. Their two nieces
were to be with them on that evening, and even the telegraph wires, if
employed with such purpose, would not be quick enough to stop their
coming. The party, as they knew, would have left Nuncombe Putney before
the arrival of the letter at the parsonage of St. Diddulph's. There
would have been nothing in this to have caused vexation, had it not
been decided between Trevelyan and Mr Outhouse that Mrs Trevelyan was
not to find a home at the parsonage. Mr Outhouse was greatly afraid of
being so entangled in the matter as to be driven to take the part of
the wife against the husband; and Mrs Outhouse, though she was full of
indignation against Trevelyan, was at the same time not free from anger
in regard to her own niece. She more than once repeated that most
unjust of all proverbs, which declares that there is never smoke
without fire, and asserted broadly that she did not like to be with
people who could not live at home, husbands with wives, and wives with
husbands, in a decent, respectable manner. Nevertheless the
preparations went on busily, and when the party arrived at seven
o'clock in the evening, two rooms had been prepared close to each
other, one for the two sisters, and the other for the child and nurse,
although poor Mr Outhouse himself was turned out of his own little
chamber in order that the accommodation might be given. They were all
very hot, very tired, and very dusty, when the cab reached the
parsonage. There had been the preliminary drive from Nuncombe Putney to
Lessboro'. Then the railway journey from thence to the Waterloo Bridge
Station had been long. And it had seemed to them that the distance from
the station to St. Diddulph's had been endless. When the cabman was
told whither he was to go, he looked doubtingly at his poor old horse,
and then at the luggage which he was required to pack on the top of his
cab, and laid himself out for his work with a full understanding that
it would not be accomplished without considerable difficulty. The
cabman made it twelve miles from Waterloo Bridge to St. Diddulph's, and
suggested that extra passengers and parcels would make the fare up to
ten and six. Had he named double as much Mrs Trevelyan would have
assented. So great was the fatigue, and so wretched the occasion, that
there was sobbing and crying in the cab, and when at last the parsonage
was reached, even the nurse was hardly able to turn her hand to
anything. The poor wanderers were made welcome on that evening without
a word of discussion as to the cause of their coming. 'I hope you are
not angry with us, Uncle Oliphant,' Emily Trevelyan had said, with
tears in her eyes. 'Angry with you, my dear for coming to our house!
How could I be angry with you?' Then the travellers were hurried
upstairs by Mrs Outhouse, and the master of the parsonage was left
alone for a while. He certainly was not angry, but he was ill at ease,
and unhappy. His guests would probably remain with him for six or seven
months. He had resolutely refused all payment from Mr Trevelyan, but,
nevertheless, he was a poor man. It is impossible to conceive that a
clergyman in such a parish as St. Diddulph's, without a private income,
should not be a poor man. It was but a hand-to-mouth existence which he
lived, paying his way as his money came to him, and sharing the
proceeds of his parish with the poor. He was always more or less in
debt. That was quite understood among the tradesmen. And the butcher
who trusted him, though he was a bad churchman, did not look upon the
parson's account as he did on other debts. He would often hint to Mr
Outhouse that a little money ought to be paid, and then a little money
would be paid. But it was never expected that the parsonage bill should
be settled. In such a household the arrival of four guests, who were
expected to remain for an almost indefinite number of months, could not
be regarded without dismay. On that first evening, Emily and Nora did
come down to tea, but they went up again to their rooms almost
immediately afterwards; and Mr Outhouse found that many hours of
solitary meditation were allowed to him on the occasion. 'I suppose
your brother has been told all about it,' he said to his wife, as soon
as they were together on that evening.

'Yes he has been told. She did not write to her mother till after she
had got to Nuncombe Putney. She did not like to speak about her
troubles while there was a hope that things might be made smooth.'

'You can't blame her for that, my dear.'

'But there was a month lost, or nearly. Letters go only once a month.
And now they can't hear from Marmaduke or Bessy,' Lady Rowley's name
was Bessy 'till the beginning of September.'

'That will be in a fortnight.'

'But what can my brother say to them? He will suppose that they are
still down in Devonshire.'

'You don't think he will come at once?'

'How can he, my dear? He can't come without leave, and the expense
would be ruinous. They would stop his pay, and there would be all
manner of evils. He is to come in the spring, and they must stay here
till he comes.' The parson of St. Diddulph's sighed and groaned. Would
it not have been almost better that he should have put his pride in his
pocket, and have consented to take Mr Trevelyan's money?

On the second morning Hugh Stanbury called at the parsonage, and was
closeted for a while with the parson. Nora had heard his voice in the
passage, and every one in the house knew who it was that was talking to
Mr Outhouse, in the little back parlour that was called a study. Nora
was full of anxiety. Would he ask to see them to see her? And why was
he there so long? 'No doubt he has brought a message from Mr
Trevelyan,' said her sister. 'I dare say he will send word that I ought
not to have come to my uncle's house.' Then, at last, both Mr Outhouse
and Hugh Stanbury came into the room in which they were all sitting.
The greetings were cold and unsatisfactory, and Nora barely allowed
Hugh to touch the tip of her fingers. She was very angry with him, and
yet she knew that her anger was altogether unreasonable. That he had
caused her to refuse a marriage that had so much to attract her was not
his sin not that; but that, having thus overpowered her by his
influence, he should then have stopped. And yet Nora had told herself
twenty times that it was quite impossible that she should become Hugh
Stanbury's wife and that, were Hugh Stanbury to ask her, it would
become her to be indignant with him, for daring to make a proposition
so outrageous. And now she was sick at heart, because he did not speak
to her!

He had, of course, come to St. Diddulph's with a message from
Trevelyan, and his secret was soon told to them all. Trevelyan himself
was upstairs in the sanded parlour of the Full Moon public-house, round
the corner. Mrs Trevelyan, when she heard this, clasped her hands and
bit her lips. What was he there for? If he wanted to see her, why did
he not come boldly to the parsonage? But it soon appeared that he had
no desire to see his wife. 'I am to take Louey to him,' said Hugh
Stanbury, 'if you will allow me.'

'What to be taken away from me!' exclaimed the mother. But Hugh assured
her that no such idea had been formed; that he would have concerned
himself in no such stratagem, and that he would himself undertake to
bring the boy back again within an hour. Emily was, of course, anxious
to be informed what other message was to be conveyed to her; but there
was no other message no message either of love or of instruction.

'Mr Stanbury,' said the parson, 'has left me something in my hands for
you.' This 'something' was given over to her as soon as Stanbury had
left the house, and consisted of cheques for various small sums,
amounting in all to 200 pounds. 'And he hasn't said what I am to do
with it?' Emily asked of her uncle. Mr Outhouse declared that the
cheques had been given to him without any instructions on that head. Mr
Trevelyan had simply expressed his satisfaction that his wife should be
with her uncle and aunt, had sent the money, and had desired to see the
child.

The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round the
corner, to the Full Moon. He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaid
and the potboy looked at him very hard. 'There's a young 'ooman has to
do with that ere little game,' said the potboy 'And it's two to one the
young 'ooman has the worst of it,' said the barmaid. 'They mostly
does,' said the potboy, not without some feeling of pride in the
immunities of his sex. 'Here he is,' said Hugh, as he entered the
parlour. 'My boy, there's papa.' The child at this time was more than a
year old, and could crawl about and use his own legs with the
assistance of a finger to his little hand, and could utter a sound
which the fond mother interpreted to mean papa; for with all her hot
anger against her husband, the mother was above all things anxious that
her child Should be taught to love his father's name. She would talk of
her separation from her husband as though it must be permanent; she
would declare to her sister how impossible it was that they should ever
again live together; she would repeat to herself over and over the tale
of the injustice that had been done to her, assuring herself that it
was out of the question that she should ever pardon the man; but yet,
at the bottom of her heart, there was a hope that the quarrel should be
healed before her boy would be old enough to understand the nature of
quarrelling. Trevelyan took the child on to his knee, and kissed him;
but the poor little fellow, startled by his transference from one male
set of arms to another, confused by the strangeness of the room, and by
the absence of things familiar to his sight, burst out into loud tears.
He had stood the journey round the corner in Hugh's arms manfully, and,
though he had looked about him with very serious eyes, as he passed
through the bar, he had borne that, and his carriage up the stairs; but
when he was transferred to his father, whose air, as he took the boy,
was melancholy and lugubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellow
could endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and, with a
grimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burst
out with an infantile howl. 'That's how he has been taught,' said
Trevelyan.

'Nonsense,' said Stanbury. 'He's not been taught at all. It's Nature.'

'Nature that he should be afraid of his own father! He did not cry when
he was with you.'

'No as it happened, he did not. I played with him when I was at
Nuncombe; but, of course, one can't tell when a child will cry, and
when it won't.'

'My darling, my dearest, my own son!' said Trevelyan, caressing the
child, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow only cried
the louder. It was now nearly two months since he had seen his father,
and, when age is counted by months only, almost everything may be
forgotten in six weeks. 'I suppose you must take him back again,' said
Trevelyan, sadly.

'Of course, I must take him back again. Come along, Louey, my boy.'

'It is cruel very cruel,' said Trevelyan. 'No man living could love his
child better than I love mine or, for the matter of that, his wife. It
is very cruel.'

'The remedy is in your own hands, Trevelyan,' said Stanbury, as he
marched off with the boy in his arms.

Trevelyan had now become so accustomed to being told by everybody that
he was wrong, and was at the same time so convinced that he was right,
that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part of the
persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough, who
objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Trevelyan himself,
even she blamed him now, telling him that he had done wrong to separate
himself from his wife. Mr Bideawhile, the old family lawyer, was of the
same opinion. Trevelyan had spoken to Mr Bideawhile as to the
expediency of making some lasting arrangement for a permanent
maintenance for his wife; but the attorney had told him that nothing of
the kind could be held to be lasting. It was clearly the husband's duty
to look forward to a reconciliation, and Mr Bide-awhile became quite
severe in the tone of rebuke which he assumed. Stanbury treated him
almost as though he were a madman. And as for his wife herself when she
wrote to him she would not even pretend to express any feeling of
affection. And yet, as he thought, no man had ever done more for a
wife. When Stanbury had gone with the child, he sat waiting for him in
the parlour of the public-house, as miserable a man as one could find.

He had promised himself something that should be akin to pleasure in
seeing his boy but it had been all disappointment and pain. What was it
that they expected him to do? What was it that they desired? His wife
had behaved with such indiscretion as almost to have compromised his
honour; and in return for that he was to beg her pardon, confess
himself to have done wrong, and allow her to return in triumph! That
was the light in which he regarded his own position; but he promised to
himself that let his own misery be what it might he would never so
degrade him. The only person who had been true to him was Bozzle. Let
them all look to it. If there were any further intercourse between his
wife and Colonel Osborne, he would take the matter into open court, and
put her away publicly, let Mr Bideawhile say what he might. Bozzle
should see to that and as to himself, he would take himself out of
England and hide himself abroad. Bozzle should know his address, but he
would give it to no one else. Nothing on earth should make him yield to
a woman who had ill-treated him nothing but confession and promise of
amendment on her part. If she would acknowledge and promise, then he
would forgive all, and the events of the last four months should never
again be mentioned by him. So resolving he sat and waited till Stanbury
should return to him.

When Stanbury got back to the parsonage with the boy he had nothing to
do but to take his leave. He would fain have asked permission to come
again, could he have invented any reason for doing so. But the child
was taken from him at once by its mother, and he was left alone with Mr
Outhouse. Nora Rowley did not even show herself, and he hardly knew how
to express sympathy and friendship for the guests at the parsonage,
without seeming to be untrue to his friend Trevelyan. 'I hope all this
may come to an end soon,' he said.

'I hope it may, Mr Stanbury,' said the clergyman; 'but to tell you the
truth, it seems to me that Mr Trevelyan is so unreasonable a man, so
much like a madman indeed, that I hardly know how to look forward to
any future happiness for my niece.' This was spoken with the utmost
severity that Mr Outhouse could assume.

'And yet no man loves his wife more tenderly.'

'Tender love should show itself by tender conduct, Mr Stanbury. What
has he done to his wife? He has blackened her name among all his
friends and hers, he has turned her out of his house, he has reviled
her and then thinks to prove how good he is by sending her money. The
only possible excuse is that he must be mad.'

Stanbury went back to the Full Moon, and retraced his steps with his
friend towards Lincoln's Inn. Two minutes took him from the parsonage
to the public-house, but during these two minutes he resolved that he
would speak his mind roundly to Trevelyan as they returned home.
Trevelyan should either take his wife back again at once, or else he,
Stanbury, would have no more to do with him. He said nothing till they
had threaded together the maze of streets which led them from the
neighbourhood of the Church of St. Diddulph's into the straight way of
the Commercial Road. Then he began. 'Trevelyan,' said he, 'you are
wrong in all this from beginning to end.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just what I say. If there was anything in what your wife did to offend
you, a soft word from you would have put it all right.'

'A soft word! How do you know what soft words I used?'

'A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her come back to
you, and let bygones be bygones, and all would be right. Can't you be
man enough to remember that you are a man?'

'Stanbury, I believe you want to quarrel with me.'

'I tell you fairly that I think that you are wrong.'

'They have talked you over to their side.'

'I know nothing about sides. I only know that you are wrong.'

'And what would you have me do?'

'Go and travel together for six months.' Here was Lady Milborough's
receipt again! 'Travel together for a year if you will. Then come back
and live where you please. People will have forgotten it or if they
remember it, what matters? No sane person can advise you to go on as
you are doing now.'

But it was of no avail. Before they had reached the Bank the two
friends had quarrelled and had parted.

Then Trevelyan felt that there was indeed no one left to him but
Bozzle. On the following morning he saw Bozzle, and on the evening of
the next day he was in Paris.



CHAPTER XXXIII - HUGH STANBURY SMOKES ANOTHER PIPE

Trevelyan was gone, and Bozzle alone knew his address. During the first
fortnight of her residence at St. Diddulph's Mrs Trevelyan received two
letters from Lady Milborough, in both of which she was recommended,
indeed tenderly implored, to be submissive to her husband. 'Anything,'
said Lady Milborough, 'is better than separation.' In answer to the
second letter Mrs Trevelyan told the old lady that she had no means by
which she could shew any submission to her husband, even if she were so
minded. Her husband had gone away, she did not know whither, and she
had no means by which she could communicate with him. And then came a
packet to her from her father and mother, despatched from the islands
after the receipt by Lady Rowley of the melancholy tidings of the
journey to Nuncombe Putney. Both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were
full of anger against Trevelyan, and wrote as though the husband could
certainly be brought back to a sense of his duty, if they only were
present. This packet had been at Nuncombe Putney, and contained a
sealed note from Sir Marmaduke addressed to Mr Trevelyan. Lady Rowley
explained that it was impossible that they should get to England
earlier than in the spring. 'I would come myself at once and leave papa
to follow,' said Lady Rowley, 'only for the children. If I were to
bring them, I must take a house for them, and the expense would ruin
us. Papa has written to Mr Trevelyan in a way that he thinks will bring
him to reason.'

But how was this letter, by which the husband was to be brought to
reason, to be put into the husband's hands? Mrs Trevelyan applied to Mr
Bideawhile and to Lady Milborough, and to Stanbury, for Trevelyan's
address; but was told by each of them that nothing was known of his
whereabouts. She did not apply to Mr Bozzle, although Mr Bozzle was
more than once in her neighbourhood; but as yet she knew nothing of Mr
Bozzle. The replies from Mr Bideawhile and from Lady Milborough came by
the post; but Hugh Stanbury thought that duty required him to make
another journey to St. Diddulph's and carry his own answer with him.

And on this occasion Fortune was either very kind to him or very
unkind. Whichever it was, he found himself alone for a few seconds in
the parsonage parlour with Nora Rowley. Mr Outhouse was away at the
time. Emily had gone upstairs for the boy; and Mrs Outhouse, suspecting
nothing, had followed her. 'Miss Rowley,' said he, getting up from his
seat, 'if you think it will do any good I will follow Trevelyan till I
find him.'

'How can you find him? Besides, why should you give up your own
business?'

'I would do anything to serve your sister.' This he said with
hesitation in his voice, as though he did not dare to speak all that he
desired to have spoken.

'I am sure that Emily is very grateful,' said Nora; 'but she would not
wish to give you such trouble as that.'

'I would do anything for your sister,' he repeated, 'for your sake,
Miss Rowley.' This was the first time that he had ever spoken a word to
her in such a strain, and it would be hardly too much to say that her
heart was sick for some such expression. But now that it had come,
though there was a sweetness about it that was delicious to her, she
was absolutely silenced by it.

And she was at once not only silent, but stern, rigid, and apparently
cold. Stanbury could not but feel as he looked at her that he had
offended her. 'Perhaps I ought not to say as much,' said he; 'but it is
so.'

'Mr Stanbury,' said she, 'that is nonsense. It is of my sister, not of
me, that we are speaking.'

Then the door was opened and Emily came in with her child, followed by
her aunt. There was no other opportunity, and perhaps it was well for
Nora and for Hugh that there should have been no other. Enough had been
said to give her comfort; and more might have led to his discomposure.
As to that matter on which he was presumed to have come to St.
Diddulph's, he could do nothing. He did not know Trevelyan's address,
but did know that Trevelyan had abandoned the chambers in Lincoln's
Inn. And then he found himself compelled to confess that he had
quarrelled with Trevelyan, and that they had parted in anger on the day
of their joint visit to the East. 'Everybody who knows him must quarrel
with him,' said Mrs Outhouse. Hugh when he took his leave was treated
by them all as a friend who had been gained. Mrs Outhouse was gracious
to him. Mrs Trevelyan whispered a word to him of her own trouble. 'If!
can hear anything of him, you may be sure that I will let you know,' he
said. Then it was Nora's turn to bid him adieu. There was nothing to be
said. No word could be spoken before others that should be of any
avail. But as he took her hand in his he remembered the reticence of
her fingers on that former day, and thought that he was sure there was
a difference.

On this occasion he made his journey back to the end of Chancery Lane
on the top of an omnibus; and as he lit his little pipe, disregarding
altogether the scrutiny of the public, thoughts passed through his mind
similar to those in which he had indulged as he sat smoking on the
corner of the churchyard wall at Nuncombe Putney. He declared to
himself that he did love this girl; and as it was so, would it not be
better, at any rate more manly, that he should tell her so honestly,
than go on groping about with half-expressed words when he saw her,
thinking of her and yet hardly daring to go near her, bidding himself
to forget her although he knew that such forgetting was impossible,
hankering after the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, and
something of the tenderness of returned affection and yet regarding her
as a prize altogether out of his reach! Why should she be out of his
reach? She had no money, and he had not a couple of hundred pounds in
the world. But he was earning an income which would give them both
shelter and clothes and bread and cheese.

What reader is there, male or female, of such stories as is this, who
has not often discussed in his or her own mind the different sides of
this question of love and marriage? On either side enough may be said
by any arguer to convince at any rate himself. It must be wrong for a
man, whose income is both insufficient and precarious also, not only to
double his own cares and burdens, but to place the weight of that
doubled burden on other shoulders besides his own on shoulders that are
tender and soft, and ill adapted to the carriage of any crushing
weight. And then that doubled burden that burden of two mouths to be
fed, of two backs to be covered, of two minds to be satisfied, is so
apt to double itself again and again The two so speedily become four,
and six! And then there is the feeling that that kind of semi-poverty,
which has in itself something of the pleasantness of independence, when
it is borne by a man alone, entails the miseries of a draggle-tailed
and querulous existence when it is imposed on a woman who has in her
own home enjoyed the comforts of affluence. As a man thinks of all
this, if he chooses to argue with himself on that side, there is enough
in the argument to make him feel that not only as a wise man but as an
honest man, he had better let the young lady alone. She is well as she
is, and he sees around him so many who have tried the chances of
marriage and who are not well! Look at Jones with his wan, worn wife
and his five children, Jones who is not yet thirty, of whom he happens
to know that the wretched man cannot look his doctor in the face, and
that the doctor is as necessary to the man's house as is the butcher!
What heart can Jones have for his work with such a burden as this upon
his shoulders? And so the thinker, who argues on that side, resolves
that the young lady shall go her own way for him.

But the arguments on the other side are equally cogent, and so much
more alluring! And they are used by the same man with reference to the
same passion, and are intended by him to put himself right in his
conduct in reference to the same dear girl. Only the former line of
thoughts occurred to him on a Saturday, when he was ending his week
rather gloomily, and this other way .of thinking on the same subject
has come upon him on a Monday, as he is beginning his week with renewed
hope. Does this young girl of his heart love him? And if so, their
affection for each other being thus reciprocal, is she not entitled to
an expression of her opinion and her wishes on this difficult subject?
And if she be willing to run the risk and to encounter the dangers to
do so on his behalf, because she is willing to share everything with
him is it becoming in him, a man, to fear what she does not fear? If
she be not willing let her say so. If there be any speaking, he must
speak first but she is entitled, as much as he is, to her own ideas
respecting their great outlook into the affairs of the world. And then
is it not manifestly God's ordinance that a man should live together
with a woman? How poor a creature does the man become who has shirked
his duty in this respect, who has done nothing to keep the world going,
who has been willing to ignore all affection so that he might avoid all
burdens, and who has put into his own belly every good thing that has
come to him, either by the earning of his own hands or from the bounty
and industry of others! Of course there is a risk; but what excitement
is there in anything in which there is none? So on the Tuesday he
speaks his mind to the young lady, and tells her candidly that there
will be potatoes for the two of them sufficient, as he hopes, of
potatoes, but no more. As a matter of course the young lady replies
that she for her part will be quite content to take the parings for her
own eating. Then they rush deliciously into each others arms and the
matter is settled. For, though the convictions arising from the former
line of argument may be set aside as often as need be, those reached
from the latter are generally conclusive. That such a settlement will
always be better for the young gentleman and the young lady concerned
than one founded on a sterner prudence is more than one may dare to
say; but we do feel sure that that country will be most prosperous in
which such leaps in the dark are made with the greatest freedom.

Our friend Hugh, as he sat smoking on the knife-board of the omnibus,
determined that he would risk everything. If it were ordained that
prudence should prevail, the prudence should be hers. Why should he
take upon himself to have prudence enough for two, seeing that she was
so very discreet in all her bearings? Then he remembered the touch of
her hand, which he still felt upon his palm as he sat handling his
pipe, and he told himself that after that he was bound to say a word
more. And moreover he confessed to himself that he was compelled by a
feeling that mastered him altogether. He could not get through an
hour's work without throwing down his pen and thinking of Nora Rowley.
It was his destiny to love her and there was, to his mind, a mean,
pettifogging secrecy, amounting almost to daily lying, in his thus
loving her and not telling her that he loved her. It might well be that
she should rebuke him; but he thought that he could bear that. It might
well be that he had altogether mistaken that touch of her hand. After
all it had been the slightest possible motion of no more than one
finger. But he would at any rate know the truth. If she would tell him
at once that she did not care for him, he thought that he could get
over it; but life was not worth having while he lived in this shifty,
dubious, and uncomfortable state. So he made up his mind that he would
go to St. Diddulph's with his heart in his hand.

In the mean time, Mr Bozzle had been twice to St. Diddulph's and now he
made a third journey there, two days after Stanbury's visit. Trevelyan,
who, in truth, hated the sight of the man, and who suffered agonies in
his presence, had, nevertheless, taught himself to believe that he
could not live without his assistance. That it should be so was a part
of the cruelty of his lot. Who else was there that he could trust? His
wife had renewed her intimacy with Colonel Osborne the moment that she
had left him. Mrs Stanbury, who had been represented to him as the most
correct of matrons, had at once been false to him and to her trust, in
allowing Colonel Osborne to enter her house. Mr and Mrs Outhouse, with
whom his wife had now located herself, not by his orders, were, of
course, his enemies. His old friend, Hugh Stanbury, had gone over to
the other side, and had quarrelled with him purposely, with malice
prepense, because he would not submit himself to the caprices of the
wife who had injured him. His own lawyer had refused to act for him;
and his fast and oldest ally, the very person who had sounded in his
ear the earliest warning note against that odious villain, whose daily
work it was to destroy the peace of families even Lady Milborough had
turned against him! Because he would not follow the stupid prescription
which she, with pig-headed obstinacy, persisted in giving because he
would not carry his wife off to Naples she was ill-judging and
inconsistent enough to tell him that he was wrong! Who was then left to
him but Bozzle? Bozzle was very disagreeable. Bozzle said things, and
made suggestions to him which were as bad as pins stuck into his flesh.
But Bozzle was true to his employer, and. could find out facts. Had it
not been for Bozzle, he would have known nothing of the Colonel's
journey to Devonshire. Had it not been for Bozzle, he would never have
heard of the correspondence; and, therefore, when he left London, he
gave Bozzle a roving commission; and when he went to Paris, and from
Paris onwards, over the Alps into Italy, he furnished Bozzle with his
address. At this time, in the midst of all his misery, it never
occurred to him to inquire of himself whether it might be possible that
his old friends were right, and that he himself was wrong. From morning
to night he sang to himself melancholy silent songs of inward wailing,
as to the cruelty of his own lot in life and, in the mean time, he
employed Bozzle to find out for him how far that cruelty was carried.

Mr Bozzle was, of course, convinced that the lady whom he was employed
to watch was no better than she ought to be. That is the usual Bozzlian
language for broken vows, secrecy, intrigue, dirt, and adultery. It was
his business to obtain evidence of her guilt. There was no question to
be solved as to her innocency. The Bozzlian mind would have regarded
any such suggestion as the product of a green softness, the possession
of which would have made him quite unfit for his profession. He was
aware that ladies who are no better than they should be are often very
clever so clever, as to make it necessary that the Bozzles who shall at
last confound them should be first-rate Bozzles, Bozzles quite at the
top of their profession and, therefore, he went about his work with
great industry and much caution. Colonel Osborne was at the present
moment in Scotland. Bozzle was sure of that. He was quite in the north
of Scotland. Bozzle had examined his map, and had found that Wick,
which was the Colonel's post-town, was very far north indeed. He had
half a mind to run down to Wick, as he was possessed by a certain
honest zeal, which made him long to do something hard and laborious;
but his experience told him that it was very easy for the Colonel to
come up to the neighbourhood of St. Diddulph's, whereas the lady could
not go down to Wick, unless she were to decide upon throwing herself
into her lover's arms whereby Bozzle's work would be brought to an end.
He, therefore, confined his immediate operations to St. Diddulph's.

He made acquaintance with one or two important persons in and about Mr
Outhouse's parsonage. He became very familiar with the postman. He
arranged terms of intimacy, I am sorry to say, with the housemaid; and,
on the third journey, he made an alliance with the potboy at the Full
Moon. The potboy remembered well the fact of the child being brought to
'our 'ouse,' as he called the Full Moon; and he was enabled to say,
that the same 'gent as had brought the boy backards and forrards,' had
since that been at the parsonage. But Bozzle was quite quick enough to
perceive that all this had nothing to do with the Colonel. He was led,
indeed, to fear that his 'governor,' as he was in the habit of calling
Trevelyan in his half-spoken soliloquies that his governor was not as
true to him as he was to his governor. What business had that meddling
fellow Stanbury at St. Diddulph's? for Trevelyan had not thought it
necessary to tell his satellite that he had quarrelled with his friend.
Bozzle was grieved in his mind when he learned that Stanbury's
interference was still to be dreaded; and wrote to his governor, rather
severely, to that effect; but, when so writing, he was able to give no
further information. Facts, in such cases, will not unravel themselves
without much patience on the part of the investigators.



CHAPTER XXXIV - PRISCILLA'S WISDOM

On the night after the dinner party in the Close, Dorothy was not the
only person in the house who laid awake thinking of what had taken
place. Miss Stanbury also was full of anxiety, and for hour after hour
could not sleep as she remembered the fruitlessness of her efforts on
behalf of her nephew and niece.

It had never occurred to her when she had first proposed to herself
that Dorothy should become Mrs Gibson that Dorothy herself would have
any objection to such a step in life. Her fear had been that Dorothy
would have become over-radiant with triumph at the idea of having a
husband, and going to that husband with a fortune of her own. That Mr
Gibson might hesitate, she had thought very likely. It is thus, in
general, that women regard the feelings, desires, and aspirations of
other women. You will hardly ever meet an elderly lady who will not
speak of her juniors as living in a state of breathless anxiety to
catch husbands. And the elder lady will speak of the younger as though
any kind of choice in such catching was quite disregarded. The man must
be a gentleman or, at least, gentlemanlike and there must be bread. Let
these things be given, and what girl won't jump into what man's arms?
Female reader, is it not thus that the elders of your sex speak of the
younger? When old Mrs Stanbury heard that Nora Rowley had refused Mr
Glascock, the thing was to her unintelligible; and it was now quite
unintelligible to Miss Stanbury that Dorothy should prefer a single
life to matrimony with Mr Gibson.

It must be acknowledged, on Aunt Stanbury's behalf, that Dorothy was
one of those yielding, hesitating, submissive young women, trusting
others but doubting ever of themselves, as to whom it is natural that
their stronger friends should find it expedient to decide for them.
Miss Stanbury was almost justified in thinking that unless she were to
find a husband for her niece, her niece would never find one for
herself. Dorothy would drift into being an old maid, like Priscilla,
simply because she would never assert herself never put her best foot
foremost. Aunt Stanbury had therefore taken upon herself to put out a
foot; and having carefully found that Mr Gibson was 'willing,' had
conceived that all difficulties were over. She would be enabled to do
her duty by her niece, and establish comfortably in life, at any rate,
one of her brother's children. And now Dorothy was taking upon herself
to say that she did not like the gentleman! Such conduct was almost
equal to writing for a penny newspaper!

On the following morning, after breakfast, when Brooke Burgess was gone
out to call upon his uncle which he insisted upon doing openly, and not
under the rose, in spite of Miss Stanbury's great gravity on the
occasion there was a very serious conversation, and poor Dorothy had
found herself to be almost silenced. She did argue for a time; but her
arguments seemed, even to herself, to amount to so little! Why
shouldn't she love Mr Gibson? That was a question which she found it
impossible to answer. And though she did n actually yield, though she
did not say that she would accept the man, still, when she was told
that three days were to be allowed to her for consideration, and that
then the offer would be made to her in form, she felt that, as regarded
the anti-Gibson interest, she had not a leg to stand upon. Why should
not such an insignificant creature, as was she, love Mr Gibson or any
other man, who had bread to give her, and was in some degree like a
gentleman? On that night, she wrote the following letter to her sister:



'The Close, Tuesday

DEAREST PRISCILLA,

I do so wish that you could be with me, so that I could talk to you
again. Aunt Stanbury is the most affectionate and kindest friend in the
world; but she has always been so able to have her own way, because she
is both clever and good, that I find myself almost like a baby with
her. She has been talking to me again about Mr Gibson; and it seems
that Mr Gibson really does mean it. It is certainly very strange; but I
do think now that it is true. He is to come on Friday. It seems very
odd that it should all be settled for him in that way; but then Aunt
Stanbury is so clever at settling things!

He sat next to me almost all the evening yesterday but he didn't say
anything about it, except that he hoped I agreed with him about going
to church, and all that. I suppose I do; and I am quite sure that if I
were to be a clergyman's wife, I should endeavour to do whatever my
husband thought right about religion. One ought to try to do so, even
if the clergyman is not one's husband. Mr Burgess has come, and he was
so very amusing all the evening, that perhaps that was the reason Mr
Gibson said so little. Mr Burgess is a very nice man, and I think Aunt
Stanbury is more fond of him than of anybody. He is not at all the sort
of person that I expected.

But if Mr Gibson does come on Friday, and do really mean it, what am I
to say to him? Aunt Stanbury will be very angry if I do not take her
advice. I am quite sure that she intends it all for my happiness; and
then, of course, she knows so much more about the world than I do. She
asks me what it is that I expect. Of course, I do not expect anything.
It is a great compliment from Mr Gibson, who is a clergyman, and
thought well of by everybody. And nothing could be more respectable.
Aunt Stanbury says that with the money she would give us we should be
quite comfortable; and she wants us to live in this house. She says
that there are thirty girls round Exeter who would give their eyes for
such a chance; and, looking at it in that light, of course, it is a
very great thing for me. Only think how poor we have been! And then,
dear Priscilla, perhaps he would let me be good to you and dear mamma!

But, of course, he will ask me whether I love him; and what am I to
say? Aunt Stanbury says that I am to love him. "Begin to love him at
once," she said this morning. I would if I could, partly for her sake,
and because I do feel that it would be so respectable. When I think of
it, it does seem such a pity that poor I should throw away such a
chance. And I must say that Mr Gibson is very good, and most obliging;
and everybody says that he has an excellent temper, and that he is a
most prudent, well-dispositioned man. I declare, dear Priscilla, when I
think of it, I cannot bring myself to believe that such a man should
want me to be his wife.

But what ought I to do? I suppose when a girl is in love she is very
unhappy if the gentleman does not propose to her. I am sure it would
not make me at all unhappy if I were told that Mr Gibson had changed
his mind.

Dearest Priscilla, you must write at once; because he is to be here on
Friday. Oh, dear; Friday does seem to be so near! And I shall never
know what to say to him, either one way or the other.

Your most affectionate sister,

DOROTHY STANBURY.

P.S. Give my kindest love to mamma; but you need not tell her unless
you think it best.'



Priscilla received this letter on the Wednesday morning, and felt
herself bound to answer it on that same afternoon. Had she postponed
her reply for a day, it would still have been in Dorothy's hands before
Mr Gibson could have come to her on the dreaded Friday morning. But
still that would hardly give her time enough to consider the matter
with any degree of deliberation after she should have been armed with
what wisdom Priscilla might be able to send her. The post left Nuncombe
Putney at three; and therefore the letter had to be written before
their early dinner.

So Priscilla went into the garden and sat hers down under an old cedar
that she might discuss the matter with herself in all its bearings. She
felt that no woman could be called upon to write a letter that should
be of more importance. The whole welfare in life of the person who was
dearest to her would probably depend upon it. The weight upon her was
so great that she thought for a while she would take counsel with her
mother; but she felt sure that her mother would recommend the marriage;
and that if she afterwards should find herself bound to oppose it, then
her mother would be a miserable woman. There could be no use to her
taking counsel with her mother, because her mother's mind was known to
her beforehand. The responsibility was thrown upon her, and she alone
must bear it.

She tried hard to persuade herself to write at once and tell her sister
to marry the man. She knew her sister's heart so well as to be sure
that Dorothy would learn to love the man who was her husband. It was
almost impossible that Dorothy should not love those with whom she
lived. And then her sister was so well adapted to be a wife and a
mother. Her temper was so sweet, she was so pure, so unselfish, so
devoted, and so healthy withal! She was so happy when she was acting
for others; and so excellent in action when she had another one to
think for her! She was so trusting and trustworthy that any husband
would adore her! Then Priscilla walked slowly into the house, got her
prayer-book, and returning to her seat under the tree, read the
marriage service. It was one o'clock when she went upstairs to write
her letter, and it had not yet struck eleven when she first seated
herself beneath the tree. Her letter, when written, was as follows:



'Nuncombe Putney, August 25, 186-.

DEAREST DOROTHY,

I got your letter this morning, and I think it is better to answer it
at once, as the time is very short. I have been thinking about it with
all my mind, and I feel almost awe-stricken lest I should advise you
wrongly. After all, I believe that your own dear sweet truth and
honesty would guide you better than anybody else can guide you. You may
be sure of this, that whichever way it is, I shall think that you have
done right. Dearest sister, I suppose there can be no doubt that for
most women a married life is happier than a single one. It is always
thought so, as we may see by the anxiety of others to get married; and
when an opinion becomes general, I think that the world is most often
right. And then, my own one, I feel sure that you are adapted both for
the cares and for the joys of married life. You would do your duty as a
married woman happily, and would be a comfort to your husband not a
thorn in his side, as are so many women.

'But, my pet, do not let that reasoning of Aunt Stanbury's about the
thirty young girls who would give their eyes for Mr Gibson, have any
weight with you. You should not take him because thirty other young
girls would be glad to have him. And do not think too much of that
respectability of which you speak. I would never advise my Dolly to
marry any man unless she could be respectable in her new position; but
that alone should go for nothing. Nor should our poverty. We shall not
starve. And even if we did, that would be but a poor excuse.

I can find no escape from this that you should love him before you say
that you will take him. But honest, loyal love need not, I take it, be
of that romantic kind which people write about in novels and poetry.
You need not think him to be perfect, or the best or grandest of men.
Your heart will tell you whether he is dear to you. And remember,
Dolly, that I shall remember that love itself must begin at some
precise time. Though you had not learned to love him when you wrote on
Tuesday, you may have begun to do so when you get this on Thursday.

If you find that you love him, then say that you will be his wife. If
your heart revolts from such a declaration as being false if you cannot
bring yourself to feel that you prefer him to others as the partner of
your life then tell him, with thanks for his courtesy, that it cannot
be as he would have it.

Yours always and ever most affectionately,

PRISCILLA.'



CHAPTER XXXV - MR GIBSON'S GOOD FORTUNE

'I'll bet you half-a-crown, my lad, you're thrown over at last, like
the rest of them. There's nothing she likes so much as taking some one
up in order that she may throw him over afterwards.' It was thus that
Mr Bartholomew Burgess cautioned his nephew Brooke.

'I'll take care that she shan't break my heart, Uncle Barty. I will go
my way and she may go hers, and she may give her money to the hospital
if she pleases.'

On the morning after his arrival Brooke Burgess had declared aloud in
Miss Stanbury's parlour that he was going over to the bank to see his
uncle. Now there was in this almost a breach of contract. Miss
Stanbury, when she invited the young man to Exeter, had stipulated that
there should be no intercourse between her house and the bank. 'Of
course, I shall not need to know where you go or where you don't go,'
she had written; 'but after all that has passed there must not be any
positive intercourse between my house and the bank And now he had
spoken of going over to C and B, as he called them, with the utmost
indifference. Miss Stanbury had looked very grave, but had said
nothing. She had determined to be on her guard, so that she should not
be driven to quarrel with Brooke if she could avoid it.

Bartholomew Burgess was a tall, thin, ill-tempered old man, as
well-known in Exeter as the cathedral, and respected after a fashion.
No one liked him. He said ill-natured things of all his neighbours, and
had never earned any reputation for doing good-natured acts. But he had
lived in Exeter for nearly seventy years, and had achieved that sort of
esteem which comes from long tenure. And he had committed no great
iniquities in the course of his fifty years of business. The bank had
never stopped payment, and he had robbed no one. He had not swallowed
up widows and orphans, and had done his work in the firm of Cropper and
Burgess after the old-fashioned safe manner, which leads neither to
riches nor to ruin. Therefore he was respected. But he was a
discontented, sour old man, who believed himself to have been injured
by all his own friends, who disliked his own partners because they had
bought that which had, at any rate, never belonged to him and whose
strongest passion it was to hate Miss Stanbury of the Close.

'She's got a parson by the hand now,' said the uncle, as he continued
his caution to the nephew.

'There was a clergyman there last night.'

'No doubt, and she'll play him off against you, and you against him;
and then she'll throw you both over. I know her.'

'She has got a right to do what she likes with her own, Uncle Barty.'

'And how did she get it? Never mind. I'm not going to set you against
her, if you're her favourite for the moment. She has a niece with her
there hasn't she?'

'One of her brother's daughters.'

'They say she's going to make that clergyman marry her.'

'What Mr Gibson?'

'Yes. They tell me he was as good as engaged to another girl one of the
Frenches of Heavitree. And therefore dear Jemima could do nothing
better than interfere. When she has succeeded in breaking the girl's
heart--'

'Which girl's heart, Uncle Barty?'

'The girl the man was to have married; when that's done she'll throw
Gibson over. You'll see. She'll refuse to give the girl a shilling. She
took the girl's brother by the hand ever so long, and then she threw
him over. And she'll throw the girl over too, and send her back to the
place she came from. And then she'll throw you over.'

'According to you, she must be the most malicious old woman that ever
was allowed to live!'

'I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But
you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to
tell you before long that you were to marry the niece.'

'I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either,' said Brooke
Burgess.

'I've no doubt you may have her if you like,' said Barty, 'in spite of
Mr Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money
first.'

When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was
quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told
something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had
said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old
man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been
abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of
things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer
Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it
all in silence, and pretended for awhile not to remember the young
man's declared intention when he left the house. 'It seems odd to me,'
said Brooke, 'that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He
must have a dreary time of it.'

'I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living.'

'No I suppose not. You and he are not friends.'

'By no means, Brooke.'

'He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes
near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?'

'I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you
the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course,
you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell
me of your visits afterwards.'

'There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret,' said he. He
had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret
enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations
with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of
his own. But she misunderstood him.

'If you are anxious to know--' she said, becoming very red in the face.

'I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me.'

'He has chosen to believe or to say that he believed that I wronged him
in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying
as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that
story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels,
but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most
happy who have no story to tell.'

'I quite believe that.'

'But your Uncle Barty chose to think indeed, I hardly know what he
thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was
made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms.
There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud
when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than
others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come
together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him
after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?'

'It was womanly.'

'But it made no difference about the will. Mr Bartholomew Burgess might
have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has
never acknowledged that he was wrong never even yet.'

'He could not bring himself to do that, I should say.'

'The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As
God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get
either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that
a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue before it
should have been spoken.' She had risen from her seat, and was speaking
with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a
woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to
be tall and majestic. 'But when the man was dead,' she continued, 'and
the will was there the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to
exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead
man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney
to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise!
No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would
sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money.'
She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as
she stood over him, looking down upon him.

'Of course it was your own.'

'Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to
frighten me both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too,
Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there
was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good.
They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive
to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was
good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt.'

'I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history
of its own life? No I cannot forget it. I can forgive it.'

'Then why not forgive it?'

'I do. I have. Why else are you here?'

'But forgive old Uncle Barty also!'

'Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I
begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you
think or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point
about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after
a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not
believe each other.'

'Then I certainly would not try.'

'I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all
when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing
for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?' As she asked the. question she
put one of her hands softly on his shoulder.

'I certainly shan't offend in that way.'

'And you won't be a Radical?'

'No, not a Radical.'

'I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down
of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will
you, Brooke?'

'It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't
promise.'

'Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm
told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce
their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a
gentleman and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used
to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman.
By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr Gibson?'

'Mr Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him yet.'

'But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my
niece, Dolly Stanbury?'

'I think she's an uncommonly nice girl.'

'She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr
Gibson.'

'Are they engaged?'

'Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I
should give my little savings to one of my own name?'

'You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge
anything that you might do with your money.'

'Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since
she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken
up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted.
Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?'

'I was speaking to them yesterday.'

'Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try
to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not
like that is she?'

'She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches.'

'And now I want her to become Mrs Gibson. He is quite taken.'

'Is he?'

'Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and
afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of
money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would
be such a nice thing for Dolly.'

'And what does Dolly think about it?'

'There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that.
And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who
think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--'

'She has an objection.'

'I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and
modest she doesn't like to talk of being married even to an old woman
like me.'

'Dear me! That's not the way of the age is it, Aunt Stanbury?'

'It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes
and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla
French did ask Mr Gibson.'

'And what did Mr Gibson say?'

'Ah I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take
her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the
way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you
before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept
Gibson.'

'She's too good for him, according to my thinking.'

'Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a
gentleman and a clergyman? Mr Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know only
you must not mention this that I have a kind of idea we could get
Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and
I should like it to go on in the family.'

No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in
favour of Mr Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very
quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but
she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an
affair as this a question as to whether she should or should not give
herself in marriage to her suitor she, who could not speak of it even
to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost
confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on
the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the
matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had
never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had
spoken to Mr Gibson in the three months that she had made his
acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs MacHugh, and
the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle
Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with
each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr Gibson and
his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once
mentioned Mr Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute
had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room.

But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr Gibson.
On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr Gibson were invited to drink
tea at Mrs French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter
were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said
that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and
had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella
that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may
be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both
declined. 'Don't you stay at home for me, my dear,' Miss Stanbury said
to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she
had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise
to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. 'Mr Brooke is
coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr Gibson,' Miss French said. And Miss
Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. 'Mr
Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear,' Miss Stanbury replied. 'And
as for Mr Gibson, I am not his keeper.' The tone in which Miss Stanbury
spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies
understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was
so.

There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs French's drawing-room the
Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs MacHugh came also
knowing that there would be a rubber. 'Their naked shoulders don't hurt
me,' Mrs MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to
the house. 'I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to
themselves.' 'You might say as much if they went naked altogether,'
Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. 'If nobody else complained, I
shouldn't,' said Mrs MacHugh. Mrs MacHugh got her rubber; and as she
had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a
rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to
say ill-natured things. 'What does it matter to me,' said Mrs MacHugh,
'how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife.' 'Ugh!' exclaimed
Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust.

Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss
Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it
seemed to him that Mr Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt
no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was
removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that
Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted
to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On
this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella,
who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of
the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr Gibson's
safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither
would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common
danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly
spoke a word to Mr Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she
found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger.

'I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr Burgess?' said
Camilla.

'A month. That is ever so long isn't it? Why I mean to see all
Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter
thoroughly and everybody in it.'

'I'm sure we are very much flattered.'

'As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life,
that I felt that I knew you before I came here.'

'Who can have spoken to you about me?'

'You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my
Uncle Barty never writes to me?'

'Not about me.'

'Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?'

'But she hates me. I know that.'

'And do you hate her?'

'No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little
odd; isn't she, now, Mr Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and
we've known her ever so long, six or seven years since we were quite
young things. But she has such queer notions about girls.'

'What sort of notions?'

'She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that
they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was
flirting with you, because we're sitting together.'

'But you are not; are you?'

'Of course I am not.'

'I wish you would,' said Brooke.

'I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't, indeed. I don't know what
flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and
gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other.'

'But very often they, don't, you know.'

'I call that stupid,' said Camilla. 'And yet, when they do, all the old
maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr
Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to
people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may.
It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest.'

'No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow,' said Brooke.

'You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr Burgess.'

'I meant nothing of the kind.'

'But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water.
She runs deep enough.'

'The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life.'

'Exactly. So quiet, but so clever. What do you think of Mr Gibson?'

'Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr Gibson.'

'You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor
man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet but,
nevertheless, it's settled.'

'Just at present he seems to me to be what shall I say? I oughtn't to
say flirting with your sister; ought I?'

'Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact
is, Mr Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of
course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been
anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am.
Once, indeed but, however that does not signify. It would be nothing to
us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see and
we do see a good deal of him there is no such feeling on his part. Of
course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr Gibson
may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy
Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course
when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious
about his happiness. Do you know, we think her perhaps a little sly.'

In the meantime, Mr Gibson was completely subject to the individual
charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her
description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr Gibson
for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with
truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies,
even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years,
however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a
real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised
fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an
effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it
must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and
interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was
undoubtedly interfering between Mr Gibson and the Frenches; and it is
neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest
prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had
shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr Gibson. Perhaps there
should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of
womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts which
teaches them that they must ever be the pursued, never the pursuers. As
to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted
that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature
to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very
angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together
with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things
of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr Gibson, and yet
resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value
that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit.

'You are a good deal at the house in the Close now,' said Arabella, in
her lowest voice in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy.

'Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend
of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church.' People say
that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes.

'It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr Gibson.'

'I don't know why you should say that, Miss French.'

'Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We
seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that
mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with
Miss Stanbury that is everything.'

'I am speaking of the old lady,' said Mr Gibson, who, in spite of his
slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard.

'And I am speaking of the old lady too,' said Arabella. 'Of whom else
should I be speaking?'

'No of course not.'

'Of course,' continued Arabella, 'I hear what people say about the
niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr Gibson; but I don't
believe that, I can assure you.' As she said this, she looked into his
face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr Gibson had no answer
ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it
must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush,
when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at
once into the thicket. 'I own I should be glad,' she said, turning her
eyes away from him, 'if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not
true.'

Mr Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell
the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he
could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was
not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact,
too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now,
when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined
by the lady, as Mr Gibson was being cross-examined at the present
moment the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little
falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he
has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter,
perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times
he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this
he does allow himself some latitude.

'You are only joking, of course,' he said.

'Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr Gibson, that the welfare
of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me.
Mrs Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy
Stanbury.'

'What does Mrs Crumbie know about it?'

'I dare say nothing; It is not so is it?'

'Certainly not.'

'And there is nothing in it is there?'

'I wonder why people make these reports,' said Mr Gibson,
prevaricating.

'It is a fabrication from beginning to end, then?' said Arabella,
pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him,
and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft.
And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him as it would
have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not
displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his
knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under
temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt.
'Say that it is so, Mr Gibson!'

'Of course, it is not so,' said Mr Gibson lying.

'I am so glad. For, of course, Mr Gibson, when we heard it we thought a
great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he
marries doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we
didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You
see, she has had no advantages, poor thing! She has been shut up in a
little country cottage all her life just a labourer's hovel, no more
and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and
were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close still, you
know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you
know, as a wife and for such a dear, dear friend.' She went on, and
said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes,
and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite
happy so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood
had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience,
listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he
had disgraced himself; and he knew also that his disgrace would be
known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And
yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given
compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity?

About half an hour afterwards, he was walking back to Exeter with
Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two.

'Nice girls those Frenches, I think,' said Brooke.

'Very nice,' said Mr Gibson.

'How Miss Stanbury does hate them,' says Brooke.

'Not hate them, I hope,' said Mr Gibson.

'She doesn't love them does she?'

'Well, as for love yes; in one sense I hope she does. Miss Stanbury,
you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly.'

'What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to
marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know.'

'Dear me! What a very odd supposition,' said Mr Gibson.

'For my part, I don't think I shall,' said Brooke.

'I don't suppose I shall either,' said Mr Gibson, with a gravity which
was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke.

'A fellow might do worse, you know,' said Brooke. 'For my part, I
rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the
worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time.'

'That would be bigamy,' said Mr Gibson. 'Just so,' said Brooke.



CHAPTER XXXVI - MISS STANBURY'S WRATH

Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr Gibson knocked at
the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he
had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury,
because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity
of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss
Stanbury. the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous
to him would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and
would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither
bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury
as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent
with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of
flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any
duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the
old glow, but Mr Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her
mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his
way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the
sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She
would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and
there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might
follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had
been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss
French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would
make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very
particular about his words, as Dorothy, from the bashfulness of her
nature, would be no judge of eloquence at such a time. But still, for
his own sake, there should be some form of expression, some propriety
of diction. Before eleven o'clock he had it all by heart, and had
nearly freed himself from the uneasiness of his falsehood to Arabella.
He had given much serious thought to the matter, and had quite resolved
that he was right in his purpose, and that he could marry Dorothy with
a pure conscience, and with a true promise of a husband's love. 'Dear
Dolly!' he said to himself, with something of enthusiasm as he walked
across the Close. And he looked up to the house as he came to it. There
was to be his future home. There was not one of the prebends who had a
better house. And there was a dovelike softness about Dorothy's eyes,
and a winning obedience in her manner, that were charming. His lines
had fallen to him in very pleasant places. Yes he would go up to her
and take her at once by the hand, and ask her whether she would be his,
now and for ever. He would not let go her hand, till he had brought her
so close to him that she could hide her blushes on his shoulder. The
whole thing had been so well conceived, had become so clear to his
mind, that he felt no hesitation or embarrassment as he knocked at the
door. Arabella French would, no doubt, hear of it soon. Well she must
hear of it. After all she could do him no injury.

He was shewn up at once into the drawing-room, and there he found Miss
Stanbury the elder.

'Oh, Mr Gibson!' she said at once.

'Is anything the matter with dear Dorothy?'

'She is the most obstinate, pig-headed young woman I ever came across
since the world began.'

'You don't say so! But what is it, Miss Stanbury?'

'What is it? Why just this. Nothing on earth that I can say to her will
induce her to come down and speak to you.'

'Have I offended her?'

'Offended a fiddlestick! Offence indeed! An offer from an honest man,
with her friends' approval, and a fortune at her back as though she had
been born with a gold spoon in her mouth! And she tells me that she
can't, and won't, and wouldn't, and shouldn't, as though I were asking
her to walk the streets. I declare I don't know what has come to the
young women or what it is they want. One would have thought that butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth.'

'But what is the reason, Miss Stanbury?'

'Oh, reason! You don't suppose people give reasons in these days. What
reason have they when they dress themselves up with bandboxes on their
sconces? Just simply the old reason "I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; why
I cannot tell."'

'May I not see her myself, Miss Stanbury?'

'I can't make her come downstairs to you. I've been at her the whole
morning, Mr Gibson, ever since daylight pretty nearly. She came into my
room before I was up and told me she'd made up her mind. I've coaxed,
and scolded, and threatened, and cried but if she'd been a milestone it
couldn't have been of less use. I told her she might go back to
Nuncombe, and she just went off to pack up.'

'But she's not to go?'

'How can I say what such a young woman will do? I'm never allowed a way
of my own for a moment. There's Brooke Burgess been scolding me at that
rate I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels. And I don't
know now.'

Then there was a pause, while Mr Gibson was endeavouring to decide what
would now be his best course of action. 'Don't you think she'll ever
come round, Miss Stanbury?'

'I don't think she'll ever come any way that anybody wants her to come,
Mr Gibson.'

'I didn't think she was at all like that,' said Mr Gibson, almost in
tears.

'No nor anybody else. I have been seeing it come all the same. It's
just the Stanbury perversity. If I'd wanted to keep her by herself, to
take care of me, and had set my back up at her if she spoke to a man,
and made her understand that she wasn't to think of getting married,
she'd have been making eyes at every man that came into the house. It's
just what one gets for going out of one's way. I did think she'd be so
happy, Mr Gibson, living here as your wife. She and I between us could
have managed for you so nicely.'

Mr Gibson was silent for a minute or two, during which he walked up and
down the room contemplating, no doubt, the picture of married life
which Miss Stanbury had painted for him a picture which, as it seemed,
was not to be realised. 'And what had I better do, Miss Stanbury?' he
asked at last.

'Do! I don't know what you're to do. I'm groom enough to bring a mare
to water, but I can't make her drink.'

'Will waiting be any good?'

'How can I say? I'll tell you one thing not to do. Don't go and
philander with those girls at Heavitree. It's my belief that Dorothy
has been thinking of them. People talk to her, of course.'

'I wish people would hold their tongues. People are so indiscreet.
People don't know how much harm they may do.'

'You've given them some excuse, you know, Mr Gibson.'

This was very ill-natured, and was felt by Mr Gibson to be so rude,
that he almost turned upon his patroness in anger. He had known Dolly
for not more than three months, and had devoted himself to her, to the
great anger of his older friends. He had come this morning true to his
appointment, expecting that others would keep their promises to him, as
he was ready to keep those which he had made and now he was told that
it was his fault! 'I do think that's rather hard, Miss Stanbury,' he
said.

'So you have,' said she 'nasty, slatternly girls, without an idea
inside their noddles. But it's no use your scolding me.'

'I didn't mean to scold, Miss Stanbury.'

'I've done all that I could.'

'And you think she won't see me for a minute?'

'She says she won't. I can't bid Martha carry her down.'

'Then, perhaps, I had better leave you for the present,' said Mr
Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man.
Leaving the Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walked
across by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had no design
in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sight of the house
in which Mrs French lived. As he walked slowly by it, he looked up at
the windows, and something of a feeling of romance came across his
heart. Were his young affections buried there, or were they not? And,
if so, with which of those fair girls were they buried? For the last
two years, up to last night, Camilla had certainly been in the
ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet young woman; and there had been a
time when those tender passages were going on in which he had thought
that no young woman ever was so sweet. A period of romance, an era of
enthusiasm, a short-lived, delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity
had been permitted to him in his youth but all that was now over. And
yet here he was, with three strings to his bow so he told himself and
he had not as yet settled for himself the great business of matrimony.
He was inclined to think, as he walked on, that he would walk his life
alone, an active, useful, but a melancholy man. After such experiences
as his, how should he ever again speak of his heart to a woman? During
this walk, his mind recurred frequently to Dorothy Stanbury; and,
doubtless, he thought that he had often spoken of his heart to her. He
was back at his lodgings before three, at which hour he ate an early
dinner, and then took the afternoon cathedral service at four. The
evening he spent at home, thinking of the romance of his early days.
What would Miss Stanbury have said, had she seen him in his easy chair
behind the 'Exeter Argus,' with a pipe in his mouth?

In the meantime, there was an uncomfortable scene in progress between
Dorothy and her aunt. Brooke Burgess, as desired, had left the house
before eleven, having taken upon himself, when consulted, to say in the
mildest terms, that he thought that, in general, young women should not
be asked to marry if they did not like to which opinion had been so
galling to Miss Stanbury that she had declared that he had so scolded
her, that she did not know whether she was standing on her head or her
heels. As soon as Mr Gibson left her, she sat herself down, and fairly
cried. She had ardently desired this thing, and had allowed herself to
think of her desire as of one that would certainly be accomplished.
Dorothy would have been so happy as the wife of a clergyman! Miss
Stanbury's standard for men and women was not high. She did not expect
others to be as self sacrificing, as charitable, and as good as
herself. It was not that she gave to herself credit for such virtues;
but she thought of herself as one who, from the peculiar circumstances
of life, was bound to do much for others. There was no end to her doing
good for others if only the others would allow themselves to be
governed by her. She did not think that Mr Gibson was a great divine;
but she perceived that he was a clergyman, living decently of that
secret pipe Miss Stan bury knew nothing doing his duty punctually, and,
as she thought, very much in want of a wife. Then there was her niece,
Dolly soft, pretty, feminine, without a shilling, and much in want of
some one to comfort and take care of her. What could be better than
such a marriage! And the overthrow to the girls with the big chignons
would be so complete! She had set her mind upon it, and now Dorothy
said that it couldn't, and it wouldn't, and it shouldn't be
accomplished! She was to be thrown over by this chit of a girl, as she
had been thrown over by the girl's brother! And, when she complained,
the girl simply offered to go away!

At about twelve Dorothy came creeping down into the room in which her
aunt was sitting, and pretended to occupy herself on some piece of
work. For a considerable time for three minutes perhaps Miss Stanbury
did not speak. She resolved that she would not speak to her niece again
at least, not for that day. She would let the ungrateful girl know how
miserable she had been made. But at the close of the three minutes her
patience was exhausted. 'What are you doing there?' she said.

'I am quilting your cap, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Put it down. You shan't do anything for me. I won't have you touch my
things any more. I don't like pretended service.'

'It is not pretended, Aunt Stanbury.'

'I say it is pretended. Why did you pretend to me that you would have
him when you had made up your mind against it all the time?'

'But I hadn't made up my mind.'

'If you had so much doubt about it, you might have done what I wanted
you.'

'I couldn't, Aunt Stanbury.'

'You mean you wouldn't. I wonder what it is you do expect.'

'I don't expect anything, Aunt Stanbury.'

'No; and I don't expect anything. What an old fool I am ever to look
for any comfort. Why should I think that anybody would care for me?'

'Indeed, I do care for you.'

'In what sort of way do you show it? You're just like your brother
Hugh. I've disgraced myself to that man promising what I could not
perform. I declare it makes me sick when I think of it. Why did you not
tell me at once?' Dorothy said nothing further, but sat with the cap on
her lap. She did not dare to resume her needle, and she did not like to
put the cap aside, as by doing so it would seem as though she had
accepted her aunt's prohibition against her work. For half an hour she
sat thus, during which time Miss Stanbury dropped asleep. She woke with
a start, and began to scold again. 'What's the good of sitting there
all the day, with your hands before you, doing nothing?'

But Dorothy had been very busy. She had been making up her mind, and
had determined to communicate her resolution to her aunt. 'Dear aunt,'
she said, 'I've been thinking of something.'

'It's too late now,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I see I've made you very unhappy.'

'Of course you have.'

'And you think that I'm ungrateful. I'm not ungrateful, and I don't
think that Hugh is.'

'Never mind Hugh.'

'Only because it seems so hard that you should take so much trouble
about us, and that then there should be so much vexation.'

'I find it very hard.'

'So I think that I'd better go back to Nuncombe.'

'That's what you call gratitude.'

'I don't like to stay here and make you unhappy. I can't think that I
ought to have done what you asked me, because I did not feel at all in
that way about Mr Gibson. But as I have only disappointed you, it will
be better that I should go home. I have been very happy here very.'

'Bother!' exclaimed Miss Stanbury.

'I have and I do love you, though you won't believe it. But I am sure I
oughtn't to remain to make you unhappy. I shall never forget all that
you have done for me; and though you call me ungrateful, I am not. But
I know that I ought not to stay, as I cannot do what you wish. So, if
you please, I will go back to Nuncombe.'

'You'll not do anything of the kind,' said Miss Stanbury.

'But it will be better.'

'Yes, of course; no doubt. I suppose you're tired of us all.'

'It is not that I'm tired, Aunt Stanbury. It isn't that at all.'
Dorothy had now become red up. to the roots of her hair, and her eyes
were full of tears. 'But I cannot stay where people think that I am
ungrateful. If you please, Aunt Stanbury, I will go.' Then, of course,
there was a compromise. Dorothy did at last consent to remain in the
Close, but only on condition that she should be forgiven for her sin in
reference to Mr Gibson, and be permitted to go on with her aunt's cap.



CHAPTER XXXVII - MONT CENIS

The night had been fine and warm, and it was now noon on a fine
September day when the train from. Paris reached St. Michael, on the
route to Italy by Mont Cenis as all the world knows St. Michael is, or
was a year or two back, the end of the railway travelling in that
direction. At the time Mr Fell's grand project of carrying a line of
rails over the top of the mountain was only in preparation, and the
journey from St. Michael to Susa was still made by the diligences those
dear old continental coaches which are now nearly as extinct as our
own, but which did not deserve death so fully as did our abominable
vehicles. The coupe of a diligence, or, better still, the banquette,
was a luxurious mode of travelling as compared with anything that our
coaches offered. There used indeed to be a certain halo of glory round
the occupant of the box of a mail-coach. The man who had secured that
seat was supposed to know something about the world, and to be such a
one that the passengers sitting behind him would be proud to be allowed
to talk to him. But the prestige of the position was greater than the
comfort. A night on the box of a mail-coach was but a bad time, and a
night inside a mail-coach was a night in purgatory. Whereas a seat up
above, on the banquette of a diligence passing over the Alps, with room
for the feet, and support for the back, with plenty of rugs and plenty
of tobacco, used to be on the Mont Cenis, and still is on some other
mountain passes, a very comfortable mode of seeing a mountain route.
For those desirous of occupying the coupe, or the three front seats of
the body of the vehicle, it must be admitted that difficulties
frequently arose; and that such difficulties were very common at St.
Michael. There would be two or three of those enormous vehicles
preparing to start for the mountain, whereas it would appear that
twelve or fifteen passengers had come down from Paris armed with
tickets assuring them that this preferable mode of travelling should be
theirs. And then assertions would be made, somewhat recklessly, by the
officials, to the effect that all the diligence was coupe. It would
generally be the case that some middle-aged Englishman who could not
speak French would go to the wall, together with his wife. Middle-aged
Englishmen with their wives, who can't speak French, can nevertheless
be very angry, and threaten loudly, when they suppose themselves to be
ill-treated. A middle-aged Englishman, though he can't speak a word of
French, won't believe a French official who tells him that the
diligence is all coupe, when he finds himself with his unfortunate
partner in a roundabout place behind with two priests, a dirty man who
looks like a brigand, a sick maid-servant, and three agricultural
labourers. The attempt, however, was frequently made, and thus there
used to be occasionally a little noise round the bureau at St. Michael.

On the morning of which we are speaking, two Englishmen had just made
good their claim, each independently of the other, each without having
heard or seen the other, when two American ladies, coming up very
tardily, endeavoured to prove their rights. The ladies were without
other companions, and were not fluent with their French, but were
clearly entitled to their seats. They were told that the conveyance was
all coupe, but perversely would not believe the statement. The official
shrugged his shoulders and signified that his ultimatum had been
pronounced. What can an official do in such circumstances, when more
coupe passengers are sent to him than the coupes at his command will
hold? 'But we have paid for the coupe,' said the elder American lady,
with considerable indignation, though her French was imperfect for
American ladies understand their rights. 'Bah; yes; you have paid and
you shall go. What would you have?' 'We would have what we have paid
for,' said the American lady. Then the official rose from his stool and
shrugged his shoulders again, and made a motion with both his hands,
intended to shew that the thing was finished. 'It is a robbery,' said
the elder American lady to the younger. 'I should not mind, only you
are so unwell.' 'It will not kill me, I dare say,' said the younger.
Then one of the English gentlemen declared that his place was very much
at the service of the invalid and the other Englishman declared that
his also was at the service of the invalid's companion. Then, and not
till then, the two men recognised each other. One was Mr Glascock, on
his way to Naples, and the other was Mr Trevelyan, on his way he knew
not whither.

Upon this, of course, they spoke to each other. In London they had been
well acquainted, each having been an intimate guest at the house of old
Lady Milborough. And each knew something of the other's recent history.
Mr Glascock was aware, as was all the world, that Trevelyan had
quarrelled with his wife; and Trevelyan was aware that Mr Glascock had
been spoken of as a suitor to his own sister-in-law. Of that visit
which Mr Glascock had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the manner in
which Nora had behaved to her lover, Trevelyan knew nothing. Their
greetings spoken, their first topic of conversation was, of course, the
injury proposed to be done to the American ladies, and which would now
fall upon them. They went into the waiting-room together, and during
such toilet as they could make there, grumbled furiously. They would
take post horses over the mountain, not from any love of solitary
grandeur, but in order that they might make the company pay for its
iniquity. But it was soon apparent to them that they themselves had no
ground of complaint, and as everybody was very civil, and as a seat in
the banquette over the heads of the American ladies was provided for
them, and as the man from the bureau came and apologised, they
consented to be pacified, and ended, of course, by tipping half-a-dozen
of the servants about the yard. Mr Glascock had a man of his own with
him, who was very nearly being put on to the same seat with his master
as an extra civility; but this inconvenience was at last avoided.
Having settled these little difficulties, they went into breakfast in
the buffet.

There could be no better breakfast than used to be given in the buffet
at the railway terminus at St. Michael. The company might occasionally
be led into errors about that question of coupe seats, but in reference
to their provisions, they set an example which might be of great use to
us here in England. It is probably the case that breakfasts for
travellers are not so frequently needed here as they are on the
Continent; but, still, there is often to be found a crowd of people
ready to eat if only the wherewithal were there. We are often told in
our newspapers that England is disgraced by this and by that; by the
unreadiness of our army, by the unfitness of our navy, by the
irrationality of our laws, by the immobility of our prejudices, and
what not; but the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich that
whited sepulchre, fair enough outside, but so meagre, poor, and
spiritless within, such a thing of shreds and parings, such a dab of
food, telling us that the poor bone whence it was scraped had been made
utterly bare before it was sent into the kitchen for the soup pot. In
France one does get food at the railway stations, and at St. Michael
the breakfast was unexceptional.

Our two friends seated themselves near to the American ladies, and
were, of course, thanked for their politeness. American women are
taught by the habits of their country to think that men should give way
to them more absolutely than is in accordance with the practices of
life in Europe. A seat in a public conveyance in the States, when
merely occupied by a man, used to be regarded by any woman as being at
her service as completely as though it were vacant. One woman
indicating a place to another would point with equal freedom to a man
or a space. It is said that this is a little altered now, and that
European views on this subject are spreading themselves. Our two
ladies, however, who were pretty, clever-looking, and attractive even
after the night's journey, were manifestly more impressed with the
villainy of the French officials than they were with the kindness of
their English neighbours.

'And nothing can be done to punish them?' said the younger of them to
Mr Glascock.

'Nothing, I should think,' said he. 'Nothing will, at any rate.'

'And you will not get back your money?' said the elder who, though the
elder, was probably not much above twenty.

'Well no. Time is money, they say. It would take thrice the value of
the time in money, and then one would probably fail. They have done
very well for us, and I suppose there are difficulties.'

'It couldn't have taken place in our country,' said the younger lady.
'All the same, we are very much obliged to you. It would not have been
nice for us to have to go up into the banquette.'

'They would have put you into the interior.'

'And that would have been worse. I hate being put anywhere as if I were
a sheep. It seems so odd to us, that you here should be all so tame.'

'Do you mean the English, or the French, or the world in general on
this side of the Atlantic?'

'We mean Europeans,' said the younger lady, who was better after her
breakfast. 'But then we think that the French have something of
compensation, in their manners, and their ways of life, their climate,
the beauty of their cities, and their general management of things.'

'They are very great in many ways, no doubt,' said Mr Glascock.

'They do understand living better than you do,' said the elder.

'Everything is so much brighter with them,' said the younger.

'They contrive to give a grace to every-day existence,' said the elder.

'There is such a welcome among them for strangers,' said the younger.

'Particularly in reference to places taken in the coupe,' said
Trevelyan, who had hardly spoken before.

'Ah, that is an affair of honesty,' said the elder. 'If we want
honesty, I believe we must go back to the stars and stripes.'

Mr Glascock looked up from his plate almost aghast. He said nothing,
however, but called for the waiter, and paid for his breakfast.
Nevertheless, there was a considerable amount of travelling friendship
engendered between the ladies and our two friends before the diligence
had left the railway yard. They were two Miss Spaldings, going on to
Florence, at which place they had an uncle, who was minister from the
States to the kingdom of Italy; and they were not at all unwilling co
receive such little civilities as gentlemen can give to ladies when
travelling. The whole party intended to sleep at Turin that night, and
they were altogether on good terms with each other when they started on
the journey from St. Michael.

'Clever women those,' said Mr Glascock, as soon as they had arranged
their legs and arms in the banquette.

'Yes, indeed.'

'American women always are clever and are almost always pretty.'

'I do not like them,' said Trevelyan who in these days was in a mood to
like nothing. 'They are exigent and then they are so hard. They want
the weakness that a woman ought to have.'

'That comes from what they would call your insular prejudice. We are
accustomed to less self-assertion on the part of women than is
customary with them. We prefer women to rule us by seeming to yield. In
the States, as I take it, the women never yield, and the men have to
fight their own battles with other tactics.'

'I don't know what their tactics are.'

'They keep their distance. The men live much by themselves, as though
they knew they would not have a chance in the presence of their wives
and daughters. Nevertheless they don't manage these things badly. You
very rarely hear of an American being separated from his wife.'

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than Mr Glascock knew, and
remembered, and felt what he had said. There are occasions in which a
man sins so deeply against fitness and the circumstances of the hour,
that it becomes impossible for him to slur over his sin as though it
had not been committed. There are certain little peccadilloes in
society which one can manage to throw behind one perhaps with some
difficulty, and awkwardness; but still they are put aside, and
conversation goes on, though with a hitch. But there are graver
offences, the gravity of which strikes the offender so seriously that
it becomes impossible for him to seem even to ignore his own iniquity.
Ashes must be eaten publicly, and sackcloth worn before the eyes of
men. It was so now with poor Mr Glascock. He thought about it for a
moment whether or no it was possible that he should continue his
remarks about the American ladies, without betraying his own
consciousness of the thing that he had done; and he found that it was
quite impossible. He knew that he was red up to his hairs, and hot, and
that his blood tingled. His blushes, indeed, would not be seen in the
seclusion of the banquette; but he could not overcome the heat and the
tingling. There was silence for about three minutes, and then he felt
that it would be best for him to confess his own fault. 'Trevelyan,' he
said, 'I am very sorry for the allusion that I made. I ought to have
been less awkward, and I beg your pardon.'

'It does not matter,' said Trevelyan. 'Of course I know that everybody
is talking of it behind my back. I am not to expect that people will be
silent because I am unhappy.'

'Nevertheless I beg your pardon,' said the other.

There was but little further conversation between them till they
reached Lanslebourg, at the foot of the mountain, at which place they
occupied themselves with getting coffee for the two American ladies.
The Miss Spaldings took their coffee almost with as much grace as
though it had been handed to them by Frenchmen. And indeed they were
very gracious as is the nature of American ladies in spite of that
hardness of which Trevelyan had complained. They assume an intimacy
readily, with no appearance of impropriety, and are at their ease
easily. When, therefore, they were handed, out of their carriage by Mr
Glascock, the bystanders at Lanslebourg might have thought that the
whole party had been travelling 'together from New York. 'What should
we have done if you hadn't taken pity on us?' said the elder lady. 'I
don't think we could have climbed up into that high place; and look at
the crowd that have come out of the interior. A man has some advantages
after all.'

'I am quite in the dark as to what they are,' said Mr Glascock.

'He can give up his place to a lady, and can climb up into a
banquette.'

'And he can be a member of Congress,''said the younger. 'I'd sooner be
senator from Massachusetts than be the Queen of England.'

'So would I,' said Mr Glascock. 'I'm glad we can agree about one
thing.'

The two gentlemen agreed to walk up the mountain together, and with
some trouble induced the conductor to permit them to do so. Why
conductors of diligences should object to such relief to their horses
the ordinary Englishman can hardly understand. But in truth they feel
so deeply the responsibility which attaches itself to their shepherding
of their sheep, that they are always fearing lest some poor lamb should
go astray on the mountain side. And though the road be broad and very
plainly marked, the conductor never feels secure that his passenger
will find his way safely to the summit. He likes to know that each of
his flock is in his right place, and disapproves altogether of an
erratic spirit. But Mr Glascock at last prevailed, and the two men
started together up the mountain. When the permission has been once
obtained the walker may be sure that his guide and shepherd will not
desert him.

'Of course I know,' said Trevelyan, when the third twist up the
mountain had been overcome, 'that people talk about me and my wife. It
is a part of the punishment for the mistake that one makes.'

'It is a sad affair altogether.'

'The saddest in the world. Lady Milborough has no doubt spoken to you
about it.'

'Well yes; she has.'

'How could she help it? I am not such a fool as to suppose that people
are to hold their tongues about me more than they do about others.
Intimate as she is with you, of course she has spoken to you.'

'I was in hopes that something might have been done by this time.'

'Nothing has been done. Sometimes I think I shall put an end to myself,
it makes me so wretched.'

'Then why don't you agree to forget and forgive and have done with it?'

'That is so easily said so easily said.' After this they walked on in
silence for a considerable distance. Mr Glascock was not anxious to
talk about Trevelyan's wife, but he did wish to ask a question or two
about Mrs Trevelyan's sister, if only this could be done without
telling too much of his own secret. 'There's nothing I think so grand,
as walking up a mountain,' he said after a while.

'It's all very well,' said Trevelyan, in a tone which seemed to imply
that to him in his present miserable condition all recreations,
exercises, and occupations were mere leather and prunella.

'I don't mean, you know, in the Alpine Club way, said Glascock. 'I'm
too old and too stiff for that. But when the path is good, and the air
not too cold, and when it is neither snowing, nor thawing, nor raining,
and when the sun isn't hot, and you've got plenty of time, and know
that you can stop any moment you like and be pushed up by a carriage, I
do think walking up a mountain is very fine if you've got proper shoes,
and a good stick, and it isn't too soon after dinner. There's nothing
like the air of Alps.' And Mr Glascock renewed his pace, and stretched
himself against the hill at the rate of three miles an hour.

'I used to be very fond of Switzerland,' said Trevelyan, 'but I don't
care about it now. My eye has lost all its taste.'

'It isn't the eye,' said Glascock.

'Well; no. The truth is that when one is absolutely unhappy one cannot
revel in the imagination. I don't believe in the miseries of poets.'

'I think myself,' said Glascock, 'that a poet should have a good
digestion. By-the-bye, Mrs Trevelyan and her sister went down to
Nuncombe Putney, in Devonshire.'

'They did go there.'

'Have they moved since? A very pretty place is Nuncombe Putney.'

'You have been there, then?'

Mr Glascock blushed again. He was certainly an awkward man, saying
things that he ought not to say, and telling secrets which ought not to
have been told. 'Well yes. I have been there as it happens.'

'Just lately do you mean?'

Mr Glascock paused, hoping to find his way out of the scrape, but soon
perceived that there was no way out. He could not lie, even in an
affair of love, and was altogether destitute of those honest
subterfuges subterfuges honest in such position of which a dozen would
have been at once at the command of any woman, and with one of which,
sufficient for the moment, most men would have been able to arm
themselves. 'Indeed, yes,' he said, almost stammering as he spoke. 'It
was lately since your wife went there.' Trevelyan, though he had been
told of the possibility of Mr Glascock's courtship, felt himself almost
aggrieved by this man's intrusion on his wife's retreat. Had he not
sent her there that she might be private; and what right had any one to
invade such privacy? 'I suppose I had better tell the truth at once,'
said Mr Glascock. 'I went to see Miss Rowley.'

'Oh, indeed.'

'My secret will be safe with you, I know.'

'I did not know that there was a secret,' said Trevelyan. 'I should
have thought that they would have told me.'

'I don't see that. However, it doesn't matter much. I got nothing by my
journey. Are the ladies still at Nuncombe Putney?'

'No, they have moved from there to London.'

'Not back to Curzon Street?'

'Oh dear, no. There is no house in Curzon Street for them now.' This
was said in a tone so sad that it almost made Mr Glascock weep. 'They
are staying with an aunt of theirs .out to the east of the city.'

'At St. Diddulph's?'

'Yes with Mr Outhouse, the clergyman there. You can't conceive what it
is not to be able to see your own child; and yet, how can I take the
boy from her?'

'Of course not. He's only a baby.'

'And yet all this is brought on me solely by her obstinacy. God knows,
however, I don't want to say a word against her. People choose to say
that I am to blame, and they may say so for me. Nothing that any one
may say can add anything to the weight that I have to bear.' Then they
walked to the top of the mountain in silence, and in due time were
picked up by their proper shepherd and carried down to Susa at a pace
that would give an English coachman a concussion of the brain.

Why passengers for Turin, who reach Susa dusty, tired, and sleepy,
should be detained at that place for an hour and a half instead of
being forwarded to their beds in the great city, is never made very
apparent. All travelling officials on the continent of Europe are very
slow in their manipulation of luggage; but as they are equally correct
we will find the excuse for their tardiness in the latter quality. The
hour and a half, however, is a necessity, and it is very grievous. On
this occasion the two Miss Spaldings ate their supper, and the two
gentlemen waited on them. The ladies had learned to regard at any rate
Mr Glascock as their own property, and received his services,
graciously indeed, but quite as a matter of course. When he was sent
from their peculiar corner of the big, dirty refreshment room to the
supper-table to fetch an apple, and then desired to change it because
the one which he had brought was spotted, he rather liked it. And when
he sat down with his knees near to theirs, actually trying to eat a
large Italian apple himself simply because they had eaten one and
discussed with them the passage over the Mont Cenis, he began to think
that Susa was, after all, a place in which an hour and a half might be
whiled away without much cause for complaint.

'We only stay one night at Turin,' said Caroline Spalding, the elder.

'And we shall have to start at ten to get through to Florence
to-morrow,' said Olivia, the younger. 'Isn't it cruel, wasting all this
time when we might be in bed?'

'It is not for me to complain of the cruelty,' said Mr Glascock.

'We should have fared infinitely worse if we hadn't met you,' said
Caroline Spalding.

'But our republican simplicity won't allow us to assert that even your
society is better than going to bed, after a journey of thirty hours,'
said Olivia.

In the meantime Trevelyan was roaming about the station moodily by
himself, and the place is one not apt to restore cheerfulness to a
moody man by any resources of its own. When the time for departure came
Mr Glascock sought him and found him; but Trevelyan had chosen a corner
for himself in a carriage, and declared that he would rather avoid the
ladies for the present. 'Don't think me uncivil to leave you,' he said,
'but the truth is, I don't like American ladies.'

'I do rather,' said Mr Glascock.

'You can say that I've got a headache,' said Trevelyan. So Mr Glascock
returned to his friends, and did say that Mr Trevelyan had a headache.
It was the first time that a name had been mentioned between them.

'Mr Trevelyan! What a pretty name. It sounds like a novel,' said
Olivia.

'A very clever man,' said Mr Glascock, 'and much liked by his own
circle. But he has had trouble, and is unhappy.'

'He looks unhappy,' said Caroline.

'The most miserable looking man I ever saw in my life,' said Olivia.
Then it was agreed between them as they went up to Trompetta's hotel,
that they would go on together by the ten o'clock train to Florence.



CHAPTER XXXVIII - VERDICT OF THE JURY 'MAD, MY LORD'

Trevelyan was left alone at Turin when Mr Glascock went on to Florence
with his fair American friends. It was imperatively necessary that he
should remain at Turin, though he had no business there of any kind
whatever, and did not know a single person in the city. And of all
towns in Italy Turin has perhaps less of attraction to offer to the
solitary visitor than any other. It is new and parallelogrammatic as an
American town is very cold in cold weather, very hot in hot weather,
and now that it has been robbed of its life as a capital is as dull and
uninteresting as though it were German or English. There is the
Armoury, and the river Po, and a good hotel. But what are these things
to a man who is forced to live alone in a place for four days, or
perhaps a week? Trevelyan was bound to remain at Turin till he should
hear from Bozzle. No one but Bozzle knew his address; and he could do
nothing till Bozzle should have communicated to him tidings of what was
being done at St. Diddulph's.

There is perhaps no great social question so imperfectly understood
among us at the present day as that which refers to the line which
divides sanity from insanity. That this man is sane and that other
unfortunately mad we do know well enough; and we know also that one man
may be subject to various hallucinations may fancy himself to be a
teapot, or what not and yet be in such a condition of mind as to call
for no intervention either on behalf of his friends, or of the law;
while another may be in possession of intellectual faculties capable of
lucid exertion for the highest purposes, and yet be so mad that bodily
restraint upon him is indispensable. We know that the sane man is
responsible for what he does, and that the insane man is irresponsible;
but we do not know we only guess wildly, at the state of mind of those,
who now and again act like madmen, though no court or council of
experts has declared them to be mad. The bias of the public mind is to
press heavily on such men till the law attempts to touch them, as
though they were thoroughly responsible; and then, when the law
interferes, to screen them as though they were altogether
irresponsible. The same juryman who would find a man mad who has
murdered a young woman, would in private life express a desire that the
same young man should be hung, crucified, or skinned alive, if he had
moodily and without reason broken faith to the young woman in lieu of
killing her. Now Trevelyan was, in truth, mad on the subject of his
wife's alleged infidelity. He had abandoned everything that he valued
in the world, and had made himself wretched in every affair of life,
because he could not submit to acknowledge to himself the possibility
of error on his own part. For that, in truth, was the condition of his
mind. He had never hitherto believed that she had been false to her
vow, and had sinned against him irredeemably; but he had thought that
in her regard for another man she had slighted him; and, so thinking,
he had subjected her to a severity of rebuke which no high-spirited
woman could have borne. His wife had not tried to bear it in her
indignation had not striven to cure the evil. Then had come his
resolution that she should submit, or part from him; and, having so
resolved, nothing could shake him. Though every friend he possessed was
now against him including even Lady Milborough he was certain that he
was right. Had not his wife sworn to obey him, and was not her whole
conduct one tissue of disobedience? Would not the man who submitted to
this find himself driven to submit to things worse? Let her own her
fault, let her submit, and then she should come back to him.

He had not considered, when his resolutions to this effect were first
forming themselves, that a separation between a man and his wife once
effected cannot be annulled, and as it were cured, so as to leave no
cicatrice behind. Gradually, as he spent day after day in thinking on
this one subject, he came to feel that even were his wife to submit, to
own her fault humbly, and to come back to him, this very coming back
would in itself be a new wound. Could he go out again with his wife on
his arm to the houses of those who knew that he had repudiated her
because of her friendship with another man? Could he open again that
house in Curzon Street, and let things go on quietly as they had gone
before? He told himself that it was impossible that he and she were
ineffably disgraced that, if reunited, they must live buried out of
sight in some remote distance. And he told himself, also, that he could
never be with her again night or day without thinking of the
separation. His happiness had been shipwrecked.

Then he had put himself into the hands of Mr Bozzle, and Mr Bozzle had
taught him that women very often do go astray. Mr Bozzle's idea of
female virtue was not high, and he had opportunities of implanting his
idea on his client's mind. Trevelyan hated the man. He was filled with
disgust by Bozzle's words, and was made miserable by Bozzle's presence.
Yet he came gradually to believe in Bozzle. Bozzle alone believed in
him. There were none but Bozzle who did not bid him to submit himself
to his disobedient wife. And then, as he came to believe in Bozzle, he
grew to be more and more assured that no one but Bozzle could tell him
facts. His chivalry, and love, and sense of woman's honour, with
something of manly pride on his own part so he told himself had taught
him to believe it to be impossible that his wife should have sinned.
Bozzle, who knew the world, thought otherwise. Bozzle, who had no
interest in the matter, one way or the other, would find out facts.
What if his chivalry, and love, and manly pride had deceived him? There
were women who sinned. Then he prayed that his wife might not be such a
woman; and got up from his prayers almost convinced that she was a
sinner.

His mind was at work upon it always. Could it be that she was so base
as this so vile a thing, so abject, such dirt, pollution, filth? But
there were such cases. Nay, were they not almost numberless? He found
himself reading in the papers records of such things from day to day,
and thought that in doing so he was simply acquiring experience
necessary for himself. If it were so, he had indeed done well to
separate himself from a thing so infamous. And if it were not so, how
could it be that that man had gone to her in Devonshire? He had
received from his wife's hands a short note addressed to the man, in
which the man was desired by her not to go to her, or to write to her
again, because of her husband's commands. He had shown this to Bozzle,
and Bozzle had smiled. 'It's just the sort of thing they does,' Bozzle
had said. 'Then they writes another by post.' He had consulted Bozzle
as to the sending on of that letter, and Bozzle had been strongly of
opinion that it should be forwarded, a copy having been duly taken and
attested by himself. It might be very pretty evidence by-and-by. If the
letter were not forwarded, Bozzle thought that the omission to do so
might be given in evidence against his employer. Bozzle was very
careful, and full of 'evidence.' The letter therefore was sent on to
Colonel Osborne. 'If there's billy-dous going between 'em we shall
nobble 'em,' said Bozzle. Trevelyan tore his hair in despair, but
believed that there would be billy-dous.

He came to believe everything; and, though he prayed fervently that his
wife might not be led astray, that she might be saved at any rate from
utter vice, yet he almost came to hope that it might be otherwise not,
indeed, with the hope of the sane man, who desires that which he tells
himself to be for his advantage; but with the hope of the insane man,
who loves to feed his grievance, even though the grief should be his
death. They who do not understand that a man may be brought to hope
that which of all things is the most grievous to him, have not observed
with sufficient closeness the perversity of the human mind. Trevelyan
would have given all that he had to save his wife; would, even now,
have cut his tongue out before he would have expressed to anyone save
to Bozzle a suspicion that she could in truth have been guilty; was
continually telling himself that further life would be impossible to
him, if he, and she, and that child of theirs, should be thus disgraced
and yet he expected it, believed it, and, after a fashion, he almost
hoped it.

He was to wait at Turin till tidings should come from Bozzle, and after
that he would go on to Venice; but he would not move from Turin till he
should have received his first communication from England. When he had
been three days at Turin they came to him, and, among other letters in
Bozzle's packet, there was a letter addressed in his wife's
handwriting. The letter was simply directed to Bozzle's house. In what
possible way could his wife have found out ought of his dealings with
Bozzle where Bozzle lived, or could have learned that letters intended
for him should be sent to the man's own residence? Before, however, we
inspect the contents of Mr Bozzle's dispatch, we will go back and see
how Mrs Trevelyan had discovered the manner of forwarding a letter to
her husband.

The matter of the address was, indeed, very simple. All letters for
Trevelyan were to be redirected from the house in Curzon Street, and
from the chambers in Lincoln's Inn, to the Acrobats' Club; to the
porter of the Acrobats' Club had been confided the secret, not of
Bozzle's name, but of Bozzle's private address, No. 55, Stony Walk,
Union Street, Borough. Thus all letters reaching the Acrobats' were
duly sent to Mr Bozzle's house. It may be remembered that Hugh
Stanbury, on the occasion of his last visit to the parsonage of St.
Diddulph's, was informed that Mrs Trevelyan had a letter from her
father for her husband, and that she knew not whither to send it. It
may well be that, had the matter assumed no interest in Stanbury's eyes
than that given to it by Mrs Trevelyan's very moderate anxiety to have
the letter forwarded, he would have thought nothing about it; but
having resolved, as he sat upon the knifeboard of the omnibus the
reader will, at any rate, remember those resolutions made on the top of
the omnibus while Hugh was smoking his pipe having resolved that a deed
should be done at St. Diddulph's, he resolved also that it should be
done at once. He would not allow the heat of his purpose to be cooled
by delay. He would go to St. Diddulph's at once, with his heart in his
hand. But it might, he thought, be as well that he should have an
excuse for his visit. So he called upon the porter at the Acrobats',
and was successful in learning Mr Trevelyan's address. 'Stony Walk,
Union Street, Borough,' he said to himself, wondering; then it occurred
to him that Bozzle, and Bozzle only among Trevelyan's friends, could
live at Stony Walk in the Borough. Thus armed, he set out for St.
Diddulph's and, as one of the effects of his visit to the East, Sir
Marmaduke's note was forwarded to Louis Trevelyan at Turin.



CHAPTER XXXIX - MISS NORA ROWLEY IS MALTREATED

Hugh Stanbury, when he reached the parsonage, found no difficulty in
making his way into the joint presence of Mrs Outhouse, Mrs Trevelyan,
and Nora. He was recognised by the St. Diddulph's party as one who had
come over to their side, as a friend of Trevelyan who had found himself
constrained to condemn his friend in spite of his friendship, and was
consequently very welcome. And there was no difficulty about giving the
address. The ladies wondered how it came to pass that Mr Trevelyan's
letters should be sent to such a locality, and Hugh expressed his
surprise also. He thought it discreet to withhold his suspicions about
Mr Bozzle, and simply expressed his conviction that letters sent in
accordance with the directions given by the club-porter would reach
their destination. Then the boy was brought down, and they were all
very confidential and very unhappy together. Mrs Trevelyan could see no
end to the cruelty of her position, and declared that her father's
anger against her husband was so great that she anticipated his coming
with almost more of fear than of hope. Mrs Outhouse expressed an
opinion that Mr Trevelyan must surely be mad; and Nora suggested that
the possibility of such perversity on the part of a man made it almost
unwise in any woman to trust herself to the power of a husband, 'But
there are not many like him, thank God,' said Mrs Outhouse, bridling in
her wrath. Thus they were very friendly together, and Hugh was allowed
to feel that he stood upon comfortable terms in the parsonage but he
did not as yet see how he was to carry out his project for the present
day.

At last Mrs Trevelyan went away with the child. Hugh felt that he ought
to go, but stayed courageously. He thought he could perceive that Nora
suspected the cause of his assiduity; but it was quite evident that Mrs
Outhouse did not do so. Mrs Outhouse, having reconciled herself to the
young man, was by no means averse to his presence. She went on talking
about the wickedness of Trevelyan, and her brother's anger, and the
fate of the little boy, till at last the little boy's mother came back
into the room. Then Mrs Outhouse went. They must excuse her for a few
minutes, she said. If only she would have gone a few minutes sooner,
how well her absence might have been excused. Nora understood it all
now; and though she became almost breathless, she was not surprised,
when Hugh got up from his chair and asked her sister to go away. 'Mrs
Trevelyan,' he said, 'I want to speak a few words to your sister, I
hope you will give me the opportunity.'

'Nora!' exclaimed Mrs Trevelyan.

'She knows nothing about it,' said Hugh.

'Am I to go?' said Mrs Trevelyan to her sister. But Nora said never a
word. She sat perfectly fixed, not turning her eyes from the object on
which she was gazing.

'Pray pray do,' said Hugh.

'I cannot think that it will be for any good,' said Mrs Trevelyan; 'but
I know that she may be trusted. And I suppose it ought to be so, if you
wish it.'

'I do wish it, of all things,' said Hugh, still standing up, and almost
turning the elder sister out of the room by the force of his look and
voice. Then, with another pause of a moment, Mrs Trevelyan rose from
her chair and left the room, closing the door after her.

Hugh, when he found that the coast was clear for him, immediately began
his task with a conviction that not a moment was to be lost. He had
told himself a dozen times that the matter was hopeless, that Nora had
shown him by every means in her power that she was indifferent to him,
that she with all her friends would know that such a marriage was out
of the question; and he had in truth come to believe that the mission
which he had in hand was one in which success was not possible. But he
thought that it was his duty to go on with it. 'If a man love a woman,
even though it be the king and the beggar-woman reversed though it be a
beggar and a queen, he should tell her of it. If it be so, she has a
right to know it and to take her choice. And he has a right to tell
her, and to say what he can for himself.' Such was Hugh's doctrine in
the matter; and, acting upon it, he found himself alone with his
mistress.

'Nora,' he said, speaking perhaps with more energy than the words
required, 'I have come here to tell you that I love you, and to ask you
to be my wife.'

Nora, for the last ten minutes, had been thinking that this would come
that it would come at once; and yet she was not at all prepared with an
answer. It was now weeks since she had confessed to herself frankly
that nothing else but this this one thing which was now happening, this
one thing which had now happened that nothing else could make her
happy, or could touch her happiness. She had refused a man whom she
otherwise would have taken, because her heart had been given to Hugh
Stanbury. She had been bold enough to tell that other suitor that it
was so, though she had not mentioned the rival's name. She had longed
for some expression of love from this man when they had been at
Nuncombe together, and had been fiercely angry with him because no such
expression had come from him. Day after day, since she had been with
her aunt, she had told herself that she was a broken-hearted woman,
because she had given away all that she had to give and had received
nothing in return. Had he said a word that might have given her hope,
how happy could she have been in hoping. Now he had come to her with a
plain-spoken offer, telling her that he loved her, and asking her to be
his wife and she was altogether unable to answer. How could she consent
to be his wife, knowing as she did that there was no certainty of an
income on which they could live? How could she tell her father and
mother that she had engaged herself to marry a man who might or might
not make 400 pounds a year, and who already had a mother and sister
depending on him?

In truth, had he come more gently to her, his chance of a happy answer
of an answer which might be found to have in it something of happiness
would have been greater. He might have said a word which she could not
but have answered softly and then from that constrained softness other
gentleness would have followed, and so he would have won her in spite
of her discretion. She would have surrendered gradually, accepting on
the score of her great love all the penalties of a long and precarious
engagement. But when she was asked to come and be his wife, now and at
once, she felt that in spite of her love it was impossible that she
should accede to a request so sudden, so violent, so monstrous. He
stood over her as though expecting an instant answer; and then, when
she had sat dumb before him for a minute, he repeated his demand. 'Tell
me, Nora, can you love me? If you knew how thoroughly I have loved you,
you would at least feel something for me.'

To tell him that she did not love him was impossible to her. But how
was she to refuse him without telling him either a lie, or the truth?
Some answer she must give him; and as to that matter of marrying him,
the answer must be a negative. Her education had been of that nature
which teaches girls to believe that it is a crime to marry a man
without an assured income. Assured morality in a husband is a great
thing. Assured good temper is very excellent. Assured talent, religion,
amiability, truth, honesty, are all desirable. But an assured income is
indispensable. Whereas, in truth, the income may come hereafter; but
the other things, unless they be there already, will hardly be
forthcoming. 'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'your suddenness has quite
astounded me.'

'Ah, yes; but how should I not be sudden? I have come here on purpose
to say this to you. If I do not say it now--'

'You heard what Emily said.'

'No what did she say?'

'She said that it would not be for good that you should speak to me
thus.'

'Why not for good? But she is unhappy, and looks gloomily at things.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'But all the world need not be sad for ever because she has been
unfortunate.'

'Not all the world, Mr Stanbury but you must not be surprised if it
affects me.'

'But would that prevent your loving me if you did love me? But, Nora, I
do not expect you to love me not yet. I do not say that I expect it
ever. But if you would--. Nora, I can do no more than tell you the
simple truth. Just listen to me for a minute. You know how I came to be
intimate with you all in Curzon Street. The first day I saw you I loved
you; and there has come no change yet. It is months now since I first
knew that I loved you. Well; I told myself more than once when I was
down at Nuncombe for instance that I had no right to speak to you. What
right can a poor devil like me have, who lives from hand to mouth, to
ask such a girl as you to be his wife? And so I said nothing though it
was on my lips every moment that I was there.' Nora remembered at the
moment how she had looked to his lips, and had not seen the words
there. 'But I think there is something unmanly in this. If you cannot
give me a grain of hope if you tell me that there never can be hope, it
is my misfortune. It will be very grievous, but I will bear it. But
that will be better than puling and moping about without daring to tell
my tale. I am not ashamed of it. I have fallen in love with you, Nora,
and I think it best to come for an answer.'

He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps come
to him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part; but she,
as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had
she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him so dearly?
Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms, it might be that all
power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power.

'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'you have confessed yourself that it is
impossible.'

'But do you love me do you think that it is possible that you should
ever love me?'

'You know, Mr Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You
know that it cannot be.'

'But do you love me?'

'You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to be
uncourteous.'

'I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me?
With one word of hope I will wait, and work, and feel myself to be a
hero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me.'

'Then I must tell you so.'

'What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew that a
girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. Am I
odious to you, Nora?'

'No; not odious but very, very unfair.'

'I will have the truth if I be ever so unfair,' he said. And by this
time probably some inkling of the truth had reached his intelligence.
There was already a tear in Nora's eye, but he did not pity her. She
owed it to him to tell him the truth, and he would have it from her if
it was to be reached. 'Nora,' he said, 'listen to me again. All my
heart and soul are in this. It is everything to me. If you can love me
you are bound to say so. By Jove, I will believe you do, unless you
swear to me that it is not so!' He was now holding her by the hand and
looking closely into her face.

'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'let me go; pray, pray let me go.'

'Not till you say that you love me. Oh, Nora, I believe that you love
me. You do; yes; you do love me. Dearest, dearest Nora, would you not
say a word to make me the happiest man in the world?' And now he had
his arm round her waist.

'Let me go,' she said, struggling through her tears and covering her
face with her hands. 'You are very, very wicked. I will never speak to
you again. Nay, but you shall let me go!' And then she was out of his
arms and had escaped from the room before he had managed to touch her
face with his lips.

As he was thinking how he also might escape now might escape and
comfort himself with his triumph Mrs Outhouse returned to the chamber.
She was very demure, and her manner towards him was considerably
changed since she had left the chamber. 'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'this
kind of thing mustn't go any further indeed at least not in my house.'

'What kind of thing, Mrs Outhouse?'

'Well what my elder niece has told me. I have not seen Miss Rowley
since she left you. I am quite sure she has behaved with discretion.'

'Indeed she has, Mrs Outhouse.'

'The fact is my nieces are in grief and trouble, and this is no time or
place for love-making. I am sorry to be uncivil, but I must ask you not
to come here any more.'

'I will stay away from this house, certainly, if you bid me.'

'I am very sorry; but I must bid you. Sir Marmaduke will be home in the
spring, and if you have anything to say to him of course you can see
him.'

Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave of Mrs Outhouse; but as he went home,
again on the knifeboard of an omnibus, he smoked the pipe of triumph
rather than the pipe of contemplation.



CHAPTER XL - 'C. G.'

The Miss Spaldings were met at the station at Florence by their uncle,
the American Minister by their cousin, the American Secretary of
Legation, and by three or four other dear friends and relations, who
were there to welcome the newcomers to sunny Italy. Mr Glascock,
therefore, who ten minutes since had been, and had felt himself to be,
quite indispensable to their comfort, suddenly became as though he were
nothing and nobody. Who is there that has not felt these sudden
disruptions to the intimacies and friendships of a long journey? He
bowed to them, and they to him, and then they were whirled away in
their grandeur. He put himself into a small, open hackney-carriage, and
had himself driven to the York Hotel, feeling himself to be deserted
and desolate. The two Miss Spaldings were the daughters of a very
respectable lawyer at Boston, whereas Mr Glascock was heir to a
peerage, to an enormous fortune, and to one of the finest places in
England. But he thought nothing of this at the time. As he went, he was
meditating which young woman was the most attractive, Nora Rowley or
Caroline Spalding. He had no doubt but that Nora was the prettier, the
pleasanter in manner, the better dressed, the more engaging in all that
concerned the outer woman; but he thought that he had never met any
lady who talked better than Caroline Spalding. And what was Nora
Rowley's beauty to him? Had she not told him that she was the property
of some one else; or, for the matter of that, what was Miss Spalding to
him? They had parted, and he was going on to Naples in two days. He had
said some half-defined word as to calling at the American Embassy, but
it had not been taken up by either of the ladies. He had not pressed
it, and so they had parted without an understanding as to a future
meeting.

The double journey, from Turin to Bologna and from Bologna to Florence,
is very long, and forms ample time for a considerable intimacy. There
had, too, been a long day's journeying together before that; and with
no women is a speedy intimacy so possible, or indeed so profitable, as
with Americans. They fear nothing neither you nor themselves; and talk
with as much freedom as though they were men. It may, perhaps, be
assumed to be true as a rule, that women's society is always more
agreeable to men than that of other men except for the lack of ease. It
undoubtedly is so when the women be young and pretty. There is a
feeling, however, among pretty women in Europe that such freedom is
dangerous, and it is withheld. There is such danger, and more or less
of such withholding is expedient; but the American woman does not
recognise the danger; and, if she withhold the grace of her countenance
and the pearls of her speech, it is because she is not desirous of the
society which is proffered to her. These two American sisters had not
withholden their pearls from Mr Glascock. He was much their senior in
age; he was gentle in his manners, and they probably recognised him to
be a safe companion. They had no idea who he was, and had not heard his
name when they parted from him. But it was not probable that they
should have been with him so long, and that they should leave him
without further thought of him, without curiosity, or a desire to know
more of him. They had seen 'C. G.' in large letters, on his
dressing-bag, and that was all they had learned as to his identity. He
had known their names well, and had once called Olivia by hers, in the
hurry of speaking to her sister. He had apologised, and there had been
a little laugh, and a discussion about the use of Christian names such
as is very conducive to intimacy between gentlemen and ladies. When you
can talk to a young lady about her own Christian name, you are almost
entitled for the nonce to use it.

Mr Glascock went to his hotel, and was very moody and desolate. His
name was very soon known there, and he received the honours due to his
rank and station. 'I should like to travel in America,' he said to
himself, 'if I could be sure that no one would find out who I was.' He
had received letters at Turin, stating that his father was better, and,
therefore, he intended to remain two days at Florence. The weather was
still very hot, and Florence in the middle of September is much
preferable to Naples.

That night, when the two Miss Spaldings were alone together, they
discussed their fellow-traveller thoroughly. Something, of course, had
been said about him to their uncle the minister, to their aunt the
minister's wife, and to their cousin the secretary of legation. But
travellers will always observe that the dear new friends they have made
on their journey are not interesting to the dear old friends whom they
meet afterwards. There may be some touch of jealousy in this; and then,
though you, the traveller, are fully aware that there has been
something special in the case which has made this new friendship more
peculiar than others that have sprung up in similar circumstances,
fathers and brothers and wives and sisters do not see it in that light.
They suspect, perhaps, that the new friend was a bagman, or an opera
dancer, and think that the affair need not be made of importance. The
American Minister had cast his eye on Mr Glascock during that momentary
parting, and had not thought much of Mr Glascock. 'He was, certainly, a
gentleman,' Caroline had said. 'There are a great many English
gentlemen,' the minister had replied.

'I thought you would have asked him to call,' Olivia said to her
sister. 'He did offer.'

'I know he did. I heard it.'

'Why didn't you tell him he might come?'

'Because we are not in Boston, Livy. It might be the most horrible
thing in the world to do here in Florence; and it may make a
difference, because Uncle Jonas is minister.'

'Why should that make a difference? Do you mean that one isn't to see
one's own friends? That must be nonsense.'

'But he isn't a friend, Livy.'

'It seems to me as if I'd known him for ever. That soft, monotonous
voice, which never became excited and never disagreeable, is as
familiar to me as though I had lived with it all my life.'

'I thought him very pleasant.'

'Indeed, you did, Carry. And he thought you pleasant too. Doesn't it
seem odd? You were mending his glove for him this very afternoon, just
as if he were your brother.'

'Why shouldn't I mend his glove?'

'Why not, indeed? He was entitled to have everything mended after
getting us such a good dinner at Bologna. By-the-bye, you never paid
him.'

'Yes, I did when you were not by.'

'I wonder who he is! C. G.! That fine man in the brown coat was his
servant, you know. I thought at first that C. G. must have been
cracked, and that the tall man was his keeper.'

'I never knew any one less like a madman.'

'No but the man was so queer. He did nothing, you know. We hardly saw
him, if you remember, at Turin. All he did was to tie the shawls at
Bologna. What can any man want with another man about with him like
that, unless he is cracked either in body or mind?'

'You'd better ask C. G. yourself.'

'I shall never see C. G. again, I suppose. I should like to see him
again. I guess you would too, Carry. Eh?'

'Of course, I should why not?'

'I never knew a man so imperturbable, and who had yet so much to say
for himself. I wonder what he is! Perhaps he's on business, and that
man was a kind of a clerk.'

'He had livery buttons on,' said Carry.

'And does that make a difference?'

'I don't think they put clerks into livery, even in England.'

'Nor yet mad doctors,' said Olivia. 'Well, I like him very much; and
the only thing against him is that he should have a man, six feet high,
going about with him doing nothing.'

'You'll make me angry, Livy, if you talk in that way. It's
uncharitable.'

'In what way?'

'About a mad doctor.'

'It's my belief,' said Olivia, 'that he's an English swell, a lord, or
a duke and it's my belief, too, that he's in love with you.'

'It's my belief, Livy, that you're a regular ass;' and so the
conversation was ended on that occasion.

On the next day, about noon, the American Minister, as a part of the
duty which he owed to his country, read in a publication of that day,
issued for the purpose, the names of the new arrivals at Florence.
First and foremost was that of the Honourable Charles Glascock, with
his suite, at the York Hotel, en route to join his father, Lord
Peterborough, at Naples. Having read the news first to himself, the
minister read it out loud in the presence of his nieces.

'That's our friend C. G.,' said Livy.

'I should think not,' said the minister, who had his own ideas about an
English lord.

'I'm sure it is, because of the tall man with the buttons,' said
Olivia.

'It's very unlikely,' said the secretary of legation. 'Lord
Peterborough is a man of immense wealth, very old, indeed. They say he
is dying at Naples. This man is his eldest son.'

'Is that any reason why he shouldn't have been civil to us?' asked
Olivia.

'I don't think he is the sort of man likely to sit up in the banquette;
and he would have posted over the Alps. Moreover, he had his suite with
him.'

'His suite was Buttons,' said Olivia. 'Only fancy, Carry, we've been
waited on for two days by a lord as is to be, and didn't know it! And
you have mended the tips of his lordship's glove!' But Carry said
nothing at all.

Late on that same evening, they met Mr Glascock close to the Duomo,
under the shade of the Campanile. He had come out as they had done, to
see by moonlight that loveliest of all works made by man's hands. They
were with the minister, but Mr Glascock came up and shook hands with
them.

'I would introduce you to my uncle, Mr Spalding,' said Olivia 'only as
it happens we have never yet heard your name.'

'My name is Mr Glascock,' said he, smiling. Then the introduction was
made; and the American Minister took off his hat, and was very affable.

'Only think, Carry,' said Olivia, when they were alone that evening,
'if you were to become the wife of an English lord!'



CHAPTER XLI - SHEWING WHAT TOOK PLACE AT ST DIDDULPH'S

Nora Rowley, when she escaped from the violence of her lover, at once
rushed up to her own room, and managed to fasten herself in before she
had been seen by any one. Her eider sister had at once gone to her aunt
when, at Hugh's request, she had left the room, thinking it right that
Mrs Outhouse should know what was being done in her own house. Mrs
Outhouse had considered the matter patiently for a while, giving the
lovers the benefit of her hesitation, and had then spoken her mind to
Stanbury, as we have already heard. He had, upon the whole, been so
well pleased with what had occurred, that he was not in the least angry
with the parson's wife when he left the parsonage. As soon as he was
gone Mrs Outhouse was at once joined by her elder niece, but Nora
remained for a while alone in her room.

Had she committed herself; and if so, did she regret it? He had behaved
very badly to her, certainly, taking her by the hand and putting his
arm round her waist. And then had he not even attempted to kiss her? He
had done all this, although she had been resolute in refusing to speak
to him one word of kindness though she had told him with all the energy
and certainty of which she was mistress, that she would never be his
wife. If a girl were to be subjected to such treatment as this when she
herself had been so firm, so discreet, so decided, then indeed it would
be unfit that a girl should trust herself with a man. She had never
thought that he had been such a one as that, to ill-use her, to lay a
hand on her in violence, to refuse to take an answer. She threw herself
on the bed and sobbed, and then hid her face and was conscious that in
spite of this acting before herself she was the happiest girl alive. He
had behaved very badly of course, he had behaved most wickedly, and she
would tell him so some day. But was he not the dearest fellow living?
Did ever man speak with more absolute conviction of love in every tone
of his voice? Was it not the finest, noblest heart that ever throbbed
beneath a waistcoat? Had not his very wickedness come from the
overpowering truth of his affection for her? She would never quite
forgive him because it had been so very wrong; but she would be true to
him for ever and ever. Of course they could not marry. What! would she
go to him and be a clog round his neck, and a weight upon him for ever,
bringing him down to the gutter by the burden of her own useless and
unworthy self? No. She would never so injure him. She would not even
hamper him by an engagement. But yet she would be true to him. She had
an idea that in spite of all her protestations which, as she looked
back upon them, appeared to her to have been louder than they had been
that through the teeth of her denials, something of the truth had
escaped from her. Well let it be so. It was the truth, and why should
he not know it? Then she pictured to herself a long romance, in which
the heroine lived happily on the simple knowledge that she had been
beloved. And the reader may be sure that in this romance Mr Glascock
with his splendid prospects filled one of the characters.

She had been so wretched at Nuncombe Putney when she had felt herself
constrained to admit to herself that this man for whom she had
sacrificed herself did not care for her, that she could not now but
enjoy her triumph. After she had sobbed upon the bed, she got up and
walked about the room smiling; and she would now press her hands to her
forehead, and then shake her tresses, and then clasp her own left hand
with her right, as though he were still holding it. Wicked man! Why had
he been so wicked and so violent? And why, why, why had she not once
felt his lips upon her brow?

And she was pleased with herself. Her sister had rebuked her because
she had refused to make her fortune by marrying Mr Glascock; and, to
own the truth, she had rebuked herself on the same score when she found
that Hugh Stanbury had not had a word of love to say to her. It was not
that she regretted the grandeur which she had lost, but that she
should, even within her own thoughts, with the consciousness of her own
bosom, have declared herself unable to receive another man's devotion
because of her love for this man who neglected her. Now she was proud
of herself. Whether it might be accounted as good or ill-fortune that
she had ever seen Hugh Stanbury, it must at any rate be right that she
should be true to him now that she had seen him, and had loved him. To
know that she loved and that she was not loved again had nearly killed
her. But such was not her lot. She too had been successful with her
quarry, and had struck her game, and brought down her dear. He had been
very violent with her, but, his violence had at least made the matter
clear. He did love her. She would be satisfied with that, and would
endeavour so to live that that alone should make life happy for her.
How should she get his photograph and a lock of his hair? and when
again might she have the pleasure of placing her own hand within his
great, rough, violent grasp? Then she kissed the hand which he had
held, and opened the door of her room, at which her sister was now
knocking.

'Nora, dear, will you not come down?'

'Not yet, Emily. Very soon I will.'

'And what has happened, dearest?'

'There is nothing to tell, Emily.'

'There must be something to tell. What did he say to you?'

'Of course you know what he said.'

'And what answer did you make?'

'I told him that it could not be.'

'And did he take that as final, Nora?'

'Of course not. What man ever takes a No as final?'

'When you said No to Mr Glascock he took it.'

'That was different, Emily.'

'But how different? I don't see the difference, except that if you
could have brought yourself to like Mr Glascock, it would have been the
greatest thing in the world for you, and for all of them.'

'Would you have me take a man, Emily, that I didn't care one straw for,
merely because he was a lord? You can't mean that.'

'I'm not talking about Mr Glascock now, Nora.'

'Yes, you are. And what's the use. He is gone, and there's an end of
it.'

'And is Mr Stanbury gone?'

'Of course.'

'In the same way?' asked Mrs Trevelyan.

'How can I tell about his ways? No; it is not in the same way. There!
He went in a very different way.'

'How was it different, Nora?'

'Oh, so different. I can't tell you how. Mr Glascock will never come
back again.'

'And Mr Stanbury will?' said the elder sister. Nora made no reply, but
after a while nodded her head. 'And you want him to come back?' She
paused again, and again nodded her head. 'Then you have accepted him?'

'I have not accepted him. I have refused him. I have told him that it
was impossible.'

'And yet you wish him back again!' Nora again nodded her head. 'That is
a state of things I cannot at all understand,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'and
would not believe unless you told me so yourself.'

'And you think me very wrong, of course. I will endeavour to do nothing
wrong, but it is so. I have not said a word of encouragement to Mr
Stanbury; but I love him with all my heart. Ought I to tell you a lie
when you question me? Or is it natural that I should never wish to see
again a person whom I love better than all the world? It seems to me
that a girl can hardly be right if she have any choice of her own. Here
are two men, one rich and the other poor. I shall fall to the ground
between them. I know that. I have fallen to the ground already. I like
the one I can't marry. I don't care a straw for the one who could give
me a grand house. That is falling to the ground. But I don't see that
it is hard to understand, or that I have disgraced myself.'

'I said nothing of disgrace, Nora.'

'But you looked it.'

'I did not intend to look it, dearest.'

He knew he was right.

'And remember this, Emily, I have told you everything because you asked
me. I do not mean to tell anybody else, at all. Mamma would not
understand me. I have not told him, and I shall not.'

'You mean Mr Stanbury?'

'Yes; I mean Mr Stanbury. As to Mr Glascock, of course I shall tell
mamma that. I have no secret there. That is his secret, and I suppose
mamma should know it. But I will have nothing told about the other.
Had I accepted him, or even hinted to him that I cared for him, I would
tell mamma at once.'

After that there came something of a lecture, or something, rather, of
admonition, from Mrs Outhouse. That lady did not attempt to upbraid, or
to find any fault; but observed that as she understood that Mr Stanbury
had no means whatever, and as Nora herself had none, there had better
be no further intercourse between them, till, at any rate, Sir
Marmaduke and Lady Rowley should be in London.'so I told him that he
must not come here any more, my dear,' said Mrs Outhouse.

'You are quite right, aunt. He ought not to come here.'

'I am so glad that you agree with me.'

'I agree with you altogether. I think I was bound to see him when he
asked to see me; but the thing is altogether out of the question. I
don't think he'll come any more, aunt.' Then Mrs Outhouse was quite
satisfied that no harm had been done.

A month had now passed since anything had been heard at St. Diddulph's
from Mr Trevelyan, and it seemed that many months might go on in the
same dull way. When Mrs Trevelyan first found herself in her uncle's
house, a sum of two hundred pounds had been sent to her; and since that
she had received a letter from her husband's lawyer saying that a
similar amount would be sent to her every three months, as long as she
was separated from her husband. A portion of this she had given over to
Mr Outhouse; but this pecuniary assistance by no means comforted that
unfortunate gentleman in his trouble. 'I don't want to get into debt,'
he said, 'by keeping a lot of people whom I haven't the means to feed.
And I don't want to board and lodge my nieces and their family at so
much a head. It's very hard upon me either way.' And so it was. All the
comfort of his home was destroyed, and he was driven to sacrifice his
independence by paying his tradesmen with a portion of Mrs Trevelyan's
money. The more he thought of it all, and the more he discussed the
matter with his wife, the more indignant they became with the truant
husband. 'I can't believe,' he said, 'but what Mr Bideawhile could make
him come back, if he chose to do his duty.'

'But they say that Mr Trevelyan is in Italy, my dear.'

'And if I went to Italy, might I leave you to starve, and take my
income with me?'

'He doesn't leave her quite to starve, my dear.'

'But isn't a man bound to stay with his wife? I never heard of such a
thing never. And I'm sure that there must be something wrong. A man
can't go away and leave his wife to live with her uncle and aunt. It
isn't right.'

'But what can we do?'

Mr Outhouse was forced to acknowledge that nothing could be done. He
was a man to whom the quiescence of his own childless house was the one
pleasure of his existence. And of that he was robbed because this
wicked madman chose to neglect all his duties, and leave his wife
without a house to shelter her.'supposing that she couldn't have come
here, what then?' said Mr Outhouse. 'I did tell him, as plain as words
could speak, that we couldn't receive them.' 'But here they are,' said
Mrs Outhouse, 'and here they must remain till my brother comes to
England.' 'It's the most monstrous thing that I ever heard of in all my
life,' said Mr Outhouse. 'He ought to be locked up that's what he
ought.'

It was hard, and it became harder, when a gentleman, whom Mr Outhouse
certainly did not wish to see, called upon him about the latter end of
September. Mr Outhouse was sitting alone, in the gloomy parlour of his
parsonage for his own study had been given up to other things, since
this great inroad had been made upon his family he was sitting alone on
one Saturday morning, preparing for the duties of the next day, with
various manuscript sermons lying on the table around him, when he was
told that a gentleman had called to see him. Had Mr Outhouse been an
incumbent at the West-end of London, or had his maid been a West-end
servant, in all probability the gentleman's name would have been
demanded; but Mr Outhouse was a man who was not very ready in
foreseeing and preventing misfortunes, and the girl who opened the door
was not trained to discreet usages in such matters. As she announced
the fact that there was a gentleman, she pointed to the door, to show
that the gentleman was there; and before Mr Outhouse had been able to
think whether it would be prudent for him to make some preliminary
inquiry, Colonel Osborne was in the room. Now, as it happened, these
two men had never hitherto met each other, though one was the
brother-in-law of Sir Marmaduke Rowley, and the other had been his very
old friend. 'My name, Mr Outhouse, is Colonel Osborne,' said the
visitor, coming forward, with his hand out. The clergyman, of course,
took his hand, and asked him to be seated. 'We have known each other's
names very long,' continued the Colonel, 'though I do not think we have
ever yet had an opportunity of becoming acquainted.'

'No,' said Mr Outhouse; 'we have never been acquainted, I believe.' He
might have added, that he had no desire whatever to make such
acquaintance; and his manner, over which he himself had no control, did
almost say as much. Indeed, this coming to his house of the suspected
lover of his niece appeared to him to be a heavy addition to his
troubles; for, although he was disposed to take his niece's part
against her husband to any possible length even to the locking up of
the husband as a madman, if it were possible nevertheless he had almost
as great a horror of the Colonel, as though the husband's allegations
as to the lover had been true as gospel. Because Trevelyan had been
wrong altogether, Colonel Osborne was not the less wrong. Because
Trevelyan's suspicions were to Mr Outhouse wicked and groundless, he
did not the less regard the presumed lover to be an iniquitous roaring
lion, going about seeking whom he might devour. Elderly, unmarried men
of fashion generally, and especially colonels, and majors, and members
of parliament, and such like, were to him as black sheep or roaring
lions. They were fruges consumere nati; men who stood on club doorsteps
talking naughtily and doing nothing, wearing sleek clothing, for which
they very often did not pay, and never going to church. It seemed to
him in his ignorance that such men had none of the burdens of this
world upon their shoulders, and that, therefore, they stood in great
peril of the burdens of the next. It was, doubtless, his special duty
to deal with men in such peril but those wicked ones with whom he was
concerned were those whom he could reach. Now, the Colonel Osbornes of
the earth were not to be got at by any clergyman, or, as far as Mr
Outhouse could see, by any means of grace. That story of the rich man
and the camel seemed to him to be specially applicable to such people.
How was such a one as Colonel Osborne to be shewn the way through the
eye of a needle? To Mr Outhouse, his own brother-in-law, Sir Marmaduke,
was almost of the same class for he frequented clubs when in London,
and played whist, and talked of the things of the world such as the
Derby, and the levees, and West-end dinner parties as though they were
all in all to him. He, to be sure, was weighted with so large a family
that there might be hope for him. The eye of the needle could not be
closed against him as a rich man; but he savoured of the West-end, and
was worldly, and consorted with such men as this Colonel Osborne. When
Colonel Osborne introduced himself to Mr Outhouse, it was almost as
though Apollyon had made his way into the parsonage of St. Diddulph's.

'Mr Outhouse,' said the Colonel, 'I have thought it best to come to you
the very moment that I got back to town from Scotland.' Mr Outhouse
bowed, and was bethinking himself slowly what manner of speech he would
adopt. 'I leave town again to-morrow for Dorsetshire. I am going down
to my friends, the Brambers, for partridge shooting.' Mr Outhouse
knitted his thick brows, in further inward condemnation. Partridge
shooting! yes this was September, and partridge shooting would be the
probable care and occupation of such a man at such a time. A man
without a duty in the world! Perhaps, added to this there was a feeling
that, whereas Colonel Osborne could shoot Scotch grouse in August, and
Dorsetshire partridges in September, and go about throughout the whole
year like a roaring lion, he, Mr Outhouse, was forced to remain at St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East, from January to December, with the exception of
one small parson's week spent at Margate, for the benefit of his wife's
health. If there was such a thought, or, rather, such a feeling, who
will say that it was not natural? 'But I could not go through London
without seeing you,' continued the Colonel. 'This is a most frightful
infatuation of Trevelyan!'

'Very frightful, indeed,' said Mr Outhouse.

'And, on my honour as a gentleman, not the slightest cause in the
world.'

'You are old enough to be the lady's father,' said Mr Outhouse,
managing in that to get one blow at the gallant Colonel.

'Just so. God bless my soul!' Mr Outhouse shrunk visibly at this
profane allusion to the Colonel's soul. 'Why, I've known her father
ever so many years. As you say, I might almost be her father myself.'
As far as age went, such certainly might have been the case, for the
Colonel was older than Sir Marmaduke. 'Look here, Mr Outhouse, here is
a letter I got from Emily.'

'From Mrs Trevelyan?'

'Yes, from Mrs Trevelyan; and as well as I can understand, it must have
been sent to me by Trevelyan himself. Did you ever hear of such a
thing? And now I'm told he has gone away, nobody knows where, and has
left her here.'

'He has gone away nobody knows where.'

'Of course, I don't ask to see her.'

'It would be imprudent, Colonel Osborne; and could not be permitted in
this house.'

'I don't ask it. I have known Emily Trevelyan since she was an infant,
and have always loved her. I'm her godfather, for aught I know though
one forgets things of that sort.' Mr Outhouse again knit his eyebrows
and shuddered visibly.'she and I have been fast friends and why not?
But, of course, I can't interfere.'

'If you ask me, Colonel Osborne, I should say that you can do nothing
in the matter except to remain away from her. When Sir Marmaduke is in
England, you can see him, if you please.'

'See him of course, I shall see him. And, by George, Louis Trevelyan
will have to see him, too! I shouldn't like to have to stand up before
Rowley if I had treated a daughter of his in such a fashion. You know
Rowley, of course?'

'Oh, yes; I know him.'

'He's not the sort of man to bear this sort of thing. He'll about tear
Trevelyan in pieces if he gets hold of him. God bless my soul--' the
eyebrows went to work again 'I never heard of such a thing in all my
life! Does he pay anything for them, Mr Outhouse?'

This was dreadful to the poor clergyman. 'That is a subject which we
surely need not discuss,' said he. Then he remembered that such speech
on his part was like to a subterfuge, and he found it necessary to put
himself right. 'I am repaid for the maintenance here of my nieces, and
the little boy, and their attendants. I do not know why the question
should be asked, but such is the fact.'

'Then they are here by agreement between you and him?'

'No, sir; they are not. There is no such agreement. But I do not like
these interrogatives from a stranger as to matters which should be
private.'

'You cannot wonder at my interest, Mr Outhouse.'

'You had better restrain it, sir, till Sir Marmaduke arrives. I shall
then wash my hands of the affair.'

'And she is pretty well Emily, I mean?'

'Mrs Trevelyan's health is good.'

'Pray tell her though I could not might not ask to see her, I came to
inquire after her the first moment that I was in London. Pray tell her
how much I feel for her but she will know that. When Sir Marmaduke is
here, of course, we shall meet. When she is once more under her
father's wing, she need not be restrained by any absurd commands from a
husband who has deserted her. At present, of course, I do not ask to
see her.'

'Of course, you do not, Colonel Osborne.'

'And give my love to Nora dear little Nora! There can be no reason why
she and I should not shake hands.'

'I should prefer that it should not be so in this house,' said the
clergyman, who was now standing in expectation that his unwelcome guest
would go.

'Very well so be it. But you will understand I could not be in London
without coming and asking after them.' Then the Colonel at last took
his leave, and Mr Outhouse was left to his solitude and his sermons.

Mrs Outhouse was very angry when she heard of the visit. 'Men of that
sort,' she said, 'think it a fine thing and talk about it. I believe
the poor girl is as innocent as I am, but he isn't innocent. He likes
it.'

'"It is easier,"' said Mr Outhouse solemnly, '"for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom
of God."'

'I don't know that he is a rich man,' said Mrs Outhouse; 'but he
wouldn't have come here if he had been honest.'

Mrs Trevelyan was told of the visit, and simply said that of course it
was out of the question that she should have seen Colonel Osborne.
Nevertheless she seemed to think it quite natural that he should have
called, and defended him with some energy when her aunt declared that
he had been much to blame. 'He is not bound to obey Mr Trevelyan
because I am,' said Emily.

'He is bound to abstain from evil doing,' said Mrs Outhouse; 'and he
oughtn't to have come. There; let that be enough, my dear. Your uncle
doesn't wish to have it talked about.' Nevertheless it was talked about
between the two sisters. Nora was of opinion that Colonel Osborne had
been wrong, whereas Emily defended him. 'It seems to me to have been
the most natural thing in life,' said she.

Had Colonel Osborne made the visit as Sir Marmaduke's friend, feeling
himself to be an old man, it might have been natural. When a man has
come to regard himself as being, on the score of age, about as fit to
be a young lady's lover as though he were an old woman instead of an
old man which some men will do when they are younger even than was
Colonel Osborne he is justified in throwing behind him as utterly
absurd the suspicions of other people. But Colonel Osborne cannot be
defended altogether on that plea.





CHAPTER XLII - MISS STANBURY AND MR GIBSON BECOME TWO

There came to be a very gloomy fortnight at Miss Stanbury's house in
the Close. For two or three days after Mr Gibson's dismissal at the
hands of Miss Stanbury herself, Brooke Burgess was still in the house,
and his presence saved Dorothy from the full weight of her aunt's
displeasure. There was the necessity of looking after Brooke, and
scolding him, and of praising him to Martha, and of dispraising him,
and of seeing that he had enough to eat, and of watching whether he
smoked in the house, and of quarrelling with him about everything under
the sun, which together so employed Miss Stan bury that she satisfied
herself with glances at Dorothy which were felt to be full of charges
of ingratitude. Dorothy was thankful that it should be so, and bore the
glances with abject submission.

And then there was a great comfort to her in Brooke's friendship. On
the second day after Mr Gibson had gone she found herself talking to
Brooke quite openly upon the subject. 'The fact was, Mr Burgess, that I
didn't really care for him. I know he's very good and all that, and of
course Aunt Stanbury meant it all for the best. And I would have done
it if I could, but I couldn't.' Brooke patted her on the back not in
the flesh but in the spirit and told her that she was quite right. And
he expressed an opinion too that it was not expedient to yield too much
to Aunt Stanbury. 'I would yield to her in anything that was possible
to me,' said Dorothy. 'I won't,' said he; 'and I don't think I should
do any good if I did. I like her, and I like her money. But I don't
like either well enough to sell myself for a price.'

A great part too of the quarrelling which went on from day to day
between Brooke and Miss Stanbury was due to the difference of their
opinions respecting Dorothy and her suitor. 'I believe you put her up
to it,' said Aunt Stanbury.

'I neither put her up nor down, but I think that she was quite right.'

'You've robbed her of a husband, and she'll never have another chance.
After what you've done you ought to take her yourself.'

'I shall be ready tomorrow,' said Brooke.

'How can you tell such a lie?' said Aunt Stanbury.

But after two or three days Brooke was gone to make a journey through
the distant parts of the county, and see the beauties of Devonshire. He
was to be away for a fortnight, and then come back for a day or two
before he returned to London. During that fortnight things did not go
well with poor Dorothy at Exeter.

'I suppose you know your own business best,' her aunt said to her one
morning. Dorothy uttered no word of reply. She felt it to be equally
impossible to suggest either that she did or that she did not know her
own business best, 'There may be reasons which I don't understand,'
exclaimed Aunt Stanbury; 'but I should like to know what it is you
expect.'

'Why should I expect anything, Aunt Stanbury?'

'That's nonsense Everybody expects something. You expect to have your
dinner by-and-by don't you?'

'I suppose I shall,' said Dorothy, to whom it occurred at the moment
that such expectation was justified by the fact that on every day of
her life hitherto some sort of a dinner had come in her way.

'Yes and you think it comes from heaven, I suppose.'

'It comes by God's goodness, and your bounty, Aunt Stanbury.'

'And how will it come when I'm dead? Or how will it come if things
should go in such a way that I can't stay here any longer? You don't
ever think of that.'

'I should go back to mamma, and Priscilla.'

'Psha! As if two mouths were not enough to eat all the meal there is in
that tub. If there was a word to say against the man, I wouldn't ask
you to have him; if he drank or smoked, or wasn't a gentleman, or was
too poor, or anything you like. But there's nothing. It's all very well
to tell me you don't love him, but why don't you love him? I don't like
a girl to go and throw herself at a man's head, as those Frenches have
done; but when everything has been prepared for you and made proper, it
seems to me to be like turning away from good victuals.' Dorothy could
only offer to go home if she had offended her aunt, and then Miss
Stanbury had scolded her for making the offer. As this kind of thing
went on at the house in the Close for a fortnight, during which there
was no going out, and no society at home, Dorothy began to be rather
tired of it.

At the end of the fortnight, on the morning of the day on which Brooke
Burgess was expected back, Dorothy, slowly moving into the sitting room
with her usual melancholy air, found Mr Gibson talking to her aunt.
'There she is herself,' said Miss Stanbury, jumping up briskly; 'and
now you can speak to her. Of course I have no authority none in the
least. But she knows what my wishes are.' And, having so spoken, Miss
Stanbury left the room.

It will be remembered that hitherto no word of affection had been
whispered by Mr Gibson into Dorothy's ears. When he came before to
press his suit she had been made aware of his coming, and had fled,
leaving her answer with her aunt. Mr Gibson had then expressed himself
as somewhat injured in that no opportunity of pouring forth his own
eloquence had been permitted to him. On that occasion Miss Stanbury,
being in a snubbing humour, had snubbed him. She had in truth scolded
him almost as much as she had scolded Dorothy, telling him that he went
about the business in hand as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
'You're stiff as a chair-back,' she had said to him, with a few other
compliments, and these amenities had for a while made him regard the
establishment at Heavitree as being, at any rate, pleasanter than that
in the Close. But since that cool reflection had come. The proposal was
not that he should marry Miss Stanbury, senior, who certainly could be
severe on occasions, but Miss Stanbury, junior, whose temper was as
sweet as primroses in March. That which. he would have to take from
Miss Stanbury, senior, was a certain sum of money, as to which her
promise was as good as any bond in the world. Things had come to such a
pass with him in Exeter from the hints of his friend the Prebend, from
a word or two which had come to him from the Dean, from certain family
arrangements proposed to him by his mother and sisters things had come
to such a pass that he was of a mind that he had better marry some one.
He had, as it were, three strings to his bow. There were the two French
strings, and there was Dorothy. He had not breadth of genius enough to
suggest to himself that yet another woman might be found. There was a
difficulty on the French score even about Miss Stanbury; but it was
clear to him that, failing her, he was due to one of the two Miss
Frenches. Now it was not only that the Miss Frenches were empty-handed,
but he was beginning to think himself that they were not as nice as
they might have been in reference to the arrangement of their
head-gear. Therefore, having given much thought to the matter, and
remembering that he had never yet had play for his own eloquence with
Dorothy, he had come to Miss Stanbury asking that he might have another
chance. It had been borne in upon him that he had perhaps hitherto
regarded Dorothy as too certainly his own, since she had been offered
to him by her aunt as being a prize that required no eloquence in the
winning; and he thought that if he could have an opportunity of
amending that fault, it might even yet be well with his suit. So he
prepared himself, and asked permission, and now found himself alone
with the young lady.

'When last I was in this house, Miss Stanbury,' he began, 'I was not
fortunate enough to be allowed an opportunity of pleading my cause to
yourself.' Then he paused, and Dorothy was left to consider how best
she might answer him. All that her aunt had said to her had not been
thrown away upon her. The calls upon that slender meal-tub at home she
knew were quite sufficient. And Mr Gibson was, she believed, a good
man. And how better could she dispose of herself in life? And what was
she that she should scorn the love of an honest gentleman? She would
take him, she thought if she could. But then there came upon her,
unconsciously, without work of thought, by instinct rather than by
intelligence, a feeling of the closeness of a wife to her husband.
Looking at it in general she could not deny that it would be very
proper that she should become Mrs Gibson. But when there came upon her
a remembrance that she would be called upon for demonstration of her
love that he would embrace her, and hold her to his heart, and kiss her
she revolted and shuddered. She believed that she did not want to marry
any man, and that such a state of things would not be good for her.
'Dear young lady,' continued Mr Gibson, 'you will let me now make up
for the loss which I then experienced?'

'I thought it was better not to give you trouble,' said Dorothy.

'Trouble, Miss Stanbury! How could it be trouble? The labour we delight
in physics pain. But to go back to the subject-matter. I hope you do
not doubt that my affection for you is true, and honest, and genuine.'

'I don't want to doubt anything, Mr Gibson; but--'

'You needn't, dearest Miss Stanbury; indeed you needn't. If you could
read my heart you would see written there true love very plainly very
plainly. And do you not think it a duty that people should marry?' It
may be surmised that he had here forgotten some connecting link which
should have joined without abruptness the declaration of his own love,
and his social view as to the general expediency of matrimony. But
Dorothy did not discover the hiatus.

'Certainly when they like each other, and if their friends think it
proper.'

'Our friends think it proper, Miss Stanbury may I say Dorothy? all of
them. I can assure you that on my side you will he welcomed by a mother
and sisters only too anxious to receive you with open arms. And as
regards your own relations, I need hardly allude to your revered aunt.
As to your own mother and sister and your brother, who, I believe,
gives his mind chiefly to other things I am assured by Miss Stanbury
that no opposition need be feared from them. Is that true, dearest
Dorothy?'

'It is true.'

'Does not all that plead in my behalf? Tell me, Dorothy.'

'Of course it does.'

'And you will be mine?' As far as eloquence could be of service, Mr
Gibson was sufficiently eloquent. To Dorothy his words appeared good,
and true, and affecting. All their friends did wish it. There were many
reasons why it should be done. If talking could have done it, his
talking was good enough. Though his words were in truth cold, and
affected, and learned by rote, they did not offend her; but his face
offended her; and the feeling was strong within her that if she
yielded, it would soon be close to her own. She couldn't do it. She
didn't love him, and she wouldn't do it. Priscilla would not grudge her
her share out of that meagre meal-tub. Had not Priscilla told her not
to marry the man if she did not love him? She found that she was
further than ever from loving him. She would not do it.'say that you
will be mine,' pleaded Mr Gibson, coming to her with both his hands
outstretched.

'Mr Gibson, I can't,' she said. She was sobbing now, and was half
choked by tears.

'And why not, Dorothy?'

'I don't know, but I can't. I don't feel that I want to be married at
all.'

'But it is honourable.'

'It's no use, Mr Gibson; I can't, and you oughtn't to ask me any more.'

'Must this be your very last answer?'

'What's the good of going over it all again and again. I can't do it.'

'Never, Miss Stanbury?'

'No never.'

'That is cruel, very cruel. I fear that you doubt my love.'

'It isn't cruel, Mr Gibson. I have a right to have my own feelings, and
I can't. If you please, I'll go away now.' Then she went, and he was
left standing alone in the room. His first feeling was one of anger.
Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal of wonder and then a
certain amount of doubt. He had during the last fortnight discussed the
matter at great length with a friend, a gentleman who knew the world,
and who took upon himself to say that he specially understood female
nature It was by advice from this friend that he had been instigated to
plead his own cause 'Of course she means to accept you,' the friend had
said. 'Why the mischief shouldn't she? But she has some flimsy,
old-fashioned country idea that it isn't maidenly to give in at first.
You tell her roundly that she must marry you'. Mr Gibson was just
reaching that roundness which his friend had recommended when the lady
left him and he was alone.

Mr Gibson was no doubt very much in love with Dorothy Stanbury. So
much, we may. take for granted. He, at least, believed that he was in
love with her. He would have thought it wicked to propose to her had he
not been in love with her. But with his love was mingled a certain
amount of contempt which had induced him to look upon her as an easy
conquest. He had been perhaps a little ashamed of himself for being in
love with Dorothy, and had almost believed the Frenches when they had
spoken of her as a poor creature, a dependant, one born to be snubbed
as a young woman almost without an identity of her own. When,
therefore, she so pertinaciously refused him, he could not but be
angry. And it was natural that he should be surprised. Though he was to
have received a fortune with Dorothy, the money was not hers. It was to
be hers or rather theirs only if she would accept him. Mr Gibson
thoroughly understood this point. He knew that Dorothy had nothing of
her own. The proposal made to her was as rich as though he had sought
her down at Nuncombe Putney, with his preferment, plus the 2000 pounds,
in his own pocket. And his other advantages were not hidden from his
own eyes. He was a clergyman, well thought of, not bad-looking
certainly, considerably under forty a man, indeed, who ought to have
been, in the eyes of Dorothy, such an Orlando as she would have most
desired. He could not therefore but wonder. And then came the doubt.
Could it be possible that all those refusals were simply the early
pulses of hesitating compliance produced by maidenly reserve? Mr
Gibson's friend had expressed a strong opinion that almost any young
woman would accept any young man if he put his 'com 'ether' upon her
strong enough. For Mr Gibson's friend was an Irishman. As to Dorothy
the friend had not a doubt in the world. Mr Gibson, as he stood alone
in the room after Dorothy's departure, could not share his friend's
certainty; but he thought it just possible that the pulsations of
maidenly reserve were yet at work. As he was revolving these points in
his mind, Miss Stanbury entered the room.

'It's all over now,' she said.

'As how, Miss Stanbury?'

'As how! She's given you an answer; hasn't she?'

'Yes, Miss Stanbury, she has given me an answer. But it has occurred to
me that young ladies are sometimes perhaps a little--'

'She means it, Mr Gibson; you may take my word for that. She is quite
in earnest. She can take the bit between her teeth as well as another,
though she does look so mild and gentle. She's a Stanbury all over.'

'And must this be the last of it, Miss Stanbury?'

'Upon my word, I don't know what else you can do unless you send the
Dean and Chapter to talk er over. She's a pig-headed, foolish young
woman but I can't help that. The truth is, you didn't make enough of
her at first, Mr Gibson. You thought the plum would tumble into your
mouth.'

This did seem cruel to the poor man. From the first day in which the
project had been opened to him by Miss Stanbury, he had yielded a ready
acquiescence in spite of those ties which he had at Heavitree and had
done his very best to fall into her views. 'I don't think that is at
all fair, Miss Stanbury,' he said, with some tone of wrath in his
voice.

'It's true quite true. You always treated her as though she were
something beneath you.' Mr Gibson stood speechless, with his mouth
open.'so you did. I saw it all. And now she's had spirit enough to
resent it. I don't wonder at it; I don't, indeed. It's no good your
standing there any longer. The thing is done.'

Such intolerable ill-usage Mr Gibson had never suffered in his life.
Had he been untrue, or very nearly untrue, to those dear girls at
Heavitree for this? 'I never treated her as anything beneath me,' he
said at last.

'Yes, you did. Do you think that I don't understand? Haven't I eyes in
my head, and ears? I'm not deaf yet, nor blind. But there's an end of
it. If any young woman ever meant anything, she means it. The truth is,
she don't like you.'

Was ever a lover despatched in so uncourteous a way! Then, too, he had
been summoned thither as a lover, had been specially encouraged to come
there as a lover, had been assured of success in a peculiar way, had
had the plum actually offered to him! He had done all that this old
woman had bidden him something, indeed, to the prejudice of his own
heart; he had been told that the wife was ready for him; and now,
because this foolish young woman didn't know her own mind this was Mr
Gibson's view of the matter he was reviled and abused, and told that he
had behaved badly to the lady. 'Miss Stanbury,' he said, 'I think that
you are forgetting yourself.'

'Highty, tighty!' said Miss Stanbury. 'Forgetting myself! I shan't
forget you in a hurry, Mr Gibson.'

'Nor I you, Miss Stanbury. Good morning, Miss Stanbury.' Mr Gibson, as
he went from the hall-door into the street, shook the dust off his
feet, and resolved that for the future he and Miss Stanbury should be
two. There would arise great trouble in Exeter; but, nevertheless, he
and Miss Stanbury must be two. He could justify himself in no other
purpose after such conduct as he had received.



CHAPTER XLIII - LABURNUM COTTAGE

There had been various letters passing, during the last six weeks,
between Priscilla Stanbury and her brother, respecting the Clock House
at Nuncombe Putney. The ladies at Nuncombe had, certainly, gone into
the Clock House on the clear understanding that the expenses of the
establishment were to be incurred on behalf of Mrs Trevelyan. Priscilla
had assented to the movement most doubtingly. She had disliked the idea
of taking the charge of a young married woman who was separated from
her husband, and she had felt that a going down after such an uprising
a fall from the Clock House back to a cottage would be very
disagreeable. She had, however, allowed her brother's arguments to
prevail, and there they were. The annoyance which she had anticipated
from the position of their late guest had fallen upon them: it had been
felt grievously, from the moment in which Colonel Osborne called at the
house; and now that going back to the cottage must be endured.
Priscilla understood that there had been a settlement between Trevelyan
and Stanbury as to the cost of the establishment so far but that must
now be at an end. In their present circumstances, she would not
continue to live there, and had already made inquiries as to some
humble roof for their shelter. For herself she would not have cared had
it been necessary for her to hide herself in a hut for herself, as
regarded any feeling as to her own standing in the village. For
herself, she was ashamed of nothing. But her mother would suffer, and
she knew what Aunt Stanbury would say to Dorothy. To Dorothy at the
present moment, if Dorothy should think of accepting her suitor, the
change might be very deleterious; but still it should be made. She
could not endure to live there on the very hard-earned proceeds of her
brother's pen proceeds which were not only hard-earned, but precarious.
She gave warning to the two servants who had been hired, and consulted
with Mrs Crocket as to a cottage, and was careful to let it be known
throughout Nuncombe Putney that the Clock House was to be abandoned.
The Clock House had been taken furnished for six months, of which half
were not yet over; but there were other expenses of living there much
greater than the rent, and go she would. Her mother sighed and
assented; and Mrs Crocket, having strongly but fruitlessly advised that
the Clock House should be inhabited at any rate for the six months,
promised her assistance. 'It has been a bad business, Mrs Crocket,'
said Priscilla; 'and all we can do now is to get out of it as well as
we can. Every mouthful I eat chokes me while I stay there.' 'It ain't
good, certainly, miss, not to know as you're all straight the first
thing as you wakes in the morning,' said Mrs Crocket who was always
able to feel when she woke that everything was straight with her.

Then there came the correspondence between Priscilla and Hugh.
Priscilla was at first decided, indeed, but mild in the expression of
her decision. To this, and to one or two other missives couched in
terms of increasing decision, Hugh answered with manly, self-asserting,
overbearing arguments. The house was theirs till Christmas; between
this and then he would think about it. He could very well afford to
keep the house on till next Midsummer, and then they might see what had
best be done. There was plenty of money, and Priscilla need not put
herself into a flutter. In answer to that word flutter, Priscilla wrote
as follows:



'Clock House, September 16, 186-

DEAR HUGH,

I know very well how good you are, and how generous, but you must allow
me to have feelings as well as yourself. I will not consent to have
myself regarded as a grand lady out of your earnings. How should I feel
when some day I heard that you had run yourself into debt? Neither
mamma nor I could endure it. Dorothy is provided for now, at any rate
for a time, and what we have is enough for us. You know I am not too
proud to take anything you can spare. us, when we are ourselves placed
in a proper position; but I could not live in this great house, while
you are paying for everything and I will not. Mamma quite agrees with
me, and we shall go out of it on Michaelmas-day. Mrs Crocket says she
thinks she can get you a tenant for the three months, out of Exeter if
not for the whole rent, at least for part of it. I think we have
already got a small place for eight shillings a week, a little out of
the village, on the road to Cockchaffington. You will remember it. Old
Soames used to live there. Our old furniture will be just enough. There
is a mite of a garden, and Mrs Crocket says she thinks we can get it
for seven shillings, or perhaps for six and sixpence, if we stay there.
We shall go in on the 29th. Mrs Crocket will see about having somebody
to take care of the house.

Your most affectionate sister,

PRISCILLA.'



On the receipt of this letter, Hugh proceeded to Nuncombe. At this time
he was making about ten guineas a week, and thought that he saw his way
to further work. No doubt the ten guineas were precarious that is, the
'Daily Record' might discontinue his services tomorrow, if the 'Daily
Record' thought fit to do so. The greater part of his earnings came
from the 'D. R.,' and the editor had only to say that things did not
suit any longer, and there would be an end of it. He was not as a
lawyer or a doctor with many clients who could not all be supposed to
withdraw their custom at once; but leading articles were things wanted
with at least as much regularity as physic or law; and Hugh Stanbury,
believing in himself, did not think it probable that an editor, who
knew what he was about, would withdraw his patronage. He was proud of
his weekly ten guineas, feeling sure that a weekly ten guineas would
not as yet have been his had he stuck to the Bar as a profession. He
had calculated, when Mrs Trevelyan left the Clock House, that two
hundred a year would enable his mother to continue to reside there, the
rent of the place furnished, or half-furnished, being only eighty; and
he thought that he could pay the two hundred easily. He thought so
still, when he received Priscilla's last letter; but he knew something
of the stubbornness of his dear sister, and he, therefore, went down to
Nuncombe Putney, in order that he might use the violence of his logic
on his mother.

He had heard of Mr Gibson from both Priscilla and from Dorothy, and was
certainly desirous that 'dear old Dolly,' as he called her, should be
settled comfortably. But when dear old Dolly wrote to him declaring
that it could not be so, that Mr Gibson was a very nice gentleman, of
whom she could not say that she was particularly fond though I really
do think that he is an excellent man, and if it was any other girl in
the world, I should recommend her to take him,' and that she thought
that she would rather not get married, he wrote to her the kindest
brotherly letter in the world, telling her that she was a 'brick,' and
suggesting to her that there might come some day some one who would
suit her taste better than Mr Gibson. 'I'm not very fond of parsons
myself,' said Hugh, 'but you. must not tell that to Aunt Stanbury.'
Then he suggested that as he was going down to Nuncombe, Dorothy should
get leave of absence and come over and meet him 'at the Clock House.
Dorothy demanded the leave of absence somewhat imperiously, and was at
home at the Clock House when Hugh arrived.

'And so that little affair couldn't come off?' said Hugh at their first
family meeting.

'It was a pity,' said Mrs Stanbury, plaintively. She had been very
plaintive on the subject. What a thing it would have been for her,
could she have seen Dorothy so well established!

'There's no help for spilt milk, mother,' said Hugh. Mrs Stanbury shook
her head.

'Dorothy was quite right,' said Priscilla.

'Of course she was right,' said Hugh. 'Who doubts her being right?
Bless my soul! "What's any girl to do if she don't like a man except to
tell him so?" I honour you, Dolly, not that I ever should have doubted
you. You're too much of a chip of the old block to say you liked a man
when you didn't.'

'He is a very excellent young man,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'An excellent fiddlestick, mother. Loving and liking don't go by
excellence. Besides, I don't know about his being any better than
anybody else, just because he's a clergyman.'

'A clergyman is more likely to be steady than other men,' said the
mother.

'Steady, yes; and as selfish as you please.'

'Your father was a clergyman, Hugh.'

'I don't mean to say that they are not as good as others; but I won't
have it that they are better. They are always dealing with the Bible,
till they think themselves apostles. But when money comes up; or
comfort, or for the matter of that either, a pretty woman with a little
money, then they are as human as the rest of us.'

If the truth had been told on that occasion, Hugh Stanbury would have
had to own that he had written lately two or three rather stinging
articles in the 'Daily Record,' as 'to the assumed merits and actual
demerits of the clergy of the Church of England.' It is astonishing how
fluent a man is on a subject when he has lately delivered himself
respecting it in this fashion.

Nothing on that evening was said about the Clock House, or about
Priscilla's intentions. Priscilla was up early on the next morning,
intending to discuss it in the garden with Hugh before breakfast; but
Hugh was aware of her purpose and avoided her. It was his intention to
speak first to his mother; and though his mother was, as he knew, very
much in awe of her daughter, he thought that he might carry his point,
at any rate for the next three months, by forcing an assent from the
elder lady. So he managed to waylay Mrs Stanbury before she descended
to the parlour.

'We can't afford it, my dear indeed we can't,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'That's not the question, mother. The rent must be paid up to
Christmas, and you can live here as cheap as you can anywhere.'

'But Priscilla--'

'Oh, Priscilla! Of course we know what Priscilla says. Priscilla has
been writing to me about it in the most sensible manner in the world;
but what does it all come to? If you are ashamed of taking assistance
from me, I don't know who is to do anything for anybody. You are
comfortable here?'

'Very comfortable; only Priscilla feels--'

'Priscilla is a tyrant, mother; and a very stern one. Just make up your
mind to stay here till Christmas. If I tell you that I can afford it,
surely that ought to be enough.' Then Dorothy entered the room, and
Hugh appealed to her. Dorothy had come to Nuncombe only on the day
before, and had not been consulted on the subject. She had been told
that the Clock House was to be abandoned, and had been taken down to
inspect the cottage in which old Soames had lived but her opinion had
not been asked. Priscilla had quite made up her mind, and why should
she ask an opinion of any one? But now Dorothy's opinion was demanded.
'It's what I call the rhodomontade of independence,' said Hugh.

'I suppose it is very expensive,' suggested Dorothy.

'The house must be paid for,' said Hugh 'and if I say that I've got the
money, is not that enough? A miserable, dirty little place, where
you'll catch your death of lumbago, mother.'

'Of course it's not a comfortable house;' said Mrs Stanbury who, of
herself, was not at all indifferent to the comforts of her present
residence.

'And it is very dirty,' said Dorothy.

'The nastiest place I ever saw in my life. Come, mother; if I say that
I can afford it, ought not that to be enough for you? If you think you
can't trust me, there's an end of everything, you now.' And Hugh, as he
thus expressed himself, assumed an air of injured virtue.

Mrs Stanbury had very nearly yielded, when Priscilla came in among
them. It was impossible not to continue the conversation, though Hugh
would much have preferred to have forced an assent from his mother
before he opened his mouth on the subject to his sister. 'My mother
agrees with me,' said he abruptly, 'and so does Dolly, that it will be
absurd to move away from this house at present.'

'Mamma!' exclaimed Priscilla.

'I don't think I said that, Hugh,' murmured Dorothy, softly.

'I am sure I don't want anything for myself,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'It's I that want it,' said Hugh. 'And I think that I've a right to
have my wishes respected, so far as that goes.'

'My dear Hugh,' said Priscilla, 'the cottage is already taken, and we
shall certainly go into it. I spoke to Mrs Crocket yesterday about a
cart for moving the things. I'm sure mamma agrees with me. What
possible business can people have to live in such a house as this with
about twenty-four shillings a week for every thing? I won't do it. And
as the thing is settled, it is only making trouble to disturb it.'

'I suppose, Priscilla,' said Hugh, 'you'll do as your mother chooses?'

'Mamma chooses to go. She has told me so already.'

'You have talked her into it.'

'We had better go, Hugh,' said Mrs Stanbury. 'I'm sure we had better
go.'

'Of course we shall go,' said Priscilla. 'Hugh-is very kind and very
generous, but he is only giving trouble for nothing about this. Had we
not better go down to breakfast?'

And so Priscilla carried the day. They went down to breakfast, and
during the meal Hugh would speak to nobody. When the gloomy meal was
over he took his pipe and walked out to the cottage. It was an
untidy-looking, rickety place, small and desolate, with a pretension
about it of the lowest order, a pretension that was evidently ashamed
of itself. There was a porch. And the one sitting-room had what the
late Mr Soames had always called his bow window. But the porch looked
as though it were tumbling down, and the bow window looked as though it
were tumbling out. The parlour and the bedroom over it had been papered
but the paper was torn and soiled, and in sundry places was hanging
loose. There was a miserable little room called a kitchen to the right
as you entered the door, in which the grate was worn out, and behind
this was a shed with a copper. In the garden there remained the stumps
and stalks of Mr Soames's cabbages, and there were weeds in plenty, and
a damp hole among some elder bushes called an arbour. It was named
Laburnum Cottage, from a shrub that grew at the end of the house. Hugh
Stanbury shuddered as he stood smoking among the cabbage-stalks. How
could a man ask such a girl as Nora Rowley to be his wife, whose mother
lived in a place like this? While he was still standing in the garden,
and thinking of Priscilla's obstinacy and his: own ten guineas a week,
and the sort of life which he lived in London where he dined usually at
his club, and denied himself nothing in the way of pipes, beer, and
beef-steaks, he heard a step behind him, and turning round, saw his
elder sister.

'Hugh,' she said, 'you must not be angry with me.'

'But I am angry with you.'

'I know you are; but you are unjust. I am doing what I am sure is
right.'

'I never saw such a beastly hole as this in all my life.'

'I don't think it beastly at all. You'll find that I'll make it nice.
Whatever we want here you shall give us. You are not to think that I am
too proud to take anything at your hands. It is not that.'

'It's very like it.'

'I have never refused anything that is reasonable, but it is quite
unreasonable that we should go on living in such a place as that, as
though we had three or four hundred a year of our own. If mamma got
used to the comfort of it, it would be hard then upon her to move. You
shall give her what you can afford, and what is reasonable; but it is
madness to think of living there. I couldn't do it.'

'You're to have your way at any rate, it seems.'

'But you must not quarrel with me, Hugh. Give me a kiss. I don't have
you often with me; and yet you are the only man in the world that I
ever speak to, or even know. I sometimes half think that the bread is
so hard and the water so bitter, that life will become impossible. I
try to get over it; but if you were to go away from me in anger, I
should be so beaten for a week or two that I could do nothing.'

'Why won't you let me do anything?'

'I will whatever you please. But kiss me.' Then he kissed her, as he
stood among Mr Soames's cabbage-stalks. 'Dear Hugh; you are such a god
to me!'

'You don't treat me like a divinity.'

'But I think of you as one when you are absent. The gods were never
obeyed when they showed themselves. Let us go and have a walk. Come;
shall we get as far as Ridleigh Mill?'

Then they started together, and all unpleasantness was over between
them when they returned to the Clock House.



CHAPTER XLIV - BROOKE BURGESS TAKES LEAVE OF EXETER

The time had arrived at which Brooke Burgess was to leave Exeter. He
had made his tour through the county, and returned to spend his two
last nights at Miss Stanbury's house. When he came back Dorothy was
still at Nuncombe, but she arrived in the Close the day before his
departure. Her mother and sister had wished her to stay at Nuncombe.
'There is a bed for you now, and a place to be comfortable in,'
Priscilla had said, laughing, 'and you may as well see the last of us.'
But Dorothy declared that she had named a day to her aunt, and that she
would not break her engagement. 'I suppose you can stay if you like,'
Priscilla had urged. But Dorothy was of opinion that she ought not to
stay. She said not a word about Brooke Burgess; but it may be that it
would have been matter of regret to her not to shake hands with him
once more. Brooke declared to her that had she not come back he would
have gone over to Nuncombe to see her; but: Dorothy did not consider
herself entitled to believe that.

On the morning of the last day Brooke went over to his uncle's office.
'I've come to say Good-bye, Uncle Barty,' he said.

'Good-bye, my boy. Take care of yourself.'

'I mean to try.'

'You haven't quarrelled with the old woman have you? said Uncle Barty.

'Not yet that is to say, not to the knife.'

'And you still believe that you are to have her money?'

'I believe nothing one way or the other. You may be sure of this I
shall never count it mine till I've got it; and I shall never make
myself so sure of it, as to break my heart because I don't get it. I
suppose I've got as good a right to it as anybody else, and I don't see
why I shouldn't take it if it come in my way.'

'I don't think it ever will,' said the old man, after a pause.

'I shall be none the worse,' said Brooke.

'Yes, you will. You'll be a broken-hearted man. And she means to break
your heart. She does it on purpose. She has no more idea of leaving you
her money than I have. Why should she?'

'Simply because she takes the fancy.'

'Fancy! Believe me, there is very little fancy about it. There isn't
one of the name she wouldn't ruin if she could. She'd break all our
hearts if she could get at them. Look at me and my position. I'm little
more than a clerk in the concern. By God I'm not so well off as a
senior clerk in many a bank. If there came a bad time, I must lose as
the others would lose but a clerk never loses. And my share in the
business is almost a nothing. It's just nothing compared to what it
would have been, only for her.'

Brooke had known that his uncle was a disappointed, or at least a
discontented man; but he had never known much of the old man's
circumstances, and certainly had not expected to hear him speak in the
strain that he had now used. He had heard often that his Uncle Barty
disliked Miss Stanbury, and had not been surprised at former sharp,
biting little words spoken to reference to that lady's character. But
he had not expected such a tirade of abuse as the banker had now poured
out. 'Of course I know nothing about the bank,' said he; 'but I did not
suppose that she had had anything to do with it.'

'Where do: you think the money came from that she has got? Did you ever
hear that she had anything of her own? She never had a penny never a
penny. It came out of this house. It is the capital on which this
business was founded, and on which it ought to be carried on to this
day. My brother had thrown her off; by heavens, yes had thrown her off.
He had found out what she was and had got rid of her.'

'But he left her his money.'

'Yes she got near him when he was dying, and he did leave her his money
his money, and my money, and your father's money.'

'He could have given her nothing, Uncle Barty, that wasn't his own.'

'Of course that's true it's true in one way. You might say the same of
a man who was cozened into leaving every shilling away from his own
children. I wasn't in Exeter when the will was made. We none of us were
here. But she was here; and when we came to see him die, there we found
her. She had had her revenge upon him, and she means to have it on all
of us. I don't believe she'll ever leave you a shilling, Brooke. You'll
find her out yet, and you'll talk of her to your nephews as I do to
you.'

Brooke made some ordinary answer to this, and bade is uncle adieu. He
had allowed himself to entertain a half chivalrous idea that he could
produce a reconciliation between Miss Stanbury and his uncle Barty; and
since he had been at Exeter he had said a word, first to the one and
then to the other, hinting at the subject but his hints had certainly
not been successful. As he walked from the bank into the High Street he
could not fail to ask himself whether there were any grounds for the
terrible accusations which he had just heard from his uncle's lips.
Something of the same kind, though in form much less violent, had been
repeated to him very often by others of the family. Though he had as a
boy known Miss Stanbury well, he had been taught to regard her as an
ogress. All the Burgesses had regarded Miss Stanbury as an ogress since
that unfortunate will had come to light. But she was an ogress from
whom something might be gained and the ogress had still persisted in
saying that a Burgess should be her heir. It had therefore come to pass
that Brooke had been brought up half to revere her and half to abhor
her.'she is a dreadful woman,' said his branch of the family, 'who will
not scruple at anything evil. But as it seems that you may probably
reap the advantage of the evil that she does, it will become you to put
up with her iniquity' As he had become old enough to understand the
nature of her position, he had determined to judge for himself; but his
judgment hitherto simply amounted to this that Miss Stanbury was a very
singular old woman, with a kind heart and good instincts, but so
capricious withal that no sensible man would risk his happiness on
expectations formed on her promises. Guided by this opinion, he had
resolved to be attentive to her and, after a certain fashion,
submissive; but certainly not to become her slave. She had thrown over
her nephew. She was constantly complaining to him of her niece. Now and
again she would say a very bitter word to him about himself. When he
had left Exeter on his little excursion, no one was so much in favour
with her as Mr Gibson. On his return he found that Mr Gibson had been
altogether discarded, and was spoken of in terms of almost insolent
abuse. 'If I were ever so humble to her,' he had said to himself, 'it
would do no good; and there is nothing I hate so much as humility.' He
had thus determined to take the goods the gods provided, should it ever
come to pass that such godlike provision was laid before him out of
Miss Stanbury's coffers but not to alter his mode of life or put
himself out of his way in obedience to her behests, as a man might be
expected to do who was destined to receive so rich a legacy. Upon this
idea he had acted, still believing the old woman to be good, but
believing at the same time that she was very capricious. Now he had
heard what his Uncle Bartholomew Burgess had had to say upon the
matter, and he could not refrain from asking himself whether his
uncle's accusations were true.

In a narrow passage between the High Street and the Close he met Mr
Gibson. There had come to be that sort of intimacy between the two men
which grows from closeness of position rather than from any social
desire on either side, and it was natural that Burgess should say a
word of farewell. On the previous evening Miss Stanbury had relieved
her mind by turning Mr Gibson into ridicule in her description to
Brooke of the manner in which the clergyman had carried on his love
affair; and she had at the same time declared that Mr Gibson had been
most violently impertinent to herself. He knew, therefore, that Miss
Stanbury and Mr Gibson had become two, and would on this occasion have
passed on without a word relative to the old lady had Mr Gibson allowed
him to do so. But Mr Gibson spoke his mind freely.

'Off to-morrow, are you?' he said. 'Good-bye. I hope we may meet again;
but not in the same house, Mr Burgess.'

'There or anywhere I shall be very happy,' said Brooke.

'Not there, certainly. While you were absent Miss Stanbury treated me
in such a way that I shall certainly never put my foot in her house
again.'

'Dear me! I thought that you and she were such great friends.'

'I knew her very well, of course and respected her. She is a good
churchwoman, and is charitable in the city; but she has got such a
tongue in her head that there is no bearing it when she does what she
calls giving you a bit of her mind.'

'She has been indulgent to me, and has not given me much of it.'

'Your time will come, I've no doubt,' continued Mr Gibson. 'Everybody
has always told me that it would be so. Even her oldest friends knew
it. You ask Mrs MacHugh, or Mrs French, at Heavitree.'

'Mrs French!' said Brooke, laughing. 'That would hardly be fair
evidence.'

'Why not? I don't know a better judge of character in all Exeter than
Mrs French. And she and Miss Stanbury have been intimate all their
lives. Ask your uncle at the bank.'

'My uncle and Miss Stanbury never were friends,' said Brooke.

'Ask Hugh Stanbury what he thinks of her. But don't suppose I want to
say a word against her. I wouldn't for the world do such a thing. Only,
as we've met there and all that, I thought it best to let you know that
she had treated me in such a way, and has been altogether so violent,
that I never will go there again.' So saying, Mr Gibson passed on, and
was of opinion that he had spoken with great generosity of the old
woman who had treated him so badly.

In the afternoon Brooke Burgess went over to the further end of the
Close, and called on Mrs MacHugh; and from thence he walked across to
Heavitree, and called on the Frenches. It may be doubted whether he
would have been so well behaved to these ladies had they not been
appealed to by Mr Gibson as witnesses to the character of Miss
Stanbury. He got very little from Mrs MacHugh. That lady was kind and
cordial, and expressed many wishes that she might see him again in
Exeter. When he said a few words about Mr Gibson, Mrs MacHugh only
laughed, and declared that the gentleman would soon find a plaister for
that sore. 'There are more fishes than one in the sea,' she said.

'But I'm afraid they've quarrelled, Mrs MacHugh.'

'So they tell me. What should we have to talk about here if somebody
didn't quarrel sometimes? She and I ought to get up a quarrel for the
good of the public only they know that I never can quarrel with
anybody. I never see anybody interesting enough to quarrel with.' But
Mrs MacHugh said nothing about Miss Stanbury, except that she sent over
a message with reference to a rubber of whist for the next night but
one.

He found the two French girls sitting with their mother, and they all
expressed their great gratitude to him for coming to say good-bye
before he went. 'It is so very nice of you, Mr Burgess,' said Camilla,
'and particularly just at present.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Arabella, 'because you know things have been so
unpleasant.'

'My dears, never mind about that,' said Mrs French. 'Miss Stanbury has
meant everything for the best, and it is all over now.'

'I don't know what you mean by its being all over, mamma,' said
Camilla. 'As far as I can understand, it has never been begun.'

'My dear, the least said the soonest mended,' said Mrs French.

'That's of course, mamma,' said Camilla; 'but yet one can't hold one's
tongue altogether. All the city is talking about it, and I dare say Mr
Burgess has heard as much as anybody else.'

'I've heard nothing at all,' said Brooke.

'Oh yes, you have,' continued Camilla. Arabella conceived herself at
this moment to be situated in so delicate a position, that it was best
that her sister should talk about it, and that she herself should hold
her tongue with the exception, perhaps, of a hint here and there which
might be of assistance; for Arabella completely understood that the
prize was now to be hers, if the prize could be rescued out of the
Stanbury clutches. She was aware no one better aware how her sister had
interfered with her early hopes, and was sure, in her own mind, that
all her disappointment had come from fratricidal rivalry on the part of
Camilla. It had never, however, been open to her to quarrel with
Camilla. There they were, linked together, and together they must fight
their battles. As two pigs may be seen at the same trough, each
striving to take the delicacies of the banquet from the other, and yet
enjoying always the warmth of the same dunghill in amicable contiguity,
so had these young ladies lived in sisterly friendship, while each was
striving to take a husband from the other. They had understood the
position, and, though for years back they had talked about Mr Gibson,
they had never quarrelled; but now, in these latter days of the
Stanbury interference, there had come tacitly to be something of an
understanding between them that, if any fighting were still possible on
the subject, one must be put forward and the other must yield. There
had been no spoken agreement, but Arabella quite understood that she
was to be put forward. It was for her to take up the running, and to
win, if possible, against the Stanbury filly. That was her view, and
she was inclined to give Camilla credit for acting in accordance with
it with honesty and zeal. She felt, therefore, that her words on the
present occasion ought to be few. She sat back in her corner of the
sofa, and was intent on her work, and shewed by the pensiveness of her
brow that there were thoughts within her bosom of which she was not
disposed to speak. 'You must have heard a great deal,' said Carnilla,
laughing. 'You must know how poor Mr Gibson has been abused, because he
wouldn't--'

'Camilla, don't be foolish,' said Mrs French.

'Because he wouldn't what?' asked Brooke. 'What ought he to have done
that he didn't do?'

'I don't know anything about ought,' said Camilla. 'That's a matter of
taste altogether.'

'I'm the worst hand in the world at a riddle,' said Brooke.

'How sly you are,' continued Camilla, laughing; 'as if dear Aunt
Stanbury hadn't confided all her hopes to you.'

'Camilla, dear don't,' said Arabella.

'But when a gentleman is hunted, and can't be caught, I don't think he
ought to be abused to his face.'

'But who hunted him, and who abused him?' asked Brooke.

'Mind, I don't mean to say a word against Miss Stanbury, Mr Burgess.
We've known her and loved her all our lives haven't we, mamma?'

'And respected her,' said Arabella.

'Quite so,' continued Camilla. 'But you know, Mr Burgess, that she
likes her own way.'

'I don't know anybody that does not,' said Brooke.

'And when she's disappointed, she shows it. There's no doubt she is
disappointed now, Mr Burgess.'



'What's the good of going on, Camilla?' said Mrs French. Arabella sat
silent in her corner, with a conscious glow of satisfaction, as she
reflected that the joint disappointment of the elder and the younger
Miss Stanbury had been caused by a tender remembrance of her own
charms. Had not dear Mr Gibson told her, in the glowing language of
truth, that there was nothing further from his thoughts than the idea
of taking Dorothy Stanbury for his wife?

'Well, you know,' continued Camilla, 'I think that when a person makes
an attempt, and comes by the worst of it, that person should put up
with the defeat, and not say all manner of ill-natured things.
Everybody knows that a certain gentleman is very intimate in this
house.'

Don't, dear,' said Arabella, in a whisper.

'Yes, I shall,' said Camilla. 'I don't know why people should hold
their tongues, when other people talk so loudly. I don't care a bit
what anybody says about the gentleman and us. We have known him for
ever so many years, and mamma is very fond of him.'

'Indeed I am, Camilla,' said Mrs French.

'And for the matter of that, so am I very,' said Camilla, laughing
bravely. 'I don't care who knows it.'

'Don't be so silly, child,' said Arabella. Camilla was certainly doing
her best, and Arabella was grateful.

'We don't care what people may say,' continued Camilla again. 'Of
course we heard, as everybody else heard too, that a certain gentleman
was to be married to a certain lady. It was nothing to us whether he
was married or not.'

'Nothing at all,' said Arabella.

'We never spoke ill of the young lady. We did not interfere. If the
gentleman liked the young lady, he was quite at liberty to marry her,
as far as we were concerned. We had been in the habit of seeing him
here, almost as a brother, and perhaps we might feel that a connection
with that particular young lady would take him from us; but we never
hinted so much even as that to him or to anyone else. Why should we? It
was nothing to us. Now it turns Out that the gentleman never meant
anything of the kind, whereupon he is pretty nearly kicked out of the
house, and all manner of ill-natured things are said about us
everywhere.' By this time Camilla had become quite excited, and was
speaking with much animation.

'How can you be so foolish, Camilla?' said Arabella.

'Perhaps I am foolish,' said Camilla, 'to care what anybody says.'

'What can it all be to Mr Burgess?' said Mrs French.

'Only this, that as we all like Mr Burgess, and as he is almost one of
the family in the Close, I think he ought to know why we are not quite
so cordial as we used to be. Now that the matter is over I have no
doubt things will get right again. And as for the young lady, I'm sure
we feel for her. We think it was the aunt who was indiscreet.'



'And then she has such a tongue,' said Arabella.

Our friend Brooke, of course, knew the whole truth knew the nature of
Mr Gibson's failure, and knew also how Dorothy had acted in the affair.
He was inclined, moreover, to believe that the ladies who were now
talking to him were as well instructed on the subject as was he
himself. He had heard, too, of the ambition of the two young ladies now
before him, and believed that that ambition was not yet dead. But he
did not think it incumbent on him to fight a battle even on behalf of
Dorothy. He might have declared that Dorothy, at least, had not been
disappointed, but he thought it better to be silent about Dorothy.
'Yes,' he said, 'Miss Stanbury has a tongue; but I think it speaks as
much good as it does evil, and perhaps that is a great deal to say for
any lady's tongue.'

'We never speak evil of anybody,' said Camilla; 'never. It is a rule
with us.' Then Brooke took his leave, and the three ladies were cordial
and almost affectionate in their farewell greetings.

Brooke was to start on the following morning before anybody would be up
except Martha, and Miss Stanbury was very melancholy during the
evening. 'We shall miss him very much; shall we not?' she said,
appealing to Dorothy. 'I am sure you will miss him very much,' said
Dorothy. 'We are so stupid here alone,' said Miss Stanbury. 'When they
had drank their tea, she sat nearly silent for half an hour, and then
summoned him up into her own room.'so you are going, Brooke?' she said.

'Yes; I must go now. They would dismiss me if I stayed an hour longer.'

'It was good of you to come to the old woman; and you must let me hear
of you from time to time.'

'Of course I'll write.'

'And, Brooke--'

'What is it, Aunt Stanbury?'

'Do you want any money, Brooke?'

'No none, thank you. I've plenty for a bachelor.'

'When you think of marrying, Brooke, mind you tell me.'

'I'll be sure to tell you but I can't promise yet when that will be.'
She said nothing more to him, though she paused once more as though she
were going to speak. She kissed him and bade him good-bye, saying that
she would not go down-stairs again that evening. He was to tell Dorothy
to go to bed. And so they parted.

But Dorothy did not go to bed for an hour after that. When Brooke came
down into the parlour with his message she intended to go at once, and
put up her work, and lit her candle, and put out her hand to him, and
said good-bye to him. But, for all that, she remained there for an hour
with him. At first she said very little, but by degrees her tongue was
loosened, and she found herself talking with a freedom which she could
hardly herself understand. She told him how thoroughly she believed her
aunt to be a good woman how sure she was that her aunt was at any rate
honest. 'As for me,' said Dorothy, 'I know that I have displeased her
about Mr Gibson and I would go away, only that I think she would be so
desolate.' Then Brooke begged her never to allow the idea of leaving
Miss Stanbury to enter her head. Because Miss Stanbury was capricious,
he said, not on that account should her caprices either be indulged or
permitted. That was his doctrine respecting Miss Stanbury, and he
declared that, as regarded himself, he would never be either
disrespectful to her or submissive. 'It is a great mistake,' he said,
'to think that anybody is either an angel or a devil.' When Dorothy
expressed an opinion that with some people angelic tendencies were
predominant, and with others diabolic tendencies, he assented; but
declared that it was not always easy to tell the one tendency from the
other. At last, when Dorothy had made about five attempts to go, Mr
Gibson's name was mentioned. 'I am very glad that you are not going to
be Mrs Gibson,' said he.

'I don't know why you should be glad.'

'Because I should not have liked your husband not as your husband.'

'He is an excellent man, I'm sure,' said Dorothy.

'Nevertheless I am very glad. But I did not think you would accept him,
and I congratulate you on your escape. You would have been nothing to
me as Mrs Gibson.'

'Shouldn't I?' said Dorothy, not knowing what else to say.

'But now I think we shall always be friends.'

'I'm sure I hope so, Mr Burgess. But indeed I must go now. It is ever
so late, and you will hardly get any sleep. Good night.' Then he took
her hand, and pressed it very warmly, and referring to a promise before
made to her, he assured her that he would certainly make acquaintance
with her brother as soon as he was back in London. Dorothy, as she went
up to bed, was more than ever satisfied with herself, in that she had
not yielded in reference to Mr Gibson.



CHAPTER XLV - TREVELYAN AT VENICE

Trevelyan passed on moodily and alone from Turin to Venice, always
expecting letters from Bozzle, and receiving from time to time the
dispatches which that functionary forwarded to him, as must be
acknowledged, with great punctuality. For Mr Bozzle did his work, not
only with a conscience, but with a will. He was now, as he had declared
more than once, altogether devoted to Mr Trevelyan's interest; and as
he was an active, enterprising man, always on the alert to be doing
something, and as he loved the work of writing dispatches, Trevelyan
received a great many letters from Bozzle. It is not exaggeration to
say that every letter made him for the time a very wretched man. This
ex-policeman wrote of the wife of his bosom of her who had been the
wife of his bosom, and who was the mother of his child, who was at this
very time the only woman whom he loved with an entire absence of
delicacy. Bozzle would have thought reticence on his part to he
dishonest. We remember Othello's demand of Iago. That was the demand
which Bozzle understood that Trevelyan had made of him, and he was
minded to obey that order. But Trevelvan, though he had in truth given
the order, was like Othello also in this that he would have preferred
before all the prizes of the world to have had proof brought home to
him exactly opposite to that which he demanded. But there was nothing
so terrible to him as the grinding suspicion that he was to be kept in
the dark. Bozzle could find out facts. Therefore he gave, in effect,
the same order that Othello gave and Bozzle went to work determined to
obey it. There came many dispatches to Venice, and at last there came
one, which created a correspondence which shall be given here at
length. The first is a letter from Mr Bozzle to his employer:



'55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough,

September 29, 186-, 4.30 p.m.

HOND. SIR,

Since I wrote yesterday morning, something has occurred which, it may
be, and I think it will, will help to bring this melancholy affair to a
satisfactory termination and conclusion. I had better explain, Mr
Trewilyan, how I have been at work from the beginning about watching
the Colonel. I couldn't do nothing with the porter at the Albany, which
he is always mostly muzzled with beer, and he wouldn't have taken my
money, not on the square. So, when it was tellegrammed to me as the
Colonel was on the move in the North, I put on two boys as knows the
Colonel, at eighteenpence a day, at each end, one Piccadilly end, and
the other Saville Row end, and yesterday morning, as quick as ever
could be, after the Limited Express Edinburgh Male Up was in, there
comes the Saville Row End Boy here to say as the Colonel was lodged
safe in his downey. Then I was off immediate myself to St. Diddulph's,
because I knows what it is to trust to inferiors when matters gets
delicate. Now, there hadn't been no letters from the Colonel, nor none
to him as I could make out, though that mightn't be so sure. She might
have had 'em addressed to A. Z., or the like of that, at any of the
Post-offices as was distant, as nobody could give the notice to 'em
all. Barring the money, which I know ain't an object when the end is so
desirable, it don't do to be too ubiketous, because things will go
astray. But I've kept my eye uncommon open, and I don't think there
have been no letters since that last which was sent, Mr Trewilyan, let
any of 'em, parsons or what not, say what they will. And I don't see as
parsons are better than other folk when they has to do with a lady as
likes her fancy-man.'

Trevelyan, when he had read as far as this, threw down the letter and
tore his hair in despair. 'My wife,' he exclaimed, 'Oh, my wife!' But
it was essential that he should read Bozzle's letter, and he
persevered.

'Well; I took to the ground myself as soon as ever I heard that the
Colonel was among us, and I hung out at the Full Moon. They had been
quite on the square with me at the Full Moon, which I mention, because,
of course, it has to be remembered, and it do come up as a hitem. And
I'm proud, Mr Trewilyan, as I did take to the ground myself; for what
should happen but I see the Colonel as large as life ringing at the
parson's bell at 1.47 p.m. He was let in at 1.49, and he was let out at
2.17. He went away in a cab which it was kept, and I followed him till
he was put down at the Arcade, and I left him having his 'ed washed and
greased at Trufitt's rooms, half-way up. It was a wonder to me when I
see this, Mr Trewilyan, as he didn't have his 'ed done first, as they
most of 'em does when they're going to see their ladies; but I couldn't
make nothing of that, though I did try to put too and too together, as
I always does.

What he did at the parson's, Mr Trewilyan, I won't say I saw, and I
won't say I know. It's my opinion the young woman there isn't on the
square, though she's been remembered too, and is a hitem of course.
And, Mr Trewilyan, it do go against the grain with me when they're
remembered and ain't on the square. I doesn't expect too much of Human
Nature, which is poor, as the saying goes; but when they're remembered
and ain't on the square after that, it's too bad for Human Nature. It's
more than poor. It's what I calls beggarly.

He ain't been there since, Mr Trewilyan, and he goes out of town
to-morrow by the 1.15 p.m. express to Bridport. So he lets on; but of
course I shall see to that. That he's been at St. Diddulph's, in the
house from 1.47 to 2.17, you may take as a fact. There won't be no
shaking of that, because I have it in my mem. book, and no Counsel can
get the better of it. Of course he went there to see her, and it's my
belief he did. The young woman as was remembered says he didn't, but
she isn't on the square. They never is when a lady wants to see her
gentleman, though they comes round afterwards, and tells up everything
when it comes before his ordinary lordship.

If you ask me, Mr Trewilyan, I don't think it's ripe yet for the court,
but we'll have it ripe before long. I'll keep a look-out, because it's
just possible she may leave town. If she do, I'll be down upon them
together, and no mistake.

Yours most respectful,

S. BOZZLE.'



Every word in the letter had been a dagger to Trevelyan, and yet he
felt himself to be under an obligation to the man who had written it.
No one else would or could make facts known to him. If she were
innocent, let him know that she were innocent, and he would proclaim
her innocence, and believe in her innocence and sacrifice himself to
her innocence, if such sacrifice were necessary. But if she were
guilty, let him also know that. He knew how bad it was, all that
bribing of postmen and maidservants, who took his money, and her money
also, very likely. It was dirt, all of it. But who had put him into the
dirt? His wife had, at least, deceived him had deceived him and
disobeyed him, and it was necessary that he should know the facts. Life
without a Bozzle would now have been to him a perfect blank.

The Colonel had been to the parsonage at St. Diddulph's, and had been
admitted! As to that he had no doubt. Nor did he really doubt that his
wife had seen the visitor. He had sent his wife first into a remote
village on Dartmoor, and there she had been visited by her lover! How
was he to use any other word? Iago oh, Iago! The pity of it, Iago!
Then, when she had learned that this was discovered, she had left the
retreat in which he had placed her without permission from him and had
taken herself to the house of a relative of hers. Here she was visited
again by her lover! Oh, Iago; the pity of it, Iago! And then there had
been between them an almost constant correspondence. So much he had
ascertained as fact; but he did not for a moment believe that Bozzle
had learned all the facts. There might be correspondence, or even
visits, of which Bozzle could learn nothing. How could Bozzle know
where Mrs Trevelyan was during all those hours which Colonel Osborne
passed in London? That which he knew, he knew absolutely, and on that
he could act; but there was, of course, much of which he knew nothing.
Gradually the truth would unveil itself, and then he would act. He
would tear that Colonel into fragments, and throw his wife from him
with all the ignominy which the law made possible to him.

But in the meantime he wrote a letter to Mr Outhouse. Colonel Osborne,
after all that had been said, had been admitted at the parsonage, and
Trevelyan was determined to let the clergyman know what he thought
about it. The oftener he turned the matter in his mind, as he walked
slowly up and down the piazza of St. Mark, the more absurd it appeared
to him to doubt that his wife had seen the man. Of course she had seen
him. He walked there nearly the whole night, thinking of it, and as he
dragged himself off at last to his inn, had almost come to have but one
desire namely, that he should find her out, that the evidence should be
conclusive, that it should be proved, and so brought to an end. Then he
would destroy her, and destroy that man and afterwards destroy himself,
so bitter to him would be his ignominy. He almost revelled in the idea
of the tragedy he would make. It was three o'clock before he was in his
bedroom, and then he wrote his letter to Mr Outhouse before he took
himself to his bed. It was as follows:



'Venice, Oct. 4, 186-.

Sir

Information of a certain kind, on which I can place a firm reliance,
has reached me, to the effect that Colonel Osborne has been allowed to
visit at your house during the sojourn of my wife under your roof. I
will thank you to inform me whether this be true; as, although I am
confident of my facts, it is necessary, in reference to my ulterior
conduct, that I should have from you either an admission or a denial of
my assertion. It is of course open to you to leave my letter
unanswered. Should you think proper to do so, I shall know also how to
deal with that fact.

As to your conduct in admitting Colonel Osborne into your house while
my wife is there after all that has passed, and all that you know that
has passed I am quite unable to speak with anything like moderation of
feeling. Had the man succeeded in forcing himself into your residence,
you should have been the first to give me notice of it. As it is, I
have been driven to ascertain the fact from other sources. I think that
you have betrayed the trust that a husband has placed in you, and that
you will find from the public voice that you will be regarded as having
disgraced yourself as a clergyman.

In reference to my wife herself, I would wish her to know, that after
what has now taken place, I shall not feel myself justified in leaving
our child longer in her hands, even tender as are his years. I shall
take steps for having him removed. What further I shall do to vindicate
myself, and extricate myself as far as may be possible from the slough
of despond in which I have been submerged, she and you will learn in
due time.

Your obedient servant,

L. TREVELYAN.

A letter addressed "poste restante, Venice," will reach me here.'



If Trevelyan was mad when he wrote this letter, Mr Outhouse was very
nearly as mad when he read it. He had most strongly desired to have
nothing to do with his wife's niece when she was separated from her
husband. He was a man honest, charitable, and sufficiently
affectionate; but he was timid, and disposed to think ill of those
whose modes of life were strange to him. Actuated by these feelings, he
would have declined to offer the hospitality of his roof to Mrs
Trevelyan, had any choice been left to him. But there had been no
choice. She had come thither unasked, with her boy and baggage, and he
could not send her away. His wife had told him that it was his duty to
protect these women till their father came, and he recognised the truth
of what his wife said. There they were, and there they must remain
throughout the winter. It was hard upon him especially as the
difficulties and embarrassments as to money were so disagreeable to him
but there was no help for it. His duty must be done though it were ever
so painful. Then that horrid Colonel had come. And now had come this
letter, in which he was not only accused of being an accomplice between
his married niece and her lover, but was also assured that he should be
held up to public ignominy and disgrace. Though he had often declared
that Trevelyan was mad, he would not remember that now. Such a letter
as he had received should have been treated by him as the production of
a madman. But he was not sane enough himself to see the matter in that
light. He gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist, and was almost
beside himself as he read the letter a second time.

There had been a method in Trevelyan's madness; for, though he had
declared to himself that without doubt Bozzle had been right in saying
that as the Colonel had been at the parsonage, therefore, as a
certainty, Mrs Trevelyan had met the Colonel there, yet he had not so
stated in his letter. He had merely asserted that Colonel Osborne had
been at the house, and had founded his accusation upon that alleged
fact. The alleged fact had been in truth a fact. So far Bozzle had been
right. The Colonel had been at the parsonage; and the reader knows how
far Mr Outhouse had been to blame for his share in the matter! He
rushed off to his wife with the letter, declaring at first that Mrs
Trevelyan, Nora, and the child, and the servant, should be sent out of
the house at once. But at last Mrs Outhouse succeeded in showing him
that he would not be justified in ill-using them because Trevelyan had
ill-used him. 'But I will write to him,' said Mr Outhouse. 'He shall
know what I think about it.' And he did write his letter that day, in
spite of his wife's entreaties that he would allow the sun to set upon
his wrath. And his letter was as follows:



'St. Diddulph's, October 8, 186-.

'Sir,

I have received your letter of the 4th, which is more iniquitous,
unjust, and ungrateful, than anything I ever before saw written. I have
been surprised from the first at your gross cruelty to your unoffending
wife; but even that seems to me more intelligible than your conduct in
writing such words as those which you have dared to send to me.

For your wife's sake, knowing that she is in a great degree still in
your power, I will condescend to tell you what has happened. When Mrs
Trevelyan found herself constrained to leave Nuncombe Putney by your
aspersions on her character, she came here, to the protection of her
nearest relatives within reach, till her father and mother should be in
England. Sorely against my will I received them into my home, because
they had been deprived of other shelter by the cruelty or madness of
him who should have been their guardian. Here they are, and here they
shall remain till Sir Marmaduke Rowley arrives. The other day, on the
29th of September, Colonel Osborne, who is their father's old friend,
called, not on them, but on me. I may truly say that I did not wish to
see Colonel Osborne. They did not see him, nor did he ask to see them.
If his coming was a fault and I think it was a fault they were not
implicated in it. He came, remained a few. minutes, and went without
seeing any one but myself. That is the history of Colonel Osborne's
visit to my house.

I have not thought fit to show your letter to your wife, or to make her
acquainted with this further proof of your want of reason. As to the
threats which you hold out of removing her child from her, you can of
course do nothing except by law. I do not think that even you will be
sufficiently audacious to take any steps of that description. Whatever
protection the law may give her and her child from your tyranny and
misconduct cannot be obtained till her father shall be here.

I have only further to request that you will not address any further
communication to me. Should you do so, it will be refused.

Yours, in deep indignation,

OLIPHANT OUTHOUSE.'



Trevelyan had also written two other letters to England, one to Mr
Bideawhile, and the other to Bozzle. In the former he acquainted the
lawyer that he had discovered that his wife still maintained her
intercourse with Colonel Osborne, and that he must therefore remove his
child from her custody. He then inquired what steps would be necessary
to enable him to obtain possession of his little boy. In the letter to
Bozzle he sent a cheque, and his thanks for the ex-policeman's watchful
care. He desired Bozzle to continue his precautions, and explained his
intentions about his son. Being somewhat afraid that Mr Bideawhile
might not be zealous on his behalf, and not himself understanding
accurately the extent of his power with regard to his own child, or the
means whereby he might exercise it, he was anxious to obtain assistance
from Bozzle also on this point, he had no doubt that Bozzle knew all
about it. He had great confidence in Bozzle. But still he did not like
to consult the ex policeman. He knew that it became him to have some
regard for his own dignity. He therefore put the matter very astutely
to Bozzle asking no questions, but alluding to his difficulty in a way
that would enable Bozzle to offer advice.

And where was he to get a woman to take charge of his child? If Lady
Milborough would do it, how great would be the comfort! But he was
almost sure that Lady Milborough would not do it. All his friends had
turned against him, and Lady Milborough among the number. There was
nobody left to him, but Bozzle. Could he entrust Bozzle to find some
woman for him who would take adequate charge of the little fellow, till
he himself could see to the child's education? He did not put this
question to Bozzle in plain terms; but he was very astute, and wrote in
such a fashion that Bozzle could make a proposal, if any proposal were
within his power.

The answer from Mr Outhouse came first. To this Mr Trevelyan paid very
little attention. It was just what he expected. Of course, Mr
Outhouse's assurance about Colonel Osborne went for nothing. A man who
would permit intercourse in his house between a married lady and her
lover, would not scruple to deny that he had Permitted it. Then came Mr
Bideawhile's answer, which was very short. Mr Bideawhile said that
nothing could be done about the child till Mr Trevelyan should return
to England and that he could give no opinion as to what should be done
then till he knew more of the circumstances. It was quite clear to
Trevelyan that he must employ some other lawyer. Mr Bideawhile had
probably been corrupted by Colonel Osborne. Could Bozzle recommend a
lawyer?

From Bozzle himself there came no other immediate reply than, 'his
duty, and that he would make further inquiries.'



CHAPTER XLVI - THE AMERICAN MINISTER

In the second week in October, Mr Glascock returned to Florence,
intending to remain there till the weather should have become bearable
at Naples. His father was said to be better, but was in such a
condition as hardly to receive much comfort from his son's presence.
His mind was gone, and he knew no one but his nurse; and, though Mr
Glascock was unwilling to put himself altogether out of the reach of
returning at a day's notice, he did not find himself obliged to remain
in Naples during the heat of the autumn. So Mr Glascock returned to the
hotel at Florence, accompanied by the tall man who wore the buttons.
The hotel-keeper did not allow such a light to remain long hidden under
a bushel, and it was soon spread far and wide that the Honourable
Charles Glascock and his suite were again in the beautiful city.

And the fact was soon known to the American Minister and his family. Mr
Spalding was a man who at home had been very hostile to English
interests. Many American gentlemen are known for such hostility. They
make anti-English speeches about the country, as though they thought
that war with England would produce certain triumph to the States,
certain increase to American trade, and certain downfall to a tyranny
which no Anglo-Saxon nation ought to endure. But such is hardly their
real opinion. There, in the States, as also here in England, you shall
from day to day hear men propounding, in very loud language, advanced
theories of political action, the assertion of which is supposed to be
necessary to the end which they have in view. Men whom we know to have
been as mild as sucking doves in the political aspiration of their
whole lives, suddenly jump up, and with infuriated gestures declare
themselves the enemies of everything existing. When they have obtained
their little purpose or have failed to do so they revert naturally into
their sucking-dove elements. It is so with Americans as frequently as
with ourselves and there is no political subject on which it is
considered more expedient to express pseudo-enthusiasm than on that of
the sins of England. It is understood that we do not resent it. It is
presumed that we regard it as the Irishman regarded his wife's cuffs.
In the States a large party, which consists chiefly of those who have
lately left English rule, amid who are keen to prove to themselves how
wise they have been in doing so, is pleased by this strong language
against England; and, therefore, the strong language is spoken. But the
speakers, who are, probably, men knowing something of the world, mean
it not at all; they have no more idea of war with England than they
have of war with all Europe; and their respect for England and for
English opinion is unbounded. In their political tones of speech and
modes of action they strive to be as English as possible. Mr Spalding's
aspirations were of this nature. He had uttered speeches against
England which would make the hair stand on end on the head of an
uninitiated English reader. He had told his countrymen that Englishmen
hugged their chains, and would do so until American hammers had knocked
those chains from off their wounded wrists and bleeding ankles. He had
declared that, if certain American claims were not satisfied, there was
nothing left for Americans to do but to cross the ferry with such a
sheriff's officer as would be able to make distraint on the great
English household. He had declared that the sheriff's officer would
have very little trouble. He had spoken of Canada as an outlying
American territory, not yet quite sufficiently redeemed from savage
life to be received into the Union as a State. There is a multiplicity
of subjects of this kind ready to the hand of the American orator. Mr
Spalding had been quite successful, and was now Minister at Florence;
but, perhaps, one of the greatest Pleasures coming to him from his
prosperity was the enjoyment of the society of well-bred Englishmen, in
the capital to which he had been sent. When, therefore, his wife and
nieces pointed out to him the fact that it was manifestly his duty to
call upon Mr Glascock after what had passed between them on that night
under the Campanile, he did not rebel for an instant against the order
given to him. His mind never reverted for a moment to that opinion
which had gained for him such a round of applause, when expressed on
the platform of the Temperance Hall at Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois,
to the effect that the English aristocrat, thorough-born and thorough-
bred, who inherited acres and title from his father, could never be
fitting company for a thoughtful Christian American citizen. He at once
had his hat brushed, and took up his best gloves and umbrella, and went
off to Mr Glascock's hotel. He was strictly enjoined by the ladies to
fix a day on which Mr Glascock would come and dine at the American
embassy.

'"C. G." has come back to see you,' said Olivia to her elder sister.
They had always called him 'C. G.' since the initials had been seen on
the travelling bag.

'Probably,' said Carry. 'There is so very little else to bring people
to Florence, that there can hardly be any other reason for his coming.
They do say it's terribly hot at Naples just now; but that can have had
nothing to do with it.'

'We shall see,' said Livy. 'I'm sure he's in love with you. He looked
to me just like a proper sort of lover for you, when I saw his long
legs creeping up over our heads into the banquette.'

'You ought to have been very much obliged to his long legs so sick as
you were at the time.'

'I like him amazingly,' said Livy, 'legs and all. I only hope Uncle
Jonas won't bore him, so as to prevent his coming.'

'His father is very ill,' said Carry, 'and I don't suppose we shall see
him at all.'

But the American Minister was successful. He found Mr Glascock sitting
in his dressing-gown, smoking a cigar, and reading a newspaper. The
English aristocrat seemed very glad to see his visitor, and assumed no
airs at all. The American altogether forgot his speech at Nubbly Creek,
and found the aristocrat's society to be very pleasant. He lit a cigar,
and they talked about Naples, Rome, and Florence. Mr Spalding, when the
marbles of old Rome were mentioned, was a little too keen in insisting
on the merits of Story, Miss Hosmer, and Hiram Powers, and hardly
carried his listener with him in the parallel which he drew between
Greenough and Phidias; and he was somewhat repressed by the apathetic
curtness of Mr Glascock's reply, when he suggested that the victory
gained by the gunboats at Vicksburg, on the Mississippi, was vividly
brought to his mind by an account which he had just been reading of the
battle of Actium; but he succeeded in inducing Mr Glascock to accept an
invitation to dinner for the next day but one, and the two gentlemen
parted on the most amicable terms.

Everybody meets everybody in Florence every day. Carry and Livy
Spalding had met Mr Glascock twice before the dinner at their uncle's
house, so that they met at dinner quite as intimate friends. Mrs
Spalding had very large rooms, up three flights of stairs, on the
Lungarno. The height of her abode was attributed by Mrs Spalding to her
dread of mosquitoes. She had not yet learned that people in Florence
require no excuse for being asked to walk up three flights of stairs.
The rooms, when they were reached, were very lofty, floored with what
seemed to be marble, and were of a nature almost to warrant Mrs
Spalding in feeling that nature had made her more akin to an Italian
countess than to a matron of Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois, where Mr
Spalding had found her and made her his own. There was one other
Englishman present, Mr Harris Hyde Granville Gore, from the Foreign
Office, now serving temporarily at the English Legation in Florence;
and an American, Mr Jackson Unthank, a man of wealth and taste, who was
resolved on having such a collection of pictures at his house in
Baltimore that no English private collection should in any way come
near to it; and a Tuscan, from the Italian Foreign Office, to whom
nobody could speak except Mr Harris Hyde Granville Gore who did not
indeed seem to enjoy the efforts of conversation which were expected of
him. The Italian, who had a handle to his name he was a Count
Buonarosci took Mrs Spalding into dinner. Mrs Spalding had been at
great trouble to ascertain whether this was proper, or whether she
should not entrust herself to Mr Glascock. There were different points
to be considered in the matter. She did not quite know whether she was
in Italy or in America. She had glimmerings on the subject of her
privilege to carry her own nationality into her own drawing-room. And
then she was called upon to deal between an Italian Count with an elder
brother, and an English Honourable, who had no such encumbrance. Which
of the two was possessed of the higher rank? 'I've found it all out,
Aunt Mary,' said Livy. 'You must take the Count.' For Livy wanted to
give her sister every chance. 'How have you found it out?' said the
aunt. 'You may be sure it is so,' said Livy.

And the lady in her doubt yielded the point. Mrs Spalding, as she
walked along the passage on the Count's arm, determined that she would
learn Italian. She would have given all Nubbly Creek to have been able
to speak a word to Count Buonarosci. To do her justice, it must be
admitted that she had studied a few words. But her courage failed her,
and she could not speak them. She was very careful, however, that Mr H.
H. G. Gore was placed in the chair next to the Count.

'We are very glad to see you here,' said Mr Spalding, addressing
himself especially to Mr Glascock, as he stood up at his own seat at
the round table. 'In leaving my own country, sir, there is nothing that
I value more than the privilege of becoming acquainted with those whose
historic names and existing positions are of such inestimable value to
the world at large.' In saying this, Mr Spalding was not in the least
insincere, nor did his conscience at all prick him in reference to that
speech at Nubbly Creek. On both occasions he half thought as he spoke
or thought that he thought so. Unless it be on subjects especially
endeared to us the thoughts of but few of us go much beyond this.

Mr Glascock, who sat between Mrs Spalding and her niece, was soon asked
by the elder lady whether he had been in the States. No; he had not
been in the States. 'Then you must come, Mr Glascock,' said Mrs
Spalding, 'though I will not say, dwelling as we now are in the
metropolis of the world of art, that we in our own homes have as much
of the outer beauty of form to charm the stranger as is to be found in
other lands. Yet I think that the busy lives of men, and the varied
institutions of a free country, must always have an interest peculiarly
their own.' Mr Glascock declared that he quite agreed with her, and
expressed a hope that he might some day find himself in New York.

'You wouldn't like it at all,' said Carry; 'because you are an
aristocrat. I don't mean that it would be your fault.'

'Why should that prevent my liking it even if I were an aristocrat?'

'One half of the people would run after you, and the other half would
run away from you,' said Carry.

'Then I'd take to the people who ran after me, and would not regard the
others.'

'That's all very well but you wouldn't like it. And then you would
become unfair to what you saw. When some of our speechifying people
talked to you about our institutions through their noses, you would
think that the institutions themselves must be bad. And we have nothing
to show except our institutions.'

'What are American institutions? asked Mr Glascock.

'Everything is an institution. Having iced water to drink in every room
of the house is an institution. Having hospitals in every town is an
institution. Travelling altogether in one class of railway cars is an
institution. Saying sir, is an institution. Teaching all the children
mathematics is an institution. Plenty of food is an institution.
Getting drunk is an institution in a great many towns. Lecturing is an
institution. There are plenty of them, and some are very good but you
wouldn't like it.'

'At any rate, I'll go and see,' said Mr Glascock.

'If you do, I hope we may be at home,' said Miss Spalding.

Mr Spalding, in the mean time, with the assistance of his countryman,
the man of taste, was endeavouring to explain a certain point in
American politics to the count. As, in doing this, they called upon Mr
Gore to translate every speech they made into Italian, and as Mr Gore
had never offered his services as an interpreter, and as the Italian
did not quite catch the subtle meanings of the Americans in Mr Gore's
Tuscan version, and did not in the least wish to understand the things
that were explained to him, Mr Gore and the Italian began to think that
the two Americans were bores. 'The truth is, Mr Spalding,' said Mr
Gore, 'I've got such a cold in my head, that I don't think I can
explain it any more.' Then Livy Spalding laughed aloud, and the two
American gentlemen began to eat their dinner. 'It sounds ridiculous,
don't it?' said Mr Gore, in a whisper.

'I ought not to have laughed, I know,' said Livy.

'The very best thing you could have done. I shan't be troubled any more
now. The fact is, I know just nine words of Italian. Now there is a
difficulty in having to explain the whole theory of American politics
to an Italian, who doesn't want to know anything about it, with so very
small a repertory of words at one's command.'

'How well you did it!'

'Too well. I felt that. So well that, unless I had stopped it, I
shouldn't have been able to say a word to you all through dinner. Your
laughter clenched it, and Buonarosci and I will be grateful to you for
ever.'

After the ladies went there was rather a bad half hour for Mr Glascock.
He was button-holed by the minister, and found it oppressive before he
was enabled to escape into the drawing-room. 'Mr Glascock,' said the
minister, 'an English gentleman, sir, like you, who has the privilege
of an hereditary seat in your parliament Mr Glascock was not quite sure
whether he were being accused of having an hereditary seat in the House
of Commons but he would not stop to correct any possible error on that
point 'and who has been born to all the gifts of fortune, rank, and
social eminence, should never think that his education is complete till
he has visited our great cities in the west.' Mr Glascock hinted that
he by no means conceived his education to be complete; but the minister
went on without attending to this. 'Till you have seen, sir, what men
can do who are placed upon the earth with all God's gifts of free
intelligence, free air, and a free soil, but without any of those other
good things which we are accustomed to call the gifts of fortune, you
can never become aware of the infinite ingenuity of man.' There had
been much said before, but just at this moment Mr Gore and the American
left the room, and the Italian followed them briskly. Mr Glascock at
once made a decided attempt to bolt; but the minister was on the alert,
and was too quick for him. And he was by no means ashamed of what he
was doing. He had got his guest by the coat, and openly declared his
intention of holding him. 'Let me keep you for a few minutes, sir,'
said he, 'while I dilate on this point in one direction. In the
drawing-room female spells are too potent for us male orators. In going
among us, Mr Glascock, you must not look for luxury or refinement, for
you will find them not. Nor must you hope to encounter the highest
order of erudition. The lofty summits of acquired knowledge tower in
your country with an altitude we have not reached yet.' 'It's very good
of you to say so,' said Mr Glascock. 'No, sir. In our new country and
in our new cities we still lack the luxurious perfection of fastidious
civilisation. But, sir, regard our level. That's what I say to every
unprejudiced Britisher that comes among us; look at our level. And when
you have looked at our level, I think that you will confess that we
live on the highest table-land that the world has yet afforded to
mankind. You follow my meaning, Mr Glascock?' Mr Glascock was not sure
that he did, but the minister went on to make that meaning clear. 'It
is the multitude that with us is educated. Go into their houses, sir,
and see how they thumb their books. Look at the domestic correspondence
of our helps and servants, and see how they write and spell. We haven't
got the mountains, sir, but our table-lands are the highest on which
the bright sun of our Almighty God has as yet shone with its
illuminating splendour in this improving world of ours! It is because
we are a young people, sir with nothing as yet near to us of the
decrepitude of age. The weakness of age, sir, is the penalty paid by
the folly of youth. We are not so wise, sir, but what we too shall
suffer from its effects as years roll over our heads.' There was a
great deal more, but at last Mr Glascock did escape into the
drawing-room.

'My uncle has been saying a few worlds to you perhaps,' said Carry
Spalding.

'Yes; he has,' said Mr Glascock.

'He usually does,' said Carry Spalding.



CHAPTER XLVII - ABOUT FISHING, AND NAVIGATION, AND HEAD-DRESSES

The feud between Miss Stanbury and Mr Gibson raged violently in Exeter,
and produced many complications which were very difficult indeed of
management. Each belligerent party felt that a special injury had been
inflicted upon it. Mr Gibson was quite sure that he had been grossly
misused by Miss Stanbury the elder, and strongly suspected that Miss
Stanbury the younger had had a hand in this misconduct. It had been
positively asserted to him at least so he thought, but in this was
probably in error that the lady would accept him if he proposed to her.
All Exeter had been made aware of the intended compact. He, indeed, had
denied its existence to Miss French, comforting himself, as best he
might, with the reflection that all is fair in love and war; but when
he counted over his injuries he did not think of this denial. All
Exeter, so to say, had known of it. And yet, when he had come with his
proposal, he had been refused without a moment's consideration, first
by the aunt, and then by the niece and, after that, had been violently
abused, and at last turned out of the house! Surely, no gentleman had
ever before been subjected to ill-usage so violent! But Miss Stanbury
the elder was quite as assured hat the injury had been done to her. As
to the matter of the compact itself, she knew very well that she had
been as true as steel. She had done everything in her power to bring
about the marriage. She had been generous in her offers of money. She
had used all her powers of persuasion on Dorothy, and she had given
every opportunity to Mr Gibson. It was not her fault if he had not been
able to avail himself of the good things which she had put in his way.
He had first been, as she thought, ignorant and arrogant, fancying that
the good things ought to be made his own without any trouble on his
part and then awkward, not knowing how to take the trouble when trouble
was necessary. And as to that matter of abusive language and turning
out of the house, Miss Stanbury was quite convinced that she was sinned
against, and not herself the sinner. She declared to Martha, more than
once, that Mr Gibson had used such language to her that, coming out of
a clergyman's mouth, it had quite dismayed her. Martha, who knew her
mistress, probably felt that Mr Gibson had at least received as good as
he gave; but she had made no attempt to set her mistress right on that
point.

But the cause of Miss Stanbury's sharpest anger was not to be found in
Mr Gibson's conduct either before Dorothy's refusal of his offer, or on
the occasion of his being turned out of the house. A base rumour was
spread about the city that Dorothy Stanbury had been offered to Mr
Gibson, that Mr Gibson had civilly declined the offer and that hence
had arisen the wrath of the Juno of the Close. Now this was not to be
endured by Miss Stanbury. She had felt even in the moment of her
original anger against Mr Gibson that she was bound in honour not to
tell the story against him. She had brought him into the little
difficulty, and she at least would hold her tongue. She was quite sure
that Dorothy would never boast of her triumph. And Martha had been
strictly cautioned as indeed, also, had Brooke Burgess. The man had
behaved like an idiot, Miss Stanbury said; but he had been brought into
a little dilemma, and nothing should be said about it from the house in
the Close. But when the other rumour reached Miss Stanbury's ears, when
Mrs Crumbie condoled with her on her niece's misfortune, when Mrs
MacHugh asked whether Mr Gibson had not behaved rather badly to the
young lady, then our Juno's celestial mind was filled with a divine
anger. But even then she did not declare the truth. She asked a
question of Mrs Crumbie, and was enabled, as she thought, to trace the
falsehood to the Frenches. She did not think that Mr Gibson could on a
sudden have become so base a liar. 'Mr Gibson fast and loose with my
niece?' she said to Mrs MacHugh. 'You have not got the story quite
right, my dear friend. Pray, believe me there has been nothing of that
sort.' 'I dare say not,' said Mrs MacHugh, 'and I'm sure I don't care.
Mr Gibson has been going to marry one of the French girls for the last
ten years, and I think he ought to make up his mind and do it at last.'

'I can assure you he is quite welcome as far as Dorothy is concerned,'
said Miss Stanbury.

Without a doubt the opinion did prevail throughout Exeter that Mr
Gibson, who had been regarded time out of mind as the property of the
Miss Frenches, had been angled for by the ladies in the Close, that he
had nearly been caught, but that he had slipped the hook out of his
mouth, and was now about to subside quietly into the net which had been
originally prepared for him. Arabella French had not spoken loudly on
the subject, but Camilla had declared in more than one house that she
had most direct authority for stating that the gentleman had never
dreamed of offering to the young lady. 'Why he should not do so if he
pleases, I don't know,' said Camilla. 'Only the fact is that he has not
pleased. The rumour of course has reached him, and, as we happen to be
very old friends we have authority for denying it altogether.' All this
came round to Miss Stanbury, and she was divine in her wrath.

'If they drive me to it,' she said to Dorothy, 'I'll have the whole
truth told by the bellman through the city, or I'll publish it in the
County Gazette.'

'Pray don't say a word about it, Aunt Stanbury.'

'It is those odious girls. He's there now every day.'

'Why shouldn't he go there, Aunt Stanbury?'

'If he's fool enough, let him go. I don't care where he goes. But I do
care about these lies. They wouldn't dare to say it only they think my
mouth is closed. They've no honour themselves, but they screen
themselves behind mine.'

'I'm sure they won't find themselves mistaken in what they trust to,'
said Dorothy, with a spirit that her aunt had not expected from her.
Miss Stanbury at this time had told nobody that the offer to her niece
had been made and repeated and finally rejected but she found it very
difficult to hold her tongue.

In the meantime Mr Gibson spent a good deal of his time at Heavitree.
It should not perhaps be asserted broadly that he had made up his mind
that marriage would be good for him; but he had made up his mind, at
least, to this, that it was no longer to be postponed without a balance
of disadvantage. The Charybdis in the Close drove him helpless into the
whirlpool of the Heavitree Scylla. He had no longer an escape from the
perils of the latter shore. He had been so mauled by the opposite
waves, that he had neither spirit nor skill left to him to keep in the
middle track. He was almost daily at Heavitree, and did not attempt to
conceal from himself the approach of his doom.

But still there were two of them. He knew that he must become a prey,
but was there any choice left to him as to which siren should have him?
He had been quite aware in his more gallant days, before he had been
knocked about on that Charybdis rock, that he might sip, and taste, and
choose between the sweets. He had come to think lately that the younger
young lady was the sweeter. Eight years ago indeed the passages between
him and the elder had been tender; but Camilla had then been simply a
romping girl, hardly more than a year or two beyond her teens. Now,
with her matured charms, Camilla was certainly the more engaging, as
far as outward form went. Arabella's cheeks were thin and long, and her
front teeth had come to show themselves. Her eyes were no doubt still
bright, and what she had of hair was soft and dark. But it was very
thin in front, and what there was of supplemental mass behind the
bandbox by which Miss Stanbury was so much aggrieved was worn with an
indifference to the lines of beauty, which Mr Gibson himself found to
be very depressing. A man with a fair burden on his back is not a
grievous sight; but when we see a small human being attached to a bale
of goods which he can hardly manage to move, we feel that the poor
fellow has been cruelly over-weighted. Mr Gibson certainly had that
sensation about Arabella's chignon. And as he regarded it in a nearer
and a dearer light as a chignon that might possibly become his own, as
a burden which in one sense he might himself be called upon to bear, as
a domestic utensil of which he himself might be called upon to inspect,
and, perhaps, to aid the shifting on and the shifting off, he did begin
to think that that side of the Scylla gulf ought to be avoided if
possible. And probably this propensity on his part, this feeling that
he would like to reconsider the matter dispassionately before he gave
himself up for good to his old love, may have been increased by
Camilla's apparent withdrawal of her claims. He felt mildly grateful to
the Heavitree household in general for accepting him in this time of
his affliction, but he could not admit to himself that they had a right
to decide upon him in private conclave, and allot him either to the one
or to the other nuptials without consultation with himself. To be
swallowed up by Scylla he now recognised as his doom; but he thought he
ought to be asked on which side of the gulf he would prefer to go down.
The way in which Camilla spoke of him as a thing that wasn't hers, but
another's; and the way in which Arabella looked at him, as though he
were hers and could never be another's, wounded his manly pride. He had
always understood that he might have his choice, and he could not
understand that the little mishap which had befallen him in the Close
was to rob him of that privilege.

He used to drink tea at Heavitree in those days. On one evening on
going in he found himself alone with Arabella. 'Oh, Mr Gibson,' she
said, 'we weren't sure whether you'd come. And mamma and Camilla have
gone out to Mrs Camadge's.' Mr Gibson muttered some word to the effect
that he hoped he had kept nobody at home; and, as he did so, he
remembered that he had distinctly said that he would come on this
evening. 'I don't know that I should have gone,' sad Arabella, 'because
I am not quite not quite myself at present. No, not ill; not at all.
Don't you know what it is, Mr Gibson, to be to be to be not quite
yourself?' Mr Gibson said that he had very often felt like that. 'And
one can't get over it can one?' continued Arabella. 'There comes a
presentiment that something is going to happen, and a kind of belief
that something has happened, though you don't know what; and the heart
refuses to be light, and the spirit becomes abashed, and the mind,
though it creates new thoughts, will not settle itself to its
accustomed work. I suppose it's what the novels have called
Melancholy.'

'I suppose it is,' said Mr Gibson. 'But there's generally some cause
for it. Debt for instance.'

'It's nothing of that kind with me. Its no debt, at least, that can be
written down in the figures of ordinary arithmetic. Sit down, Mr
Gibson, and we will have some tea.' Then, as she stretched forward to
ring the bell, he thought that he never in his life had seen anything
so unshapely as that huge wen at the back of her head. 'Monstrum
horrendum, informe, ingens!' He could not help quoting the words to
himself. She was dressed with some attempt at being smart, but her
ribbons were soiled, and her lace was tawdry, and the fabric of her
dress was old and dowdy. He was quite sure that he would feel no pride
in calling her Mrs Gibson, no pleasure in having her all to himself at
his own hearth. 'I hope we shall escape the bitterness of Miss
Stanbury's tongue if we drink tea tete-a-tete,' she said, with her
sweetest smile.

'I don't suppose she'll know anything about it.'

'She knows about everything, Mr Gibson. It's astonishing what she
knows. She has eyes and ears everywhere. I shouldn't care, if she
didn't see and hear so very incorrectly. I'm told now that she declares
but it doesn't signify.'

'Declares what?' asked Mr Gibson.

'Never mind. But wasn't it odd how all Exeter believed that you were
going to be married in that house, and to live there all the rest of
your life, and be one of Miss Stanbury's slaves. I never believed it,
Mr Gibson.' This she said with a sad smile, that ought to have brought
him on his knees, in spite of the chignon.

'One can't help these things,' said Mr Gibson.

'I never could have believed it not even if you had not given me an
assurance so solemn, and so sweet, that there was nothing in it.' The
poor man had given the assurance, and could not deny the solemnity and
the sweetness. 'That was a happy moment for us, Mr Gibson; because,
though we never believed it, when it was dinned into our ears so
frequently, when it was made such a triumph in the Close, it was
impossible not to fear that there might be something in it.' He felt
that he ought to make some reply, but he did not know what to say. He
was thoroughly ashamed of the lie he had told, but he could not untell
it. 'Camilla reproached me afterwards for asking you,' whispered
Arabella, in her softest, tenderest voice.'she said that it was
unmaidenly. I hope you did not think it unmaidenly, Mr Gibson?'

'Oh dear no not at all,' said he.

'Oh dear no not at all,' said

Arabella French was painfully alive to the fact that she must do
something. She had her fish on the hook; but of what use is a fish on
your hook, if you cannot land him? When could she have a better
opportunity than this of landing the scaly darling out of the fresh and
free waters of his bachelor stream, and sousing him into the pool of
domestic life, to be ready there for her own household purposes? 'I had
known you so long, Mr Gibson,' she said, 'and had valued your
friendship so so deeply.' As he looked at her, he could see nothing but
the shapeless excrescence to which his eyes had been so painfully
called by Miss Stanbury's satire. It is true that he had formerly been
very tender with her, but she had not then carried about with her that
distorted monster. He did not believe himself to be at all bound by
anything which had passed between them in circumstances so very
different. But yet he ought to say something. He ought to have said
something; but he said nothing. She was patient, however, very patient;
and she went on playing him with her hook. 'I am so glad that I did not
go out to-night with mamma. It has been such a pleasure to me to have
this conversation with you. Camilla, perhaps, would say that I am
unmaidenly.'

'I don't think so.'

'That is all that I care for, Mr Gibson. If you acquit me, I do not
mind who accuses. I should not like to suppose that you thought me
unmaidenly. Anything would be better than that; but I can throw all
such considerations to the wind when true true friendship is concerned.
Don't you think that one ought, Mr Gibson?'

If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he would have
done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain. It grew
bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, and abominable,
as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him the necessity of
assisting to carry such an abortion through the world. 'One ought to
sacrifice everything to friendship,' said Mr Gibson, 'except
self-respect.'

He meant nothing personal. Something special, in the way of an opinion,
was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven to say something
special. But she was in tears in a moment. 'Oh, Mr Gibson,' she
exclaimed; 'oh, Mr Gibson!'

'What is the matter, Miss French?'

'Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean?'

'Certainly not, Miss French.'

'Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me.
Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me Bella.' That was
quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr Gibson, before the monster
had been attached. 'Will you not call me Bella now?'

He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it? On
a sudden he became very crafty. Had it not been for the sharpness of
his mother-wit, he would certainly have been landed at that moment. 'As
you truly observed just now,' he said, 'the tongues of people are so
malignant. There are little birds that hear everything.'

'I don't care what the little birds hear,' said Miss French, through
her tears. 'I am a very unhappy girl I know that; and I don't care what
anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know what I
feel.' At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. The fish
was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could not land
him. Her hopes before this had been very low hopes that had once been
high; but they had been depressed gradually; and, in the slow, dull
routine of her daily life, she had learned to bear disappointment by
degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without consciousness of
acute pain. The task of her life had been weary, and the wished-for
goal was ever becoming more and more distant; but there had been still
a chance, and she had fallen away into a lethargy of lessening
expectation, from which joy, indeed, had been banished, but in which
there had been nothing of agony. Then had come upon the whole house at
Heavitree the great Stanbury peril, and, arising out of that, had
sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her again capable of all the
miseries of a foiled ambition. She could again be patient, if patience
might be of any service; but in such a condition an eternity of
patience is simply suicidal. She was willing to work hard, but how
could she work harder than she had worked. Poor young woman perishing
beneath an incubus which a false idea of fashion had imposed on her!

'I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy,' pleaded Mr Gibson.
'I'm sure I haven't meant it.'

'But you have,' she said. 'You make me very unhappy. You condemn me. I
see you do. And if I have done wrong it had been all because Oh dear,
oh dear, oh dear!'

'But who says you have done wrong?'

'You won't call me Bella because you say the little birds will hear it.
If I don't care for the little birds, why should you?'

There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman to
answer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a lady
with that courageous simplicity which had come upon Miss French in this
moment of her agonising struggle; but nevertheless it is one which, in
a more complicated form, is often put, and to which some reply, more or
less complicated, is expected. 'If I, a woman, can dare, for your sake,
to encounter the public tongue, will you, a man, be afraid?' The true
answer, if it could be given, would probably be this; 'I am afraid,
though a man, because I have much to lose and little to get. You are
not afraid, though a woman, because you have much to get and little to
lose.' But such an answer would be uncivil, and is not often given.
Therefore men shuffle and lie, and tell themselves that in love love
here being taken to mean all antenuptial contests between man and woman
everything is fair. Mr Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though
he did not frame it into words. He was neither sufficiently brave nor
sufficiently cruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing
for him, therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie.

'I only meant,' said he, 'that I would not for worlds do anything to
make you uneasy.'

She did not see how she could again revert to the subject of her own
Christian name. She had made her little tender, loving request, and it
had been refused. Of course she knew that it had been refused as a
matter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution,
as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over which she had
to climb were no more than she had expected to find in her way but they
were so very high and so very difficult! Of course she was aware that
he would escape if he could. She was not angry with him on that
account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed, she did not price
herself highly enough to make her feel that she would be justified in
being angry. It was natural enough that he shouldn't want her. She knew
herself to be a poor, thin, vapid, tawdry creature, with nothing to
recommend her to any man except a sort of second-rate, provincial-town
fashion which infatuated as she was she attributed in a great degree to
the thing she carried on her head. She knew nothing. She could do
nothing. She possessed nothing. She was not angry with him because he
so evidently wished to avoid her. But she thought that if she could
only be successful she would be good and loving and obedient and that
it was fair for her at any rate to try. Each created animal must live
and get its food by the gifts which the Creator has given to it, let
those gifts be as poor, as they may let them be even as distasteful as
they may to other members of the great created family The rat, the
toad, the slug, the flea, must each live according to its appointed
mode of existence. Animals which are parasites by nature can only live
by attaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella Mr Gibson
would be strong enough, and it seemed to her that it she could fix
herself permanently upon his strength, that would be her proper mode of
living. She was not angry with him because he resisted the attempt, but
she had nothing of conscience to tell her that she should spare him as
long as there remained to her a chance of success. And should not her
plea of excuse, her justification be admitted? There are tormentors as
to which no man argues that they are iniquitous, though they be very
troublesome. He either rids himself of them, or suffers as quiescently
as he may.

'We used to be such great friends, she said, still crying, 'and I am
afraid you don't like me a bit now.'

'Indeed, I do I have always liked you. But--'

'But what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that you
bid me.'

Then it occurred to him that if, after such a promise, he were to
confide to her his feeling that the chignon which she wore was ugly and
unbecoming, she would probably be induced to change her mode of
head-dress. It was a foolish idea, because, had he followed it out, he
would have seen that compliance on her part in such a matter could only
be given with the distinct understanding that a certain reward should
be the consequence. When an unmarried gentleman calls upon an unmarried
lady to change the fashion of her personal adornments, the unmarried
lady has a right to expect that the unmarried gentleman means to make
her his wife. But Mr Gibson had no such meaning; and was led into error
by the necessity for sudden action. When she offered to do anything
that he might bid her do, he could not take up his hat and go away he
looked up into his face, expecting that he would give her some order
and he fell into the temptation that was spread for him.

'If I might say a word,' he began.

'You may say anything,' she exclaimed.

'If I were you I don't think--'

'You don't think what, Mr Gibson?'

He found it to be a matter very difficult of approach. 'Do you know, I
don't think the fashion that has come up about wearing your hair quite
suits you not so well as the way you used to do it.' She became on a
sudden very red in the face, and he thought that she was angry. Vexed
she was, but still, accompanying her vexation, there was a remembrance
that she was achieving victory even by her own humiliation. She loved
her chignon; but she was ready to abandon even that for him.
Nevertheless she could not speak for a moment or two, and he was forced
to continue his criticism. 'I have no doubt those things are very
becoming and all that, and I dare say they are comfortable.'

'Oh, very,' she said.

'But there was a simplicity that I liked about the other.'

Could it be then that for the last five years he had stood aloof from
her because she had arrayed herself in fashionable attire? She was
still very red in the face, still suffering from wounded vanity, still
conscious of that soreness which affects us all when we are made to
understand that we are considered to have failed there, where we have
most thought that we excelled. But her woman art enabled her quickly to
conceal the pain. 'I have made a promise,' she said, 'and you will find
that I will keep it.'

'What promise?' asked Mr Gibson.

'I said that I would do as you bade me, and so I will. I would have
done it sooner if I had known that you wished it. I would never have
worn it at all if I had thought that you disliked it.'

'I think that a little of them is very nice,' said Mr Gibson. Mr Gibson
was certainly an awkward man. But there are men so awkward that it
seems to be their especial province to say always the very worst thing
at the very worst moment.

She became redder than ever as she was thus told of the hugeness of her
favourite ornament. She was almost angry now. But she restrained
herself, thinking perhaps of how she might teach him taste in days to
come as he was teaching her now. 'I will change it tomorrow,' she said
with a smile. 'You come and see to-morrow.'

Upon this he got up and took his hat and made his escape, assuring her
that he would come and see her on the morrow. She let him go now
without any attempt at further tenderness. Certainly she had gained
much during the interview. He had as good a told her in what had been
her offence, and of course, when she had remedied that offence, he
could hardly refuse to return to her. She got up as soon as she was
alone, and looked at her head in the glass, and told herself that the
pity would be great. It was not that the chignon was in itself a thing
of beauty, but that it imparted so unmistakable an air of fashion! It
divested her of that dowdiness which she feared above all things, and
enabled her to hold her own among other young women, without feeling
that she was absolutely destitute of attraction. There had been a
certain homage paid to it, which she had recognised and enjoyed. But it
was her ambition to hold her own, not among young women, but among
clergymen's wives, and she would certainly obey his orders. She could
not make the attempt now because of the complications; but she
certainly would make it before she laid her head on the pillow--and
would explain to Camilla that it was a little joke between herself and
Mr Gibson.



CHAPTER XLVIII - MR GIBSON IS PUNISHED

Miss Stanbury was divine in her wrath, and became more and more so
daily as new testimony reached her of dishonesty on the part of the
Frenches and of treachery on the part of Mr Gibson. And these people,
so empty, so vain, so weak, were getting the better of her, were
conquering her, were robbing her of her prestige and her ancient glory,
imply because she herself was too generous to speak out and tell the
truth! There was a martyrdom to her in this which was almost
unendurable.

Now there came to her one day at luncheon time on the day succeeding
that on which Miss French had promised to sacrifice her chignon a
certain Mrs Clifford from Budleigh Salterton, to whom she was much
attached. Perhaps the distance of Budleigh Salterton from Exeter added
somewhat to this affection, so that Mrs Clifford was almost closer to
our friend's heart even than Mrs MacHugh, who lived just at the other
end of the cathedral. And in truth Mrs Clifford was a woman more
serious in her mode of thought than Mrs MacHugh, and one who had more
in common with Miss Stanbury than that other lady. Mrs Clifford had
been a Miss Noel of Doddiscombe Leigh, and she and Miss Stanbury had
been engaged to be married at the same time each to a man of fortune.
One match had been completed in the ordinary course of matches. What
had been the course of the other we already know. But the friendship
had been maintained on very close terms. Mrs MacHugh was a Gallio at
heart, anxious chiefly to remove from herself and from her friends also
all the troubles of life, and make things smooth and easy. She was one
who disregarded great questions; who cared little or nothing what
people said of her; who considered nothing worth the trouble of a fight
Epicuri de grege porca. But there was nothing swinish about Mrs
Clifford of Budleigh Salterton. She took life thoroughly in earnest.
She was a Tory who sorrowed heartily for her country, believing that it
was being brought to ruin by the counsels of evil men. She prayed daily
to be delivered from dissenters, radicals, and wolves in sheep's
clothing by which latter bad name she meant especially a certain
leading politician of the day who had, with the cunning of the devil,
tempted and perverted the virtue of her own political friends. And she
was one who thought that the slightest breath of scandal on a young
woman's name should be stopped at once. An antique, pure-minded,
anxious, self-sacrificing matron was Mrs Clifford, and very dear to the
heart of Miss Stanbury.

After lunch was over on the day in question Mrs Clifford got Miss
Stanbury into some closet retirement, and there spoke her mind as to
the things which were being said. It had been asserted in her presence
by Camilla French that she, Camilla, was authorised by Mr Gibson to
declare that he had never thought of proposing to Dorothy Stanbury, and
that Miss Stanbury had been 'labouring under some strange
misapprehension in the matter.' 'Now, my dear, I don't care very much
for the young lady in question,' said Mrs Clifford, alluding to Camilla
French.

'Very little, indeed, I should think,' said Miss Stanbury, with a shake
of her head.

'Quite true, my dear but that does not make the words out of her mouth
the less efficacious for evil. She clearly insinuated that you had
endeavoured to make up a match between this gentleman and your niece,
and that you had failed.' So much was at least true. Miss Stanbury felt
this, and felt also that she could not explain the truth, even to her
dear old friend. In the midst of her divine wrath she had acknowledged
to herself that she had brought Mr Gibson into his difficulty, and that
it would not become her to tell any one of his failure. And in this
matter she did not herself accuse Mr Gibson. She believed that the lie
originated with Camilla French, and it was against Camilla that her
wrath raged the fiercest.

'She is a poor, mean, disappointed thing,' said Miss Stanbury.

'Very probably but I think I should ask her to hold her tongue about
Miss Dorothy,' said Mrs Clifford.

The consultation in the closet was carried on for about half-an-hour,
and then Miss Stanbury put on her bonnet and shawl and descended into
Mrs Clifford's carriage. The carriage took the Heavitree road, and
deposited Miss Stanbury at the door of Mrs French's house. The walk
home from Heavitree would be nothing, and Mrs Clifford proceeded on her
way, having given this little help in counsel, and conveyance to her
friend. Mrs French was at home, and Miss Stanbury was shown up into the
room in which, the three ladies were sitting.

The reader will doubtless remember the promise which Arabella had made
to Mr Gibson. That promise she had already fulfilled to the amazement
of her mother and sister; and when Miss Stanbury entered the room the
elder daughter of the family was seen without her accustomed head-gear.
If the truth is to be owned, Miss Stanbury gave the poor young woman no
credit for her new simplicity, but put down the deficiency to the
charge of domestic slatternliness. She was unjust enough to declare
afterwards that she, had found Arabella French only half dressed at
between three and four o'clock in the afternoon! From which this lesson
may surely be learned that though the way down Avernus may be, and
customarily is, made with great celerity, the return journey, if made
at all, must be made slowly. A young woman may commence in chignons by
attaching any amount of an edifice to her head; but the reduction
should be made by degrees. Arabella's edifice had, in Miss Stanbury's
eyes, been the ugliest thing in art that she had known; but, now, its
absence offended her, and she most untruly declared that she had come
upon the young woman in the middle of the day just out of her bed-room
and almost in her dressing-gown.

And the whole French family suffered a diminution of power from the
strange phantasy which had come upon Arabella. They all felt, in sight
of the enemy, that they had to a certain degree lowered their flag. One
of the ships, at least, had shown signs of striking, and this element
of weakness made itself felt through the whole fleet. Arabella,
herself, when she saw Miss Stanbury, was painfully conscious of her
head, and wished that she had postponed the operation till the evening.
She smiled with a faint watery smile, and was aware that something
ailed her.

The greetings at first were civil, but very formal, as are those
between nations which are nominally at peace, but which are waiting for
a sign at which each may spring at the other's throat. In this instance
the Juno from the Close had come quite prepared to declare her casus
belli as complete, and to fling down. her gauntlet, unless the enemy
should at once yield to her everything demanded with an abject
submission. 'Mrs French,' she said, 'I have called to-day for a
particular purpose, and I must address myself chiefly to Miss Camilla.'

'Oh, certainly,' said Mrs French.

'I shall be delighted to hear anything from you, Miss Stanbury,' said
Camilla not without an air of bravado. Arabella said nothing, but she
put her hand up almost convulsively to the back of her head.

'I have been told to-day by a friend of mine, Miss Camilla,' began Miss
Stanbury, 'that you declared yourself, in her presence, authorised by
Mr Gibson to make a statement about my niece Dorothy.'

'May I ask who was your friend?' demanded Mrs French.

'It was Mrs Clifford, of course,' said Camilla. 'There is nobody else
would try to make difficulties.'

'There need be no difficulty at all, Miss Camilla,' said Miss Stanbury,
'if you will promise me that you will not repeat the statement. It
can't be true.'

'But it is true,' said Camilla.

'What is true?' asked Miss Stanbury, surprised by the audacity of the
girl.

'It is true that Mr Gibson authorised us to state what I did state when
Mrs Clifford heard me.'

'And what was that?'

'Only this that people had been saying all about Exeter that he was
going to be married to a young lady, and that as the report was
incorrect, and as he had never had the remotest idea in his mind of
making the young lady his wife.' Camilla, as she said this, spoke with
a great deal of emphasis, putting forward her chin and shaking her head,
'and as he thought it was uncomfortable both for the young lady and for
himself, and as there was nothing in it the least in the world nothing
at all, no glimmer of a foundation for the report, it would be better
to have it denied everywhere. That is what I said: and we had authority
from the gentleman himself. Arabella can say the same, and so can mamma
only mamma did not hear him.' Nor had Camilla heard him, but that
incident she did not mention.

The circumstances were, in Miss Stanbury's judgment, becoming very
remarkable. She did not for a moment believe Camilla. She did not
believe that Mr Gibson had given to either of the Frenches any
justification for the statement just made. But Camilla had been so much
more audacious than Miss Stanbury had expected, that that lady was for
a moment struck dumb. 'I'm sure, Miss Stanbury,' said Mrs French, 'we
don't want to give any offence to your niece very far from it.'

'My niece doesn't care about it two straws,' said Miss Stanbury. 'It is
I that care. And I care very much. The things that have been said have
been altogether false.'

'How false, Miss Stanbury?' asked Camilla.

'Altogether false as false as they can be.'

'Mr Gibson must know his own mind,' said Camilla.

'My dear, there's a little disappointment,' said Miss French, 'and it
don't signify.'

'There's no disappointment at all,' said Miss Stanbury, 'and it does
signify very much. Now that I've begun, I'll go to the bottom of it. If
you say that Mr Gibson told you to make these statements, I'll go to Mr
Gibson. I'll have it out somehow.'

'You may have what you like out for us, Miss Stanbury,' said Camilla.

'I don't believe Mr Gibson said anything of the kind.'

'That's civil,' said Camilla.

'But why shouldn't he?' asked Arabella.

'There were the reports, you know,' said Mrs French.

'And why shouldn't he deny them when there wasn't a word of truth in
them?' continued Camilla. 'For my part, I think the gentleman is bound
for the lady's sake to declare that there's nothing in it when there is
nothing in it.' This was more than Miss Stanbury could bear. Hitherto
the enemy had seemed to have the best of it. Camilla was firing
broadside after broadside, as though she was assured of victory. Even
Mrs French was becoming courageous; and Arabella was forgetting the
place where her chignon ought to have been. 'I really do not know what
else there is for me to say,' remarked Camilla, with a toss of her
head, 'and an air of impudence that almost drove poor Miss Stanbury
frantic.

It was on her tongue to declare the whole truth, but she refrained. She
had schooled herself on this subject vigorously. She would not betray
Mr Gibson.' Had she known all the truth or had she believed Camilla
French's version of the story there would have been no betrayal. But
looking at the matter with such knowledge as she had at present, she
did not even yet feel herself justified in declaring that Mr Gibson had
offered his hand to her niece, and had been refused. She was, however,
sorely tempted. 'Very well, ladies,' she said. 'I shall now see Mr
Gibson, and ask him whether he did give you authority to make such
statements as you have been spreading abroad everywhere.' Then the door
of the room was opened, and in a moment Mr Gibson was among them. He
was true to his promise, and had come to see Arabella with her altered
headdress but he had come at this hour thinking that escape in the
morning would be easier and quicker than it might have been in the
evening. His mind had been full of Arabella and her head-dress even up
to the moment of his knocking at the door; but all that was driven out
of his brain at once when he saw Miss Stanbury.

'Here is Mr Gibson himself,' said Mrs French.

'How do you do, Mr Gibson?' said Miss Stanbury, with a very stately
courtesy. They had never met since the day on which he had been, as he
stated, turned out of Miss Stanbury's house. He now bowed to her; but
there was no friendly greeting, and the Frenches were able to
congratulate themselves on the apparent loyalty to themselves of the
gentleman who stood among them. 'I have come here, Mr Gibson,'
continued Miss Stanbury, 'to put a small matter right in which you are
concerned.'

'It seems to me to be the most insignificant thing in the world,' said
Camilla.

'Very likely,' said Miss Stanbury. 'But it is not insignificant to me.
Miss Camilla French has asserted publicly that you have authorised her
to make a statement about my niece Dorothy.'

Mr Gibson looked into Camilla's face doubtingly, inquisitively, almost
piteously.' 'You had better let her go on,' said Camilla.'she will make
a great many mistakes, no doubt, but you had better let her go on to
the end.'

'I have made no mistake as yet, Miss Camilla. She so asserted, Mr
Gibson, in the hearing of a friend of mine, and she repeated the
assertion here in this room to me just before you came in. She says
that you 'have authorised her to declare that that that I had better
speak it out plainly at once.'

'Much better,' said Camilla.

'That you never entertained an idea of offering your hand to my niece.'
Miss Stanbury paused, and Mr Gibson's jaw fell visibly. But he was not
expected to speak as yet; and Miss Stanbury continued her accusation.
'Beyond that, I don't want to mention my niece's name, if it can be
avoided.'

'But it can't be avoided,' said Camilla.

'If you please, I will continue. Mr Gibson will understand me. I will
not, if I can help it, mention my niece's name again, Mr Gibson. But I
still have that confidence in you that I do not think that you would
have made such a statement in reference to yourself and any young lady
unless it were some young lady who had absolutely thrown herself at
your head.' And in saying this she paused, and looked very hard at
Camilla.

'That's just what Dorothy Stanbury has been doing,' said Camilla.

'She has been doing nothing of the kind, and you know she hasn't,' said
Miss Stanbury, raising her arm as though she were going to strike her
opponent. 'But I am quite sure, Mr Gibson, that you never could have
authorised these young ladies to make such an assertion publicly on
your behalf. Whatever there may have been of misunderstanding between
you and me, I can't believe that of you.' Then she paused for a reply.
'If you will be good enough to set us right on that point, I shall be
obliged to you.'

Mr Gibson's position was one of great discomfort. He had given no
authority to anyone to make such a statement. He had said nothing about
Dorothy Stanbury to Camilla; but he had told Arabella, when hard
pressed by that lady, that he did not mean to propose to Dorothy. He
could not satisfy Miss Stanbury because he feared Arabella. He could
not satisfy the Frenches because he feared Miss Stanbury. 'I really do
not think,' said he, 'that we ought to talk about a young lady in this
way.'

'That's my opinion too,' said Camilla; 'but Miss Stanbury will.'

'Exactly so. Miss Stanbury will,' said that lady. 'Mr Gibson, I insist
upon it, that you tell me whether you did give any such authority to
Miss Camilla French, or to Miss French.'

'I wouldn't answer her, if I were you,' said Camilla.

'I really don't think this can do any good,' said Mrs French.

'And it is so very harassing to our nerves,' said Arabella.

'Nerves! Pooh!' exclaimed Miss Stanbury. 'Now, Mr Gibson, I am waiting
for an answer.'

'My dear Miss Stanbury, I really think it better the situation is so
peculiar, and, upon my word, I hardly know how not to give offence,
which I wouldn't do for the world.'

'Do you mean to tell me that you won't answer my question?' demanded
Miss Stanbury.

'I really think that I had better hold my tongue,' pleaded Mr Gibson.

'You are quite right, Mr., Gibson,' said Camilla.

'Indeed, it is wisest,' said Mrs French.

'I don't see what else he can do,' said Arabella.

Then was Miss Stanbury driven altogether beyond her powers of
endurance. 'If that be so,' said she, 'I must speak out, though I
should have preferred to hold my tongue. Mr Gibson did offer to my
niece the week before last twice, and was refused by her. My niece,
Dorothy, took it into her head that she did not like him; and, upon my
word, I think she was right. We should have said nothing about this not
a word; but when these false assertions are made on Mr Gibson's alleged
authority, and Mr Gibson won't deny it, I must tell the truth.' Then
there was silence among them for a few seconds, and Mr Gibson struggled
hard, but vainly, to clothe his face in a pleasant smile. 'Mr Gibson,
is that true?' said Miss Stanbury. But Mr Gibson made no reply. 'It is
as true as heaven,' said Miss Stanbury, striking her hand upon the
table. 'And now you had better, all of you, hold your tongues about my
niece, and she will hold her tongue about you. And as for Mr Gibson
anybody who wants him after this is welcome to him for us.
Good-morning, Mrs French; good-morning, young ladies.' And so she
stalked out of the room, and out of the house, and walked back to her
house in the Close.

'Mamma,' said Arabella as soon as the enemy was gone, 'I have got such
a headache that I think I will go upstairs.'

'And I will go with you, dear,' said Camilla.

Mr Gibson, before he left the house, confided his secret to the
maternal ears of Mrs French. He certainly had been allured into making
an offer to Dorothy Stanbury, but was ready to atone for this crime by
marrying her daughter Camilla as soon as might be convenient. He was
certainly driven to make this declaration by intense cowardice not to
excuse himself, for in that there could be no excuse but how else
should he dare to suggest that he might as well leave the house?'shall
I tell the dear girl?' asked Mrs French. But Mr Gibson requested a
fortnight, in which to consider how the proposition had best be made.



CHAPTER XLIX - MR BROOKE BURGESS AFTER SUPPER

Brooke Burgess was a clerk in the office of the Ecclesiastical
Commissioners in London, and as such had to do with things very solemn,
grave, and almost melancholy. He had to deal with the rents of
episcopal properties, to correspond with clerical claimants, and to be
at home with the circumstances of underpaid vicars and perpetual
curates with much less than 300 pounds a-year; but yet he was as jolly
and pleasant at his desk as though he were busied about the collection
of the malt tax, or wrote his letters to admirals and captains instead
of to deans and prebendaries. Brooke Burgess had risen to be a senior
clerk, and was held in some respect in his office; but it was not
perhaps for the amount of work he did, nor yet on account of the
gravity of his demeanour, nor for the brilliancy of his intellect. But
if not clever, he was sensible; though he was not a dragon of official
virtue, he had a conscience and he possessed those small but most
valuable gifts by which a man becomes popular among men. And thus it
had come to pass in all those battles as to competitive merit which had
taken place in his as in other public offices, that no one had ever
dreamed of putting a junior over the head of Brooke Burgess. He was
tractable, easy, pleasant, and therefore deservedly successful. All his
brother clerks called him Brooke except the young lads who, for the
first year or two of their service, still denominated him Mr Burgess.

'Brooke,' said one of his juniors, coming into his room and standing
before the fireplace with a cigar in his mouth, 'have you heard who is
to be the new Commissioner?'

'Colenso, to be sure,' said Brooke.

'What a lark that would be. And I don't see why he shouldn't. But it
isn't Colenso. The name has just come down.'

'And who is it?'

'Old Proudie, from Barchester.'

'Why, we had him here years ago, and he resigned.'

'But he's to come on again now for a spell. It always seems to me that
the bishops ain't a bit of use here. They only get blown up, and
snubbed, and shoved into corners by the others.'

'You young reprobate to talk of shoving an archbishop into a corner.'

'Well don't they? It's only for the name of it they have them. There's
the Bishop of Broomsgrove he's always sauntering about the place,
looking as though he'd be so much obliged if somebody would give him
something to do. He's always smiling, and so gracious just as if he
didn't feel above half sure that he had any right to be where he is,
and he thought that perhaps somebody was going to kick him.'

'And so old Proudie is coming up again,' said Brooke.

'It certainly is very much the same to us whom they send. He'll get
shoved into a corner, as you call it only that he'll go into the corner
without any shoving.' Then there came in a messenger with a card, and
Brooke learned that Hugh Stanbury was waiting for him in the stranger's
room. In performing the promise made to Dorothy, he had called upon her
brother as soon as he was back in London, but had not found him. This
now was the return visit.

'I thought I was sure to find you here,' said Hugh. 'Pretty nearly sure
from eleven till five,' said Brooke. 'A hard stepmother like the Civil
Service does not allow one much chance of relief. I do get across to
the club sometimes for a glass of sherry and a biscuit but here I am
now, at any rate; and I'm very glad you have come.' Then there was some
talk between them about affairs at Exeter; but as they were interrupted
before half an hour was over their heads by a summons brought for
Burgess from one of the secretaries, it was agreed that they should
dine together at Burgess's club on the following day. 'We can manage a
pretty good beef-steak,' said Brooke, 'and have a fair glass of sherry.
I don't think you can get much more than that anywhere nowadays unless
you want a dinner for eight at three guineas, ahead. The magnificence
of men has become so intolerable now that one is driven to be humble in
one's self-defence.' Stanbury assured his acquaintance that he was
anything but magnificent in his own ideas, that cold beef and beer was
his usual fare, and at last allowed the clerk to wait upon the
secretary.

'I wouldn't have any other fellow to meet you,' said Brooke as they sat
at their dinners, 'because in this way we can talk over the dear old
woman at Exeter. Yes, our fellow does make good soup, and it's about
all that he does do well. As for getting a potato properly boiled,
that's quite out of the question. Yes, it is a good glass of sherry. I
told you we'd a fairish tap of sherry on. Well, I was there, backwards
and forwards, for nearly six weeks.'

'And how did you get on with the old woman?'

'Like a house on fire,' said Brooke.

'She didn't quarrel with you?'

'No upon the whole she did not. I always felt that it was touch and go.
She might or she might not. Every now and then she looked at me, and
said a sharp word, as though it was about to come. But I had determined
when I went there altogether to disregard that kind of thing.'

'It's rather important to you is it not?'

'You mean about her money?'

'Of course, I mean about her money,' said Stanbury.

'It is important and so it was to you.'

'Not in the same degree, or nearly so. And as for me, it was not on the
cards that we shouldn't quarrel. I am so utterly a Bohemian in all my
ideas of life, and she is so absolutely the reverse, that not to have
quarrelled would have been hypocritical on my part or on hers. She had
got it into her head that she had a right to rule my life; and, of
course, she quarrelled with me when I made. her understand that she
should do nothing of the kind. Now, she won't want to rule you.'

'I hope not.'

'She has taken you up,' continued Stanbury, 'on altogether a different
understanding. You are to her the representative of a family to whom
she thinks she owes the restitution of the property which se enjoys. I
was simply a member of her own family, to which she owes nothing. She
thought it well to help, one of us out of what she regarded as her
private purse, and she chose me. But the matter is quite different with
you.'

'She might have given everything to you, as well as to me,' said
Brooke.

'That's not her idea. She conceives herself bound to leave all she has
back to a Burgess, except anything she may save as she says, off her
own back, or out of her own belly. She has told me so a score of
times.'

'And what did you say?'

'I always told her that, let her do as she would, I should never ask
any question about her will.'

'But she hates us all like poison except me,' said Brooke. 'I never
knew people so absurdly hostile as are your aunt and my uncle Barty.
Each thinks the other the most wicked person in the world.'

'I suppose your uncle was hard upon her once.'

'Very likely. He is a hard man and has, very warmly, all the feelings
of an injured man. I suppose my uncle Brooke's will was a cruel blow to
him. He professes to believe that Miss Stanbury will never leave me a
shilling.'

'He is wrong, then,' said Stanbury.

'Oh yes he's wrong, because he thinks that that's her present
intention. I don't know that he's wrong as to the probable result.'

'Who will have it, then?'

'There are ever so many horses in the race,' said Brooke. 'I'm one.'

'You're the favourite,' said Stanbury.

'For the moment I am. Then there's yourself.'

'I've been scratched, and am altogether out of the betting.'

'And your sister,' continued Brooke.

'She's only entered to run for the second money; and, if she'll trot
over the course quietly, and not go the wrong side of the posts, she'll
win that.'

'She may do more than that. Then there's Martha.'

'My aunt will never leave her money to a servant. What she may give to
Martha would come from her own savings.'

'The next is a dark horse, but one that wins a good many races of this
kind. He's apt to come in with a fatal rush at the end.'

'Who is it?'

'The hospitals. When an old lady finds in her latter days that she
hates everybody, and fancies that the people around her are all
thinking of her motley, she's uncommon likely to indulge herself a
little bit of revenge, and solace herself with large-handed charity.'

'But she's so good a woman at heart,' said Hugh.

'And what can a good woman do better than promote hospitals?'

'She'll never do that. She's too strong. It's a maudlin sort of thing,
after all, for a person to leave everything to a hospital.'

'But people are maudlin when they're dying,' said Brooke 'or even when
they think they're dying. How else did the Church get the estates, of
which we are now distributing so bountifully some of the last remnants
down at our office? Come into the next room, and we'll have a smoke.'

They had their smoke, and then they went at half-price to the play;
and, after the play was over, they eat three or four dozen of oysters
between them. Brooke Burgess was a little too old for oysters at
midnight in September; but he went through his work like a man. Hugh
Stanbury's powers were so great, that he could have got up and done the
same thing again, after he had been an hour in bed, without any serious
inconvenience.

But, in truth, Brooke Burgess had still another word or two to say
before he went to his rest, They supped somewhere near tile Haymarket,
and then he offered to walk home with Stanbury, to his chambers in
Lincoln's Inn. 'Do you know that Mr Gibson at Exeter?' he asked, as
they passed through Leicester Square.

'Yes; I knew him. He was a sort of tame-cat parson at my aunt's house,
in my days.'

'Exactly but I fancy that has come to an end now. Have you heard
anything about him lately?'

'Well yes I have,' said Stanbury, feeling that dislike to speak of his
sister which is common to most brothers when in company with other men.

'I suppose you've heard of it, and, as I was in the middle of it all,
of course I couldn't but know all about it too. Your aunt wanted him to
marry your sister.'

'So I was told.'

'But your sister didn't see it,' said Brooke.

'So I understand,' said Stanbury. 'I believe my aunt was exceedingly
liberal,' and meant to do the best she could for poor Dorothy; but, if
she didn't like him, I suppose she was right not to have him,' said
Hugh.

'Of course she was right,' said Brooke, with a good deal of enthusiasm.

'I believe Gibson to be a very decent sort of fellow,' said Stanbury.

'A mean, paltry dog,' said Brooke. There had been a little whisky-toddy
after the oysters, and Mr Burgess was perhaps moved to a warmer
expression of feeling than he might have displayed had he discussed
this branch of the subject before supper. 'I knew from the first that
she would have nothing to say to him. He is such a poor creature!'

'I always thought well of him,' said Stanbury, 'and was inclined to
think that Dolly might have done worse.'

'It is hard to say what is the worst a girl might do; but I think she
might do, perhaps, a little better.'

'What do you mean?' said Hugh.

'I think I shall go down, and ask her to take myself.'

'Do you mean it in earnest?'

'I do,' said Brooke. 'Of course, I hadn't a chance when I was there.
She told me--'

'Who told you Dorothy?'

'No, your aunt she told me that Mr Gibson was to marry your sister. You
know your aunt's way. She spoke of it as though the thing were settled
as soon as she had got it into her own head; and she was as hot upon it
as though Mr Gibson had been an archbishop. I had nothing to do then
but to wait and see.'

'I had no idea of Dolly being fought for by rivals.'

'Brothers never think much of their sisters,' said Brooke Burgess.

'I can assure you I think a great deal of Dorothy,' said Hugh. 'I
believe her to be as sweet a woman as God ever made. She hardly knows
that she has a self belonging to herself.'

'I'm sure she doesn't,' said Brooke.

'She is a dear, loving, sweet-tempered creature, who is only too ready
to yield in all things.'

'But she wouldn't yield about Gibson,' said Brooke.

'How did she and my aunt manage?'

'Your sister simply said she couldn't and then that she wouldn't. I
never thought from the first moment that she'd take that fellow. In the
first place he can't say boo to a goose.'

'But Dolly wouldn't want a man to say boo.'

'I'm not so sure of that, old fellow. At any rate I mean to try myself.
Now what'll the old woman say?'

'She'll be pleased as Punch, I should think,' said Stanbury.

'Either that or else she'll swear that she'll never speak another word
to either of us. However, I shall go on with it.'

'Does Dorothy know anything of this?' asked Stanbury.

'Not a word,' said Brooke. 'I came away a day or so after Gibson was
settled; and as I had been talked to all through the affair by both of
them, I couldn't turn round and offer myself the moment he was gone.
You won't object will you?'

'Who; I?' said Stanbury. 'I shall have no objection as long as Dolly
pleases herself. Of course you know that we haven't as much as a brass
farthing among us?'

'That won't matter if the old lady takes it kindly,' said Brooke. Then
they parted, at the corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and Hugh as he went
up to his own rooms, reflected with something of wonderment on the
success of Dorothy's charms. She had always been the poor one of the
family, the chick out of the nest which would most require assistance
from the stronger birds; but it now appeared that she would become the
first among all the Stanburys. Wealth had first flowed down upon the
Stanbury family from the will of old Brooke Burgess; and it now seemed
probable that poor Dolly would ultimately have the enjoyment of it all.



CHAPTER L - CAMILLA TRIUMPHANT

It was now New Year's day, and there was some grief and perhaps more
excitement in Exeter for it was rumoured that Miss Stanbury lay very
ill at her house in the Close. But in order that our somewhat uneven
story may run as smoothly as it may be made to do, the little history
of the French family for the intervening months shall be told in this
chapter, in order that it may be understood how matters were with them
when the tidings of Miss Stanbury's severe illness first reached their
house at Heavitree.

After that terrible scene in which Miss Stanbury had so dreadfully
confounded Mr Gibson by declaring the manner in which he had been
rebuffed by Dorothy, the unfortunate clergyman had endeavoured to make
his peace with the French family by assuring the mother that in very
truth it was the dearest wish of his heart to make her daughter Camilla
his wife. Mrs French, who had ever been disposed to favour Arabella's
ambition, well knowing its priority and ancient right, and who of late
had been taught to consider that even Camilla had consented to waive
any claim that she might have once possessed, could not refrain from
the expression of some surprise. That he should be recovered at all out
of the Stanbury clutches was very much to Mrs French was so much that,
had time been given her for consideration, she would have acknowledged
to herself readily that the property had best be secured at once to the
family, without incurring that amount of risk, which must
unquestionably attend any attempt on her part to direct Mr Gibson's
purpose hither or thither. But the proposition came so suddenly, that
time was not allowed to her to be altogether wise. 'I thought it was
poor Bella,' she said, with something of a piteous whine in her voice.
At the moment Mr Gibson was so humble, that he was half inclined to
give way even on that head. He felt himself to have been brought so low
in the market by that terrible story of Miss Stanbury's which he had
been unable either to contradict or to explain that there was but
little power of fighting left in him. He was, however, just able to
speak a word for himself, and that sufficed, 'I hope there has been no
mistake,' he said; 'but really it is Camilla that has my heart.' Mrs
French made no rejoinder to this. It was so much to her to know that Mr
Gibson's heart was among them at all after what had occurred in the
Close, that she acknowledged to herself after that moment of reflection
that Arabella must be sacrificed for the good of the family interests.
Poor, dear, loving, misguided, and spiritless mother! She would have
given the blood out of her bosom to get husbands for her daughters,
though it was not of her own experience that she had learned that of
all worldly goods a husband is the best. But it was the possession
which they had from their earliest years thought of acquiring, which
they first expected, for which they had then hoped, and afterwards
worked and schemed and striven with every energy and as to which they
had at last almost despaired. And now Arabella's fire had been
rekindled with a new spark, which, alas, was to be quenched so
suddenly! 'And am I to tell them?' asked Mrs French, 'with a tremor in
her voice. To this, however, Mr Gibson demurred. He said that for
certain reasons he should like a fortnight's grace; and that at the end
of the fortnight he would be prepared to speak. The interval was
granted without further questions, and Mr Gibson was allowed to leave
the house.

After that Mrs French was not very comfortable at home. As soon as Mr
Gibson had departed, Camilla at once returned to her mother and desired
to know what had taken place. Was it true that the perjured man had
proposed to that young woman in the Close? Mrs French was not clever at
keeping a secret, and she could not keep this by her own aid. She told
all that happened to Camilla, and between them they agreed that
Arabella should be kept in ignorance till the fatal fortnight should
have passed. When Camilla was interrogated as to her own purpose, she
said she should like a day to think of it. She took the twenty-four
hours, and then made the following confession of her passion to her
mother. 'You see, mamma, I always liked Mr Gibson always.'

'So did Arabella, 'my dear before you thought of such things.'

'I dare say that may be true, mamma; but that is not my fault. He came
here among us on such sweetly intimate terms that the feeling grew up
with me before I knew what it meant. As to any idea of cutting out
Arabella, my conscience is quite clear, lit I thought there had been
anything really between them. I would have gone anywhere to the top of
a mountain rather than rob my sister of a heart that belonged to her.'

'He has been so slow about it,' said Mrs French.

'I don't know about that,' said Camilla. 'Gentlemen have to be slow, I
suppose, when they think of their incomes. He only got St.
Peter's-cum-Pumpkin three years ago, and didn't know for the first year
whether he could hold that and the minor canonry together. Of course a
gentleman has to think of these things before he comes forward.'

'My dear, he has been very backward.'

'If I'm to be Mrs Gibson, mamma, I beg that I mayn't hear anything said
against him. Then there came all this about that young woman; and when
I saw that Arabella took on so which I must say was very absurd I'm
sure I put myself out of the way entirely. If I'd buried myself under
the ground I couldn't have done it more. And it's my belief that what
I've said, all for Arabella's sake, has put the old woman into such a
rage that it has made a quarrel between him and the niece; otherwise
that wouldn't be off. I don't believe a word of her refusing him, and
never shall. Is it in the course of things, mamma?' Mrs French shook
her head. 'Of course not. Then when you question him very properly he
says that he's devoted to poor me. If I was to refuse him, he wouldn't
put up with Bella.'

'I suppose not,' said Mrs French.

'He hates Bella. I've known it all along, though I wouldn't say so. If
I were to sacrifice myself ever so it wouldn't be of any good and I
shan't do it.' In this way the matter was arranged.

At the end of the fortnight, however, Mr Gibson did not come nor at the
end of three weeks. Inquiries had of course been made, and it was
ascertained that he had gone into Cornwall for a parson's holiday of
thirteen days. That might be all very well. A man might want the
recruiting vigour of some change of air after such scenes as those Mr
Gibson had gone through with the Stanburys, and before his proposed
encounter with new perils. And he was a man so tied by the leg that his
escape could not be for any long time. He was back on the appointed
Sunday, and on the Wednesday Mrs French, under Camilla's instruction,
wrote to him a pretty little note. He replied that he would be with her
on the Saturday. It would then be nearly four weeks after the great day
with Miss Stanbury, but no one would be inclined to quarrel with so
short a delay as that. Arabella in the meantime had become fidgety and
unhappy. She seemed to understand that something was expected, being
quite unable to guess what that something might be. She was true
throughout these days to the simplicity of head-gear which Mr Gibson
had recommended to her, and seemed in her questions to her mother and
to Camilla to be more fearful of Dorothy Stanbury than of any other
enemy. 'Mamma, I think you ought to tell her,' said Camilla more than
once. But she had not been told when Mr Gibson came on the Saturday. It
may truly be said that the poor mother's pleasure in the prospects of
one daughter was altogether destroyed by the anticipation of the other
daughter's misery. Had Mr Gibson made Dorothy Stanbury his wife they
could have all comforted themselves together by the heat of their joint
animosity.

He came on the Saturday, and it was so managed that he was closeted
with Camilla before Arabella knew that he was in the house. There was a
quarter of an hour during which his work was easy, and perhaps
pleasant. When he began to explain his intention Camilla, with the
utmost frankness, informed him that her mother had told her all about
it. Then she turned her face on one side and put her hand in his; he
got his arm round her waist, gave her a kiss, and the thing was done.
Camilla was fully resolved that after such a betrothal it should not be
undone. She had behaved with sisterly forbearance, and would not now
lose the reward of virtue. Not a word was said of Arabella at this
interview till he was pressed to come and drink tea with them all that
night. He hesitated a moment; and then Camilla declared, with something
perhaps of imperious roughness in her manner, that he had better face
it all at once. 'Mamma will tell her, and she will understand,' said
Camilla. He hesitated again, but at last promised that he would come.

Whilst he was yet in the house Mrs French had told the whole story to
her poor elder daughter. 'What is he doing with Camilla?' Arabella had
asked with feverish excitement.

'Bella, darling don't you know?' said the mother.

'I know nothing. Everybody keeps me in the dark, and I am badly used.
What is it that he is doing?' Then Mrs French tried to take the poor
young woman in her arms, but Arabella would not submit to be embraced.
'Don't!' she exclaimed. 'Leave me alone. Nobody likes me, or cares a
bit about me! Why is Cammy with him there, all alone?'

'I suppose he is asking her to be his wife.' Then Arabella threw
herself in despair upon the bed, and wept without any further attempt
at control over her feelings. It was a death-blow to her last hope, and
all the world, as she looked upon the world then, was over for her. 'If
I could have arranged it the other way, you know that I would,' said
the mother.

'Mamma,' said Arabella jumping up, 'he shan't do it. He hasn't a right.
And as for her Oh, that she should treat me in this way! Didn't he tell
me the other night, when he drank tea here with me alone--'

'What did he tell you, Bella?'

'Never mind. Nothing shall ever make me speak to him again not if he
married her three times over; nor to her. She is a nasty, sly,
good-for-nothing thing!'

'But, Bella--'

'Don't talk to me, mamma. There never was such a thing done before
since people were people at all. She has been doing it all the time. I
know she has.'

Nevertheless Arabella did sit down to tea with the two lovers that
night. There was a terrible scene between her and Camilla; but Camilla
held her own; and Arabella, being the weaker of the two, was vanquished
by the expenditure of her own small energies. Camilla argued that as
her sister's chance was gone, and as the prize had come in her own way,
there was no good reason why it should be lost to the family
altogether, because Arabella could not win it. When Arabella called her
a treacherous vixen and a heartless, profligate hussy, she spoke out
freely, and said that she wasn't going to be abused. A gentleman to
whom she was attached had asked her for her hand, and she had given it.
If Arabella chose to make herself a fool she might but what would be
the effect? Simply that all the world would know that she, Arabella,
was disappointed. Poor Bella at last gave way, put on her discarded
chignon, and came down to tea. Mr Gibson was already in the room when
she entered it. 'Arabella,' he said, getting up to greet her, 'I hope
you will congratulate me.' He had planned his little speech and his
manner of making it, and had wisely decided that in this way might he
best get over the difficulty.

'Oh yes of course,' she said, with a little giggle, and then a sob, and
then a flood of tears.

'Dear Bella feels these things so strongly,' said Mrs French.

'We have never been parted yet,' said Camilla. Then Arabella tapped the
head of the sofa three or four times sharply with her knuckles. It was
the only protest against the reading of the scene which Camilla had
given of which she was capable at that moment. After that Mrs French
gave out the tea, Arabella curled herself upon the sofa as though she
were asleep, and the two lovers settled down to proper lover-like
conversation.

The reader may be sure that Camilla was not slow in making the fact of
her engagement notorious through the city. It was not probably true
that the tidings of her success had anything to do with Miss Stanbury's
illness; but it was reported by many that such was the case. It was in
November that the arrangement was made, and it certainly was true that
Miss Stanbury was rather ill about the same time. 'You know, you
naughty Lothario, that you did give her some ground to hope that she
might dispose of her unfortunate niece,' said Camilla playfully to her
own one, when this illness was discussed between them. 'But you are
caught now, and your wings are clipped, and you are never to be a
naughty Lothario again.' The clerical Don Juan bore it all, awkwardly
indeed, but with good humour, and declared that all his troubles of
that sort were over, now and for ever. Nevertheless he did not name the
day, and Camilla began to feel that there might be occasion for a
little more of that imperious roughness which she had at her command.

November was nearly over and nothing had been fixed about the day.
Arabella never condescended to speak to her sister on the subject; but
on more than one occasion made some inquiry of her mother. And she came
to perceive, or to think that she perceived, that her mother was still
anxious on the subject. 'I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't off some day
now,' she said at last to her mother.

'Don't say anything so dreadful, Bella.'

'It would serve Cammy quite right, and it's just what he's likely to
do.'

'It would kill me,' said the mother.

'I don't know about killing,' said Arabella; 'it's nothing to what I've
had to go through. I shouldn't pretend to be sorry if he were to go to
Hong-Kong tomorrow.'

But Mr Gibson had no idea of going to Hong-Kong. He was simply carrying
out his little scheme for securing the advantages of a 'long day'. He
was fully resolved to be married, and was contented to think that his
engagement was the best thing for him. To one or two male friends he
spoke of Camilla as the perfection of female virtue, and entertained no
smallest idea of ultimate escape. But a 'long day' is often a
convenience. A bill at three months sits easier on a man than one at
sixty days; and a bill at six months is almost as little of a burden as
no bill at all.

But Camilla was resolved that some day should be fixed. 'Thomas,' she
said to her lover one morning, as they were walking home together after
service at the cathedral, 'isn't this rather a fool's Paradise of
ours?'

'How a fool's Paradise?' asked the happy Thomas.

'What I mean is, dearest, that we ought to fix something. Mamma is
getting uneasy about her own plans.'

'In what way, dearest?'

'About a thousand things. She can't arrange anything till our plans are
made. Of course there are little troubles about money when people ain't
rich.' Then it occurred to her that this might seem to be a plea for
postponing rather than for hurrying the marriage, and she mended her
argument. 'The truth is, Thomas, she wants to know when the day is to
be fixed, and I've promised to ask. She said she'd ask you herself, but
I wouldn't let her do that.'

'We must think about it, of course,' said Thomas.

'But, my dear, there has been plenty of time for thinking. What do you
say to January?' This was on the last day of November.

'January!' exclaimed Thomas, in a tone that betrayed no triumph. 'I
couldn't get my services arranged for in January.'

'I thought a clergyman could always manage that for his marriage,' said
Camilla.

'Not in January. Besides, I was thinking you would like to be away in
warmer weather.'

They were still in November, and he was thinking of postponing it till
the summer! Camilla immediately perceived how necessary it was that she
should be plain with him. 'We shall not have warm weather, as you call
it, for a very long time, Thomas and I don't think that it would be
wise to wait for the weather at all. Indeed, I've begun to get my
things for doing it in the winter. Mamma said that she was sure January
would be the very latest. And it isn't as though we had to get
furniture or anything of that kind. Of course a lady shouldn't be
pressing.' She smiled sweetly and leaned on his arm as she said this.
'But I hate all girlish nonsense and that kind of thing. It is such a
bore to be kept waiting. I'm sure there's nothing to prevent it coming
off in February.'

The 31st of March was fixed before they reached Heavitree, and Camilla
went into her mother's house a happy woman. But Mr Gibson, as he went
home, thought that he had been hardly used. Here was a girl who hadn't
a shilling of money not a shilling till her mother died and who already
talked about his house, and his furniture, and his income as if it were
all her own! Circumstanced as she was, what right had she to press for
an early day? He was quite sure that Arabella would have been more
discreet and less exacting. He was very angry with his dear Cammy as he
went across the Close to his house.



CHAPTER LI - SHEWING WHAT HAPPENED DURING MISS STANBURY'S ILLNESS

It was on Christmas-day that Sir Peter Mancrudy, the highest authority
on such matters in the west of England, was sent for to see Miss
Stanbury; and Sir Peter had acknowledged that things were very serious.
He took Dorothy on one side, and told her that Mr Martin, the ordinary
practitioner, had treated the case, no doubt, quite wisely throughout;
that there was not a word to be said against Mr Martin, whose
experience was great, and whose discretion was undeniable; but,
nevertheless at least it seemed to Dorothy that this was the only
meaning to be attributed to Sir Peter's words Mr Martin had in this
case taken one line of treatment, when he ought to have taken another.
The plan of action was undoubtedly changed, and Mr Martin became very
fidgety, and ordered nothing without Sir Peter's sanction. Miss
Stanbury was suffering from bronchitis, and a complication of diseases
about her throat and chest. Barty Burgess declared to more than one
acquaintance in the little parlour behind the bank, that she would go
on drinking four or five glasses of new port wine every day, in direct
opposition to Martin's request. Camilla French heard the report, and
repeated it to her lover, and perhaps another person or two, with an
expression of her assured conviction that it must be false at any rate,
as regarded the fifth glass. Mrs MacHugh, who saw Martha daily, was
much frightened. The peril of such a friend disturbed equally the
repose and the pleasures of her life. Mrs Clifford was often at Miss
Stanbury's bedside and would have sat there reading for hours together,
had she not been made to understand by Martha that Miss Stanbury
preferred that Miss Dorothy should read to her. The sick woman received
the Sacrament weekly not from Mr Gibson, but from the hands of another
minor canon; and, though she never would admit her own danger, or allow
others to talk to her of it, it was known to them all that she admitted
it to herself because she had, with much personal annoyance, caused a
codicil to be added to her will. 'As you didn't marry that man,' she
said to Dorothy, 'I must change it again.' It was in vain that Dorothy
begged her not to trouble herself with such thoughts. 'That's trash,'
said Miss Stanbury, angrily. 'A person who has it is bound to trouble
himself about it. You don't suppose I'm afraid of dying do you?' she
added. Dorothy answered her with some commonplace declaring how
strongly they all expected to see her as well as ever. 'I'm not a bit
afraid to die,' said the old woman, wheezing, struggling with such
voice as she possessed; 'I'm not afraid of it, and I don't think I
shall die this time; but I'm not going to have mistakes when I'm gone.'
This was on the eve of the new year, and on the same night she asked
Dorothy to write to Brooke Burgess, and request him to come to Exeter.
This was Dorothy's letter:



'Exeter, 31st December, 186-.

MY DEAR MR BURGESS,

Perhaps I ought to have written before, to say that Aunt Stanbury is
not as well as we could wish her; but, as I know that you cannot very
well leave your office, I have thought it best not to say anything to
frighten you. But tonight Aunt herself has desired me to tell you that
she thinks you ought to know that she is ill, and that she wishes you
to come to Exeter for a day or two, if it is possible. Sir Peter
Mancrudy has been here every day since Christmas-day, and I believe he
thinks she may get over it. It is chiefly in the throat what they call
bronchitis and she has got to be very weak with it, and at the same
time very liable to inflammation. So I know that you will come if you
can.

Yours very truly,

DOROTHY STANBURY.

Perhaps I ought to tell you that she had her lawyer here with her the
day before yesterday; but she does not seem to think that she herself
is in danger. I read to her a good deal, and I think she is generally
asleep; when I stop she wakes, and I don't believe she gets any other
rest at all.'



When it was known in Exeter that Brooke Burgess had been sent for, then
the opinion became general that Miss Stanbury's days were numbered.
Questions were asked of Sir Peter at every corner of the street; but
Sir Peter was a discreet man, who could answer such questions without
giving any information. If it so pleased God, his patient would die;
but it was quite possible that she might live. That was the tenor of
Sir Peter's replies and they were read in any light, according to the
idiosyncrasies of the reader. Mrs MacHugh was quite sure that the
danger was over, and had a little game of cribbage on the sly with old
Miss Wright for, during the severity of Miss Stanbury's illness, whist
was put on one side in the vicinity of the Close. Barty Burgess was
still obdurate, and shook his head. He was of opinion that they might
soon gratify their curiosity, and see the last crowning iniquity of
this wickedest of old women. Mrs Clifford declared that it was all in
the hands of God; but that she saw no reason why Miss Stanbury should
not get about again. Mr Gibson thought that it was all up with his late
friend; and Camilla wished that at their last interview there had been
more of charity on the part of one whom she had regarded in past days
with respect and esteem. Mrs French, despondent about everything, was
quite despondent in this case. Martha almost despaired, and already was
burdened with the cares of a whole wardrobe of solemn funereal
clothing. She was seen peering in for half-an-hour at the windows and
doorway of a large warehouse for the sale of mourning. Giles Hickbody
would not speak above his breath, and took his beer standing; but
Dorothy was hopeful, and really believed that her aunt would recover.
Perhaps Sir Peter had spoken to her in terms less oracular than those
which he used towards the public.

Brooke Burgess came, and had an interview with Sir Peter, and to him
Sir Peter was under some obligation to speak plainly, as being the
person whom Miss Stanbury recognised as her heir. So Sir Peter declared
that his patient might perhaps live, and perhaps might die. 'The truth
is, Mr Burgess,' said Sir Peter, 'a doctor doesn't know so very much
more about these things than other people.' It was understood that
Brooke was to remain three days in Exeter, and then return to London.
He would, of course, come again if if anything should happen. Sir Peter
had been quite clear in his opinion, that no immediate result was to be
anticipated either in the one direction or the other. His patient was
doomed to a long illness; she might get over it, or she might succumb
to it.

Dorothy and Brooke were thus thrown much together during these three
days. Dorothy, indeed, spent most of her hours beside her aunt's bed,
instigating sleep by the reading of a certain series of sermons in
which Miss Stanbury had great faith; but nevertheless, there were some
minutes in which she and Brooke were necessarily together. They eat
their meals in each other's company, and there was a period in the
evening, before Dorothy began her night-watch in her aunt's room, at
which she took her tea while Martha was nurse in the room above. At
this time of the day she would remain an hour or more with Brooke; and
a great deal may be said between a man and a woman in an hour when the
will to say it is there. Brooke Burgess had by no means changed his
mind since he had declared it to Hugh Stanbury under the midnight lamps
of Long Acre, when warmed by the influence of oysters and whisky toddy.
The whisky toddy had in that instance brought out truth and not
falsehood as is ever the nature of whisky toddy and similar dangerous
provocatives. There is no saying truer than that which declares that
there is truth in wine. Wine is a dangerous thing, and should not be
made the exponent of truth, let the truth be good as it may; but it has
the merit of forcing a man to show his true colours. A man who is a
gentleman in his cups may be trusted to be a gentleman at all times. I
trust that the severe censor will not turn upon me, and tell me that no
gentleman in these days is ever to be seen in his cups. There are cups
of different degrees of depth; and cups do exist, even among gentlemen,
and seem disposed to hold their own let the censor be ever so severe.
The gentleman in his cups is a gentleman always; and the man who tells
his friend in his cups that he is in love, does so because the fact has
been very present to himself in his cooler and calmer moments. Brooke
Burgess, who had seen Hugh Stanbury on two or three occasions since
that of the oysters and toddy, had not spoken again of his regard for
Hugh's sister; but not the less was he determined to carry out his plan
and make Dorothy his wife if she would accept him. But could he ask her
while the old lady was, as it might be, dying in the house? He put this
question to himself as he travelled down to Exeter, and had told
himself that he must be guided for an answer by circumstances as they
might occur. Hugh had met him at the station as he started for Exeter,
and there had been a consultation between them as to the propriety of
bringing about, or of attempting to bring about, an interview between
Hugh and his aunt. 'Do whatever you like,' Hugh had said. 'I would go
down to her at a moment's warning, if she should express a desire to
see me.'

On the first night of Brooke's arrival this question had been discussed
between him and Dorothy. Dorothy had declared herself unable to give
advice. If any message were given to her she would deliver it to her
aunt; but she thought that anything said to her aunt on the subject had
better come from Brooke himself. 'You evidently are the person most
important to her,' Dorothy said, 'and she would listen to you when she
would not let any one else say a word.' Brooke promised that he would
think of it; and then Dorothy tripped up to relieve Martha, dreaming
nothing at all of that other doubt to which the important personage
downstairs was now subject. Dorothy was, in truth, very fond of the new
friend she had made; but it had never occurred to her that he might be
a possible suitor to her. Her old conception of herself that she was
beneath the notice of any man had only been partly disturbed by the
absolute fact of Mr Gibson's courtship. She had now heard of his
engagement with Camilla French, and saw in that complete proof that the
foolish man had been induced to offer his hand to her by the promise of
her aunt's money. If there had been a moment of exaltation a period in
which she had allowed herself to think that she was, as other women,
capable of making herself dear to a man it had been but a moment. And
now she rejoiced greatly that she had not acceded to the wishes of one
to whom it was so manifest that she had not made herself in the least
dear.

On the second day of his visit, Brooke was summoned to Miss Stanbury's
room at noon. She was forbidden to talk, and during a great portion of
the day could hardly speak without an effort; but there would be half
hours now and again in which she would become stronger than usual, at
which time nothing that Martha and Dorothy could say would induce her
to hold her tongue. When Brooke came to her on this occasion he found
her sitting up in bed with a great shawl round her; and he at once
perceived she was much more like her own self than on the former day.
She told him that she had been an old fool for sending for him, that
she had nothing special to say to him, that she had made no alteration
in her will in regard to him 'except that I have done something for
Dolly that will have to come out of your pocket, Brooke.' Brooke
declared that too much could not be done for a person so good, and
dear, and excellent as Dorothy Stanbury, let it come out of whose
pocket it might.'she is nothing to you, you know,' said Miss Stanbury.

'She is a great deal to me,' said Brooke.

'What is she?' asked Miss Stanbury.

'Oh a friend; a great friend.'

'Well; yes. I hope it may be so. But she won't have anything that I
haven't saved,' said Miss Stanbury. 'There are two houses at St.
Thomas's; but I bought them myself, Brooke out of the income.' Brooke
could only declare that as the whole property was hers, to do what she
liked with it as completely as though she had inherited it from her own
father, no one could have any right to ask questions as to when or how
this or that portion of the property had accrued. 'But I don't think
I'm going to die yet, Brooke,' she said. 'If it is God's will, I am
ready. Not that I'm fit, Brooke. God forbid that I should ever think
that. But I doubt whether I shall ever be fitter. I can go without
repining if He thinks best to take me.' Then he stood up by her
bedside, with his hand upon hers, and after some hesitation asked her
whether she would wish to see her nephew Hugh. 'No,' said she, sharply.
Brooke went on to say how pleased Hugh would have been to come to her.
'I don't think much of death-bed reconciliations,' said the old woman
grimly. 'I loved him dearly, but he didn't love me, and I don't know
what good we should do each other.' Brooke declared that Hugh did love
her; but he could not press the matter, and it was dropped.

On that evening at eight Dorothy came down to her tea. She had dined at
the same table with Brooke that afternoon, but a servant had been in
the room all the time and nothing had been said between them. As soon
as Brooke had got his tea he began to tell the story of his failure
about Hugh. He was sorry, he said, that he had spoken on the subject as
it had moved Miss Stanbury to an acrimony which he had not expected.

'She always declares that he never loved her,' said Dorothy.'she has
told me so twenty times.'

'There are people who fancy that nobody cares for them,' said Brooke.

'Indeed there are, Mr Burgess; and it is so natural.'

'Why natural?'

'Just as it is natural that there should be dogs and cats that are
petted and loved and made much of, and others that have to crawl
through life as they can, cuffed and kicked and starved.'

'That depends on the accident of possession,' said Brooke.

'So does the other. How many people there are that don't seem to belong
to anybody and if they do, they're no good to anybody. They're not
cuffed exactly, or starved; but--'

'You mean that they don't get their share of affection?'

'They get perhaps as much as they deserve,' said Dorothy.

'Because they're cross-grained, or ill-tempered, or disagreeable?'

'Not exactly that.'

'What then?' asked Brooke.

'Because they're just nobodies. They are not anything particular to
anybody, and so they go on living till they die. You know what I mean,
Mr Burgess. A man who is a nobody can perhaps make himself somebody or,
at any rate, he can try; but a woman has no means of trying. She is a
nobody and a nobody she must remain. She has her clothes and her food,
but she isn't wanted anywhere. People put up with her, and that is
about the best of her luck. If she were to die somebody perhaps would
be sorry for her, but nobody would be worse off. She doesn't earn
anything or do any good. She is just there and that's all.'

Brooke had never heard her speak after this fashion before, had never
known her to utter so many consecutive words, or to put forward any
opinion of her own with so much vigour. And Dorothy herself, when she
had concluded her speech, was frightened by her own energy and grew red
in the face, and shewed very plainly that she was half ashamed of
herself. Brooke thought that he had never seen her look so pretty
before, and was pleased by her enthusiasm. He understood perfectly that
she was thinking of her own position, though she had entertained no
idea that he would so read her meaning; and he felt that it was
incumbent on him to undeceive her, and make her know that she was not
one of those women who are 'just there and that's all.' 'One does see
such a woman as that now and again,' he said.

'There are hundreds of them,' said Dorothy. 'And of course it can't be
helped.'

'Such as Arabella French,' said he, laughing.

'Well yes; if she is one. It is very easy to see the difference. Some
people are of use and are always doing things. There are others,
generally women, who have nothing to do, but who can't be got rid of.
It is a melancholy sort of feeling.'

'You at least are not one of them.'

'I didn't mean to complain about myself,' she said. 'I have got a great
deal to make me happy.'

'I don't suppose you regard yourself as an Arabella French,' said he.

'How angry Miss French would be if she heard you.. She considers
herself to be one of the reigning beauties of Exeter.'

'She has had a very long reign, and dominion of that sort to be
successful ought to be short.'

'That is spiteful, Mr Burgess.'

'I don't feel spiteful against her, poor woman. I own I do not love
Camilla. Not that I begrudge Camilla her present prosperity.'

'Nor I either, Mr Burgess.'

'She and Mr Gibson will do very well together, I dare say.'

'I hope they will,' said Dorothy, 'and I do not see any reason against
it. They have known each other a long time.'

'A very long time,' said Brooke. Then he paused for a minute, thinking
how he might best tell her that which he had now resolved should be
told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got up as though
she were about to go to her duty upstairs. She had been as yet hardly
an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was not fairly over.
But there had come something of a personal flavour in their
conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him. She had,
without any special indication of herself, included herself among that
company of old maids who are born and live and die without that vital
interest in the affairs of life which nothing but family duties, the
care of children, or at least of a husband, will give to a woman. If
she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understood her meaning,
or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself to assure her that
she was not one of the company whose privations she had endeavoured to
describe. Her instinct rather than her reason put her at once upon her
guard, and she prepared to leave the room. 'You are not going yet,' he
said.

'I think I might as well. Martha has so much to do, and she comes to me
again at five in the morning.'

'Don't go quite yet,' he said, pulling Out his watch. 'I know all about
the hours, and it wants twenty minutes to the proper time.'

'There is no proper time, Mr Burgess.'

'Then you can remain a few minutes longer. The fact is, I've got
something I want to say to you.'

He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could not get
away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant of his
purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she would from
Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she made her long
speech, but there was no blush on it as she answered him now. 'Of
course, I can wait,' she said, 'if you have anything to say to me.'

'Well I have. I should have said it before, only that that other man
was here.' He was blushing now up to the roots of his hair, and felt
that he was in a difficulty. There are men, to whom such moments of
their lives are pleasurable, but Brooke Burgess was not one of them. He
would have been glad to have had it done and over so that then he might
take pleasure in it.

'What man?' asked Dorothy, in perfect innocence.

'Mr Gibson, to be sure. I don't know that there is anybody else.'

'Oh, Mr Gibson. He never comes here now, and I don't suppose he will
again. Aunt Stanbury is so very angry with him.'

'I don't care whether he comes or not. What I mean is this. When I was
here before, I was told that you were going to marry him.'

'But I wasn't.'

'How was I to know that, when you didn't tell me? I certainly did know
it after I came back from Dartmoor.' He paused a moment, as though she
might have a word to say. She had no word to say, and did not in the
least know what was coming. She was so far from anticipating the truth,
that she was composed and easy in her mind. 'But all that is of no use
at all,' he continued. 'When I was here before Miss Stanbury wanted you
to marry Mr Gibson; and, of course, I had nothing to say about it. Now
I want you to marry me.'

'Mr Burgess!'

'Dorothy, my darling, I love you better than all the world. I do,
indeed.' As soon as he had commenced his protestations he became
profuse enough with them, and made a strong attempt to support them by
the action of his hands. But she retreated from him step by step, till
she had regained her chair by the tea-table, and there she seated
herself safely, as she thought; but he was close to her, over her
shoulder, still continuing his protestations, offering up his vows, and
imploring her to reply to him. She, as yet, had not answered him by a
word, save by that one half-terrified exclamation of his name. 'Tell
me, at any rate, that you believe me, when I assure you that I love
you,' he said. The room was going round with Dorothy, and the world was
going round, and there had come upon her so strong a feeling of the
disruption of things in general, that she was at the moment anything
but happy. Had it been possible for her to find that the last ten
minutes had been a dream, she would at this moment have wished that it
might become one. A trouble had come upon her, out of which she did not
see her way. To dive among the waters in warm weather is very pleasant;
there is nothing pleasanter. But when the young swimmer first feels the
thorough immersion of his plunge, there comes upon him a strong desire
to be quickly out again. He will remember afterwards how joyous it was;
but now, at this moment, the dry land is everything to him. So it was
with Dorothy. She had thought of Brooke Burgess as one of those bright
ones of the world, with whom everything is happy and pleasant, whom
everybody loves, who may have whatever they please, whose lines have
been laid in pleasant places. She thought of him as a man who might
some day make some woman very happy as his wife. To be the wife of such
a man was, in Dorothy's estimation, one of those blessed chances which
come to some women, but which she never regarded as being within her
own reach. Though she had thought much about him, she had never thought
of him as a possible possession for herself; and now that he was
offering himself to her, she was not at once made happy by his love.
Her ideas of herself and of her life were all dislocated for the
moment, and she required to be alone, that she might set herself in
order, and try herself all over, and find whether her bones were
broken.'say that you believe me,' he repeated.

'I don't know what to say,' she whispered.

'I'll tell you what to say. Say at once that you will be my wife.'

'I can't say that, Mr Burgess.'

'Why not? Do you mean that you cannot love me?'

'I think, if you please, I'll go up to Aunt Stanbury. It is time for
me; indeed it is; and she will be wondering, and Martha will be put
out. Indeed I must go up.'

'And will you not answer me?'

'I don't know what to say. You must give me a little time to consider.
I don't quite think you're serious.'

'Heaven and earth!' began Brooke.

'And I'm sure it would never do. At any rate, I must go now. I must,
indeed.'

And so she escaped, and went up to her aunt's room, which she reached
at ten minutes after her usual time, and before Martha had begun to be
put out. She was very civil to Martha, as though Martha had been
injured; and she put her hand on her aunt's arm, with a soft,
caressing, apologetic touch, feeling conscious that she had given cause
for offence. 'What has he been saying to you?' said her aunt, as soon
as Martha had closed the door. This was a question which Dorothy,
certainly, could not answer. Miss Stanbury meant nothing by it nothing
beyond a sick woman's desire that something of the conversation of
those who were not sick should be retailed to her; but to Dorothy the
question meant so much! How should her aunt have known that he had said
anything? She sat herself down and waited, giving no answer to the
question. 'I hope he gets his meals comfortably,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I am sure he does,' said Dorothy, infinitely relieved. Then, knowing
how important it was that her aunt should sleep, she took up the volume
of Jeremy Taylor, and, with so great a burden on her mind, she went on
painfully and distinctly with the second sermon on the Marriage Ring.
She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godliness of the
discourse, so that it might be of some possible service to herself; and
to keep her voice to the tone that might be of service to her aunt.
Presently she heard the grateful sound which indicated her aunt's
repose, but she knew of experience that were she to stop, the sound and
the sleep would come to an end also. For a whole hour she persevered,
reading the sermon of the Marriage Ring with such attention to the
godly principles of the teaching as she could give with that terrible
burden upon her mind.

'Thank you thank you; that will do, my dear. Shut it up,' said the sick
woman. 'It's time now for the draught.' Then Dorothy moved quietly
about the room, and did her nurse's work with soft hand, and soft
touch, and soft tread. After that her aunt kissed her, and bade her sit
down and sleep.

'I'll go on reading, aunt, if you'll let me,' said Dorothy. But Miss
Stanbury, who was not a cruel woman, would have no more of the reading,
and Dorothy's mind was left at liberty to think of the proposition that
had been made to her. To one resolution she came very quickly. The
period of her aunt's illness could not be a proper time for marriage
vows, or the amenities of love-making. She did not feel that he, being
a man, had offended; but she was quite sure that were she, a woman, the
niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at the bedside of such an invalid
were she at such a time to consent to talk of love, she would never
deserve to have a lover. And from this resolve she got great comfort.
It would give her an excuse for making no more assured answer at
present, and would enable her to reflect at leisure as to the reply she
would give him, should he ever, by any chance, renew his offer. If he
did not and probably he would not then it would have been very well
that he should not have been made the victim of a momentary generosity.
She had complained of the dullness of her life, and that complaint from
her had produced his noble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic
benevolence towards her. As she thought of it all and by degrees she
took great pleasure in thinking of it her mind bestowed upon him all
manner of eulogies. She could not persuade herself that he really loved
her, and yet she was full at heart of gratitude to him for the
expression of his love. And as for herself, could she love him? We who
are looking on of course know that she loved him that from this moment
there was nothing belonging to him, down to his shoe-tie, that would
not be dear to her heart and an emblem so tender as to force a tear
from her. He had already become her god, though she did not know it.
She made comparisons between him and Mr Gibson, and tried to convince
herself that the judgment, which was always pronounced very clearly in
Brooke's favour, came from anything but her heart. And thus through the
long watches of the night she became very happy, feeling but not
knowing that the whole aspect of the world was changed to her by those
few words which her lover had spoken to her. She thought now that it
would be consolation enough to her in future to know that such a man as
Brooke Burgess had once asked her to be the partner of his life, and
that it would be almost ungenerous in her to push her advantage further
and attempt to take him at his word. Besides, there would be obstacles.
Her aunt would dislike such a marriage for him, and he would be bound
to obey her aunt in such a matter. She would not allow herself to think
that she could ever become Brooke's wife, but nothing could rob her of
the treasure of the offer which he had made her. Then Martha came to
her at five o'clock, and she went to her bed to dream for an hour or
two of Brooke Burgess and her future life.

On the next morning she met him at breakfast. She went down stairs
later than usual, not till ten, having hung about her aunt's room,
thinking that thus she would escape him for the present. She would wait
till he was gone out, and then she would go down. She did wait; but she
could not hear the front door, and then her aunt murmured something
about Brooke's breakfast. She was told to go down, and she went. But
when on the stairs she slunk back to her own room, and stood there for
awhile, aimless, motionless, not knowing what to do. Then one of the
girls came to her, and told her that Mr Burgess was waiting breakfast
for her. She knew not what excuse to make, and at last descended slowly
to the parlour. She was very happy, but had it been possible for her to
have run away she would have gone.

'Dear Dorothy,' he said at once. 'I may call you so, may I not?'

'Oh yes.'

'And you will love me and be my own, own wife?'

'No, Mr Burgess.'

'No?'

'I mean that is to say--'

'Do you love me, Dorothy?'

'Only think how ill Aunt Stanbury is, Mr Burgess; perhaps dying! How
can I have any thought now except about her? It wouldn't be right would
it?'

'You may say that you love me.'

'Mr Burgess, pray, pray don't speak of it now. If you do I must go
away.'

'But do you love me?'

'Pray, pray don't, Mr Burgess!'

There was nothing more to be got from her during the whole day than
that. He told her in the evening that as soon as Miss Stanbury was
well, he would come again that in any case he would come again. She sat
quite still as he said this, with a solemn face but smiling at heart,
laughing at heart, so happy! When she got up to leave him, and was
forced to give him her hand, he seized her in his arms and kissed her.
'That is very, very wrong,' she said, sobbing, and then ran to her room
the happiest girl in all Exeter. He was to start early on the following
morning, and she knew that she would not be forced to see him again.
Thinking of him was so much pleasanter than seeing him!



CHAPTER LII - MR OUTHOUSE COMPLAINS THAT IT'S HARD

Life had gone on during the winter at St Diddulph's Parsonage in a
dull, weary, painful manner. There had come a letter in November from
Trevelyan to his wife, saying that as he could trust neither her nor
her uncle with the custody of his child, he should send a person armed
with due legal authority, addressed to Mr Outhouse, for the recovery of
the boy, and desiring that little Louis might be at once surrendered to
the messenger. Then of course there had arisen great trouble in the
house. Both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora Rowley had learned by this time
that, as regarded the master of the house, they were not welcome guests
at St Diddulph's. When the threat was shewn to Mr Outhouse, he did not
say a word to indicate that the child should be given up. He muttered
something, indeed, about impotent nonsense, which seemed to imply that
the threat could be of no avail; but there was none of that reassurance
to be obtained from him which a positive promise on his part to hold
the bairn against all corners would have given. Mrs Outhouse told her
niece more than once that the child would be given to no messenger
whatever; but even she did not give the assurance with that energy
which the mother would have liked. 'They shall drag him away from me by
force if they do take him!' said the mother, gnashing her teeth. Oh, if
her father would but come! For some weeks she did not let the boy out
of her sight; but when no messenger had presented himself by Christmas
time, they all began to believe that the threat had in truth meant
nothing that it had been part of the ravings of a madman.

But the threat had meant something. Early on one morning in January Mr
Outhouse was told that a person in the hall wanted to see him, and Mrs
Trevelyan, who was sitting at breakfast, the child being at the moment
upstairs, started from her seat. The maid described the man as being
'All as one as a gentleman,' though she would not go so far as to say
that he was a gentleman in fact. Mr Outhouse slowly rose from his
breakfast, went out to the man in the passage, and bade him follow into
the little closet that was now used as a study. It is needless perhaps
to say that the man was Bozzle.

'I dare say, Mr Houthouse, you don't know me,' said Bozzle. Mr
Outhouse, disdaining all complimentary language, said that he certainly
did not. 'My name, Mr Houthouse, is Samuel Bozzle, and I live at No.
55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. I was in the Force once, but I
work on my own 'ook now.'

'What do you want with me, Mr Bozzle?'

'It isn't so much with you, sir, as it is with a lady as is under your
protection; and it isn't so much with the lady as it is with her
infant.'

'Then you may go away, Mr Bozzle,' said Mr Outhouse, impatiently. 'You
may as well go away at once.'

'Will you please read them few lines, sir,' said Mr Bozzle. 'They is in
Mr Trewilyan's handwriting, which will no doubt be familiar characters
leastways to Mrs T., if you don't know the gent's fist.' Mr Outhouse,
after looking at the paper for a minute, and considering deeply what in
this emergency he had better do, did take the paper and read it. The
words ran as follows: 'I hereby give full authority to Mr Samuel
Bozzle, of 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, to claim and to
enforce possession of the body of my child, Louis Trevelyan; and I
require that any person whatsoever who may now have the custody of the
said child, whether it be my wife or any of her friends, shall at once
deliver him up to Mr Bozzle on the production of this authority LOUIS
TREVELYAN.' It may be explained that before this document had been
written there had been much correspondence on the subject between
Bozzle and his employer. To give the ex-policeman his due, he had not
at first wished to meddle in the matter of the child. He had a wife at
home who expressed an opinion with much vigour that the boy should be
left with its mother, and that he, Bozzle, should he succeed in getting
hold of the child, would not know what to do with it. Bozzle was aware,
moreover, that it was his business to find out facts, and not to
perform actions. But his employer had become very urgent with him. Mr
Bideawhile had positively refused to move in the matter; and Trevelyan,
mad as he was, had felt a disinclination to throw his affairs into the
hands of a certain Mr Skint, of Stamford Street, whom Bozzle had
recommended to him as a lawyer. Trevelyan had hinted, moreover, that if
Bozzle would make the application in person, that application, if not
obeyed, would act with usefulness as a preliminary step for further
personal measures to be taken by himself. He intended to return to
England for the purpose, but he desired that the order for the child's
rendition should be made at once. Therefore Bozzle had come. He was an
earnest man, and had now worked himself up. to a certain degree of
energy in the matter. He was a man loving power, and specially anxious
to enforce obedience from those with whom he came in contact by the
production of the law's mysterious authority. In his heart he was ever
tapping people on the shoulder, and telling them that they were wanted.
Thus, when he displayed his document to Mr Outhouse, he had taught
himself at least to desire that that document should be obeyed.

Mr Outhouse read the paper and turned up his nose at it. 'You had
better go away,' said he, as he thrust it back into Bozzle's hand.

'Of course I shall go away when I have the child.'

'Psha!' said Mr Outhouse.

'What does that mean, Mr Houthouse? I presume you'll not dispute the
paternal parent's legal authority?'

'Go away, sir,' said Mr Outhouse.

'Go away!'

'Yes out of this house. It's my belief that you're a knave.'

'A knave, Mr Houthouse?'

'Yes a knave. No one who was not a knave would lend a hand towards
separating a little child from its mother. I think you are a knave, but
I don't think you are fool enough to suppose that the child will he
given up to you.'

'It's my belief that knave is hactionable,' said Bozzle whose respect,
however, for the clergyman was rising fast. 'Would you mind ringing the
bell, Mr Houthouse, and calling me a knave again before the young
woman?'

'Go away,' said Mr Outhouse.

'If you have no objection, sir, I should be glad to see the lady before
I goes.'

'You won't see any lady here; and if you don't get out of my house when
I tell you, I'll send for a real policeman.' Then was Bozzle conquered;
and, as he went, he admitted to himself that he had sinned against all
the rules of his life in attempting to go beyond the legitimate line of
his profession. As long as he confined himself to the getting up of
facts nobody could threaten him with 'a real policeman.' But one fact
he had learned to-day. The clergyman of St Diddulph's, who had been
represented to him as a weak, foolish man, was anything but that.
Bozzle was much impressed in favour of Mr Outhouse, and would have been
glad to have done that gentleman a kindness had an opportunity come in
his way.

'What does he want, Uncle Oliphant?' said Mrs Trevelyan at the foot of
the stairs, guarding the way up to the nursery. At this moment the
front door had just been closed behind the back of Mr Bozzle.

'You had better ask no questions,' said Mr Outhouse.

'But is it about Louis?'

'Yes, he came about him.'

'Well? Of course you must tell me, Uncle Oliphant. Think of my
condition.'

'He had some stupid paper in his hand from your husband, but it meant
nothing.'

'He was the messenger, then?'

'Yes, he was the messenger. But I don't suppose he expected to get
anything. Never mind. Go up and look after the child.' Then Mrs
Trevelyan returned to her boy, and Mr Outhouse went back to his papers.

It was very hard upon him, Mr Outhouse thought very hard. He was
threatened with an action now, and most probably would become subject
to one. Though he had been spirited enough in presence of the enemy, he
was very much out of spirits at this moment. Though he had admitted to
himself that his duty required him to protect his wife's niece, he had
never taken the poor woman to his heart with a loving, generous feeling
of true guardianship. Though he would not give up the child to Bozzle,
he thoroughly wished that the child was out of his house. Though he
called Bozzle a knave and Trevelyan a madman, still he considered that
Colonel Osborne was the chief sinner, and that Emily Trevelyan had
behaved badly. He constantly repeated to himself the old adage, that
there was no smoke without fire; and lamented the misfortune that had
brought him into close relation with things and people that were so
little to his taste. He sat for awhile, with a pen in his hand, at the
miserable little substitute for a library table which had been provided
for him, and strove to collect his thoughts and go on with his work.
But the effort was in vain. Bozzle would be there, presenting his
document, and begging that the maid might be rung for, in order that
she might hear him called a knave. And then he knew that on this very
day his niece intended to hand him money, which he could not refuse. Of
what use would it be to refuse it now, after it had been once taken? As
he could not write a word, he rose and went away to his wife.

'If this goes on much longer,' said he, 'I shall be in Bedlam.'

'My dear, don't speak of it in that way!'

'That's all very well. I suppose I ought to say that I like it. There
has been a policeman here who is going to bring an action against me.'

'A policeman!'

'Some one that her husband has sent for the child.'

'The boy must not be given up, Oliphant.'

'It's all very well to say that, but I suppose we must obey the law.
The Parsonage of St Diddulph's isn't a castle in the Apennines. When it
comes to this, that a policeman is sent here to fetch any man's child,
and threatens me with an action because I tell him to leave my house,
it is very hard upon me, seeing how very little I've had to do with it.
It's all over the parish now that my niece is kept here away from her
husband, and that a lover comes to see her. This about a policeman will
be known now, of course. I only say it is hard; that's all.' The wife
did all that she could to comfort him, reminding him that Sir Marmaduke
would be home soon, and that then the burden would be taken from his
shoulders. But she was forced to admit that it was very hard.



CHAPTER LIII - HUGH STANBURY IS SHEWN TO BE NO CONJUROR

Many weeks had now passed since Hugh Stanbury had paid his visit to St
Diddulph's, and Nora Rowley was beginning to believe that her rejection
of her lover had been so firm and decided that she would never see him
or hear from him more and she had long since confessed to herself that
if she did not see him or hear from him soon, life would not be worth a
straw to her. To all of us a single treasure counts for much more when
the outward circumstances of our life are dull, unvaried, and
melancholy, than it does when our days are full of pleasure, or
excitement, or even of business. With Nora Rowley at St Diddulph's life
at present was very melancholy. There was little or no society to
enliven her. Her sister was sick at heart, and becoming ill in health
under the burden of her troubles. Mr Outhouse was moody and wretched;
and Mrs Outhouse, though she did her best to make her house comfortable
to her unwelcome inmates, could not make it appear that their presence
there was a pleasure to her. Nora understood better than did her sister
how distasteful the present arrangement was to their uncle, and was
consequently very uncomfortable on that score. And in the midst of that
unhappiness, she of course told herself that she was a young woman
miserable and unfortunate altogether. It is always so with us. The
heart when it is burdened, though it may have ample strength to bear
the burden, loses its buoyancy and doubts its own power. It is like the
springs of a carriage which are pressed flat by the superincumbent
weight. But, because the springs are good, the weight is carried
safely, and they are the better afterwards for their required purposes
because of the trial to which they have been subjected.

Nora had sent her lover away, and now at the end of three months from
the day of his dismissal she had taught herself to believe that he
would never come again. Amidst the sadness of her life at St Diddulph's
some confidence in a lover expected to come again would have done much
to cheer her. The more she thought of Hugh Stanbury, the more fully she
became convinced that he was the man who as a lover, as a husband, and
as a companion, would just suit all her tastes. She endowed him
liberally with a hundred good gifts in the disposal of which Nature had
been much more sparing. She made for herself a mental portrait of him
more gracious in its flattery than ever was canvas coming from the hand
of a Court limner. She gave him all gifts of manliness, honesty, truth,
and energy, and felt regarding him that he was a Paladin such as
Paladins are in this age, that he was indomitable, sure of success, and
fitted in all respects to take the high position which he would
certainly win for himself. But she did not presume him to be endowed
with such a constancy as would make him come to seek her hand again.
Had Nora at this time of her life been living at the West-end of
London, and going out to parties three or four times a week, she would
have been quite easy about his coming. The springs would not have been
weighted so heavily, and her heart would have been elastic.

No doubt she had forgotten many of the circumstances of his visit and
of his departure. Immediately on his going she had told her sister that
he would certainly come again, but had said at the same time that his
coming could be of no use. He was so poor a man; and she though poorer
than he had been so little accustomed to poverty of life, that she had
then acknowledged to herself that she was not fit to be his wife.
Gradually, as the slow weeks went by her, there had come a change in
her ideas. She now thought that he never would come again; but that if
he did she would confess to him that her own views about life were
changed. 'I would tell him frankly that I could eat a crust with him in
any garret in London.' But this was said to herself never to her
sister. Emily and Mrs Outhouse had determined together that it would be
wise to abstain from all mention of Hugh Stanbury's name. Nora had felt
that her sister had so abstained, and this reticence had assisted in
producing the despair which had come upon her. Hugh, when he had left
her, had certainly given her encouragement to expect that he would
return. She had been sure then that he would return. She had been sure
of it, though she had told him that it would be useless. But now, when
these sad weeks had slowly crept over her head, when during the long
hours of the long days she had thought of him continually telling
herself that it was impossible that she should ever become the wife of
any man if she did not become his she assured herself that she had seen
and heard the last of him. She must surely have forgotten his hot words
and that daring embrace.

Then there came a letter to her. The question of the management of
letters for young ladies is handled very differently in different
houses. In some establishments the post is as free to young ladies as
it is to the reverend seniors of the household. In others it is
considered to be quite a matter of course that some experienced
discretion should sit in judgment on the correspondence of the
daughters of the family. When Nora Rowley was living with her sister in
Curzon Street, she would have been very indignant indeed had it been
suggested to her that there was any authority over her letters vested
in her sister. But now, circumstanced as she was at St Diddulph's, she
did understand that no letter would reach her without her aunt knowing
that it had come. All this was distasteful to her as were indeed all
the details of her life at St Diddulph's but she could not help
herself. Had her aunt told her that she should never be allowed to
receive a letter at all, she must have submitted till her mother had
come to her relief. The letter which reached her now was put into her
hands by her sister, but it had been given to Mrs Trevelyan by Mrs
Outhouse. 'Nora,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'here is a letter for you. I
think it is from Mr Stanbury.'

'Give it me,' said Nora greedily.

'Of course I will give it you. But I hope you do not intend to
correspond with him.'

'If he has written to me I shall answer him of course,' said Nora,
holding her treasure.

'Aunt Mary thinks that you should not do so till papa and mamma have
arrived.'

'If Aunt Mary is afraid of me let her tell me so, and I will contrive
to go somewhere else.' Poor Nora knew that this threat was futile.
There was no house to which she could take herself.

'She is not afraid of you at all, Nora. She only says that she thinks
you should not write to Mr Stanbury.' Then Nora escaped to the cold but
solitary seclusion of her bed-room and there she read her letter.

The reader may remember that Hugh Stanbury when he last left St
Diddulph's had not been oppressed by any of the gloomy reveries of a
despairing lover. He had spoken his mind freely to Nora, and had felt
himself justified in believing that he had not spoken in vain. He had
had her in his arms, and she had found it impossible to say that she
did not love him. But then she had been quite firm in her purpose to
give him no encouragement that she could avoid. She had said no word
that would justify him in considering that there was any engagement
between them; and, moreover, he had been warned not to come to the
house by its mistress. From day to day he thought of it all, now
telling himself that there was nothing to be done but to trust in her
fidelity till he should be in a position to offer her a fitting home,
and then reflecting that he could not expect such a girl as Nora Rowley
to wait for him, unless he could succeed in making her understand that
he at any rate intended to wait for her. On one day he would think that
good faith and proper consideration for Nora herself required him to
keep silent; on the next he would tell himself that such maudlin
chivalry as he was proposing to himself was sure to go to the wall and
be neither rewarded nor recognised. So at last he sat down and wrote
the following letter:



'Lincoln's Inn Fields, January, 186-.

Dearest Nora,

Ever since I last saw you at St Diddulph's, I have been trying to teach
myself what I ought to do in reference to you. Sometimes I think that
because I am poor I ought to hold my tongue. At others I feel sure that
I ought to speak out loud, because I love you so dearly. You may
presume that just at this moment the latter opinion is in the
ascendant.

As I do write I mean to be very bold so bold that if I am wrong you
will be thoroughly disgusted with me and will never willingly see me
again. But I think it best to be true, and to say what I think. I do
believe that you love me. According to all precedent I ought not to say
so but I do believe it. Ever since I was at St Diddulph's that belief
has made me happy though there have been moments of doubt. If I thought
that you did not love me, I would trouble you no further. A man may win
his way to love when social circumstances are such as to throw him and
the girl together; but such is not the case with us; and unless you
love me now, you never will love me.' 'I do I do!' said Nora, pressing
the letter to her bosom. 'If you do, I think that you owe it me to say
so, and to let me have all the joy and all the feeling of
responsibility which such arm assurance will give me.' 'I will tell him
so,' said Nora; 'I don't care what may come afterwards, but I will tell
him the truth.' 'I know,' continued Hugh, 'that an engagement with me
now would be hazardous, because what I earn is both scanty and
precarious; but it seems to me that nothing could ever be done without
some risk. There are risks of different kinds.' She wondered whether he
was thinking when he wrote this of the rock on which her sister's
barque had been split to pieces 'and we may hardly hope to avoid them
all. For myself, I own that life would be tame to me, if there were no
dangers to be overcome.

If you do love me, and will say so, I will not ask you to be my wife
till I can give you a proper home; but the knowledge that I am the
master of the treasure which I desire will give me a double energy, and
will make me feel that when I have gained so much I cannot fail of
adding to it all other smaller things that may be necessary.

Pray pray send me an answer. I cannot reach you except by writing, as I
was told by your aunt not to come to the house again.

Dearest Nora, pray believe

That I shall always be truly yours only,

HUGH STANBURY.'



Write to him! Of course she would write to him. Of course she would
confess to him the truth. 'He tells me that I owe it to him to say so,
and I acknowledge the debt,' she said aloud to herself. 'And as for a
proper home, he shall be the judge of that.' She resolved that she
would not be a fine lady, not fastidious, not coy, not afraid to take
her full share of the risk of which he spoke in such manly terms. 'It
is quite true. As he has been able to make me love him, I have no right
to stand aloof even if I wished it.' As she was walking up and down the
room so resolving her sister came to her.

'Well, dear!' said Emily. 'May I ask what it is he says?'

Nora paused a moment, holding the letter tight in her hand, and then
she held it out to her sister. 'There it is. You may read it.' Mrs
Trevelyan took the letter and read it slowly, during which Nora stood
looking out of the window. She would not watch her sister's face, as
she did not wish to have to reply to any outward signs of disapproval.
'Give it me back,' she said, when she heard by the refolding of the
paper that the perusal was finished.

'Of course I shall give it you back, dear.'

'Yes thanks. I did not mean to doubt you.'

'And what will you do, Nora?'

'Answer it of course.'

'I would think a little before I answered it,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'I have thought a great deal, already.'

'And how will you answer it?'

Nora paused again before she replied. 'As nearly as I know how to do in
such words as he would put into my mouth. I shall strive to write just
what I think he would wish me to write.'

'Then you will engage yourself to him, Nora?'

'Certainly I shall. I am engaged to him already. I have been ever since
he came here.'

'You told me that there was nothing of the kind.'

'I told you that I loved him better than anybody in the world, and that
ought to have made you know what it must come to. When I am thinking of
him every day, and every hour, how can I not be glad to have an
engagement settled with him? I couldn't marry anybody else, and I don't
want to remain as I am.' The tears came into the married sister's eyes,
and rolled down her cheeks, as this was said to her. Would it not have
been better for her had she remained as she was? 'Dear Emily,' said
Nora, 'you have got Louey still.'

'Yes and they mean to take him from me. But I do not wish to speak of
myself. Will you postpone your answer till mamma is here?'

'I cannot do that, Emily. What; receive such a letter as that, and send
no reply to it!'

'I would write a line for you, and explain--'

'No, indeed, Emily. I choose to answer my own letters. I have shewn you
that, because I trust you; but I have fully made up my mind as to what
I shall write. It will have been written and sent before dinner.'

'I think you will be wrong, Nora.'

'Why wrong! When I came over here to stay with you, would mamma ever
have thought of directing me not to accept any offer till her consent
had been obtained all the way from the Mandarins? She would never have
dreamed of such a thing.'

'Will you ask Aunt Mary?'

'Certainly not. What is Aunt Mary to me? We are here in her house for a
time, under the press of circumstances; but I owe her no obedience. She
told Mr Stanbury not to come here; and he has not come; and I shall not
ask him to come. I would not willingly bring any one into Uncle
Oliphant's house that he and she do not wish to see. But I will not
admit that either of them have any authority over me.'

'Then who has, dearest?'

'Nobody except papa and mamma; and they have chosen to leave me to
myself.'

Mrs Trevelyan found it impossible to shake her sister's firmness, and
could herself do nothing, except tell Mrs Outhouse what was the state
of affairs. 'When she said that she should do this, there almost came
to be a flow of high words between the sisters; but at last Nora
assented. 'As for knowing, I don't care if all the world knows it. I
shall do nothing in a corner. I don't suppose Aunt Mary will endeavour
to prevent my posting my letter.'

Emily at last went to seek Mrs Outhouse, and Nora at once sat down to
her desk. Neither of the sisters felt at all sure that Mrs Outhouse
would not attempt to stop the emission of the letter from her house;
but, as it happened, she was out, and did not return till Nora had come
back from her journey to the neighbouring post-office. She would trust
her letter, when written, to no hands but her own; and as she herself
dropped it into the safe custody of the Postmaster-General, it also
shall be revealed to the public:



'Parsonage, St Diddulph's, January, 186-.

DEAR HUGH,

For I suppose I may as well write to you in that way now. I have been
made so happy by your affectionate letter. Is not that a candid
confession for a young lady? But you tell me that I owe you the truth,
and so I tell you the truth. Nobody will ever be anything to me, except
you; and you are everything. I do love you; and should it ever be
possible, I will become your wife.

I have said so much, because I feel that I ought to obey the order you
have given me; but pray do not try to see me or write to me till mamma
has arrived. She and papa will be here in the spring quite early in the
spring, we hope; and then you may come to us. What they may say, of
course, I cannot tell; but I shall be true to you.

Your own, with truest affection,

NORA.

Of course, you knew that I loved you, and I don't think that you are a
conjuror at all.'



As soon as ever the letter was written, she put on her bonnet, and went
forth with it herself to the post-office. Mrs Trevelyan stopped her on
the stairs, and endeavoured to detain her, but Nora would not be
detained. 'I must judge for myself about this,' she said. 'If mamma
were here, it would be different, but, as she is not here, I must judge
for myself.'

What Mrs Outhouse might have done had she been at home at the time, it
would be useless to surmise. She was told what had happened when it
occurred, and questioned Nora on the subject. 'I thought I understood
from you,' she said, with something of severity in her countenance,
'that there was to be nothing between you and Mr Stanbury at any rate,
till my brother came home?'

'I never pledged myself to anything of the kind, Aunt Mary,' Nora said.
'I think he promised that he would not come here, and I don't suppose
that he means to come. If he should do so, I shall not see him.'

With this Mrs Outhouse was obliged to be content. The letter was gone,
and could not be stopped. Nor, indeed, had any authority been delegated
to her by which she would have been justified in stopping it. She could
only join her husband in wishing that they both might be relieved, as
soon as possible, from the terrible burden which had been thrown upon
them. 'I call it very hard,' said Mr Outhouse 'very hard, indeed. If we
were to desire them to leave the house, everybody would cry out upon us
for our cruelty; and yet, while they remain here, they will submit
themselves to no authority. As far as I can see, they may, both of
them, do just what they please, and we can't stop it.'



CHAPTER LIV - MR GIBSON'S THREAT

Miss Stanbury for a long time persisted in being neither better nor
worse. Sir Peter would not declare her state to be precarious, nor
would he say that she was out of danger; and Mr Martin had been so
utterly prostrated by the nearly-fatal effects of his own mistake that
he was quite unable to rally himself and talk on the subject with any
spirit or confidence. When interrogated he would simply reply that Sir
Peter said this and Sir Peter said that, and thus add to, rather than
diminish, the doubt, and excitement, and varied opinion which prevailed
through the city. On one morning it was absolutely asserted within the
limits of the Close that Miss Stanbury was dying and it was believed
for half a day at the bank that she was then lying in articulo mortis.
There had got about, too, a report that a portion of the property had
only been left to Miss Stanbury for her life, that the Burgesses would
be able to reclaim the houses in the city, and that a will had been
made altogether in favour of Dorothy, cutting out even Brooke from any
share in the inheritance and thus Exeter had a good deal to say
respecting the affairs and state of health of our old friend. Miss
Stanbury's illness, however, was true enough. She was much too ill to
hear anything of what was going on too ill to allow Martha to talk to
her at all about the outside public. When the invalid herself would ask
questions about the affairs of the world, Martha would be very discreet
and turn away from the subject. Miss Stanbury, for instance, ill as she
was, exhibited a most mundane interest, not exactly in Camilla French's
marriage, but in the delay which that marriage seemed destined to
encounter. 'I dare say he'll slip out of it yet,' said the sick lady to
her confidential servant. Then Martha had thought it right to change
the subject, feeling it to be wrong that an old lady on her death-bed
should be taking joy in the disappointment of her young neighbour.
Martha changed the subject, first to jelly, and then to the psalms of
the day. Miss Stanbury was too weak to resist; but the last verse of
the last psalm of the evening had hardly been finished before she
remarked that she would never believe it till she saw it. 'It's all in
the hands of Him as is on high, mum,' said Martha, turning her eyes up
to the ceiling, and closing the book at the same time, with a look
strongly indicative of displeasure.

Miss Stanbury understood it all as well as though she were in perfect
health. She knew her own failings, was conscious of her worldly
tendencies, and perceived that her old servant was thinking of it. And
then sundry odd thoughts, half-digested thoughts, ideas too difficult
for her present strength, crossed her brain. Had it been wicked of her
when she was well to hope that a scheming woman should not succeed in
betraying a man by her schemes into an ill-assorted marriage; and if
not wicked then, was it wicked now because she was ill? And from that
thought her mind travelled on to the ordinary practices of death-bed
piety. Could an assumed devotion be of use to her now such a devotion
as Martha was enjoining upon her from hour to hour, in pure and
affectionate solicitude for her soul? She had spoken one evening of a
game of cards, saying that a game of cribbage would have consoled her.
Then Martha, with a shudder, had suggested a hymn, and had had recourse
at once to a sleeping draught. Miss Stanbury had submitted, but had
understood it all. If cards were wicked, she had indeed been a terrible
sinner. What hope could there be now, on her death-bed, for one so
sinful? And she could not repent of her cards, and would not try to
repent of them, not seeing the evil of them; and if they were innocent,
why should she not have the consolation now when she so much wanted it?
Yet she knew that the whole household, even Dorothy, would be in arms
against her, were she to suggest such a thing. She took the hymn and
the sleeping draught, telling herself that it would be best for her to
banish such ideas from her mind. Pastors and masters had laid down for
her a mode of living, which she had followed, but indifferently
perhaps, but still with an intention of obedience. They had also laid
down a mode of dying, and it would be well that she should follow that
as closely as possible. She would say nothing more about cards. She
would think nothing more of Camilla French. But, as she so resolved,
with intellect half asleep, with her mind wandering between fact and
dream, she was unconsciously comfortable with an assurance that if Mr
Gibson did marry Camilla French, Camilla French would lead him the very
devil of a life.

During three days Dorothy went about the house as quiet as a mouse,
sitting nightly at her aunt's bedside, and tending the sick woman with
the closest care. She, too, had been now and again somewhat startled by
the seeming worldliness of her aunt in her illness. Her aunt talked to
her about rents, and gave her messages for Brooke Burgess on subjects
which seemed to Dorothy to be profane when spoken of on what might
perhaps be a death-bed. And this struck her the more strongly, because
she had a matter of her own on which she would have much wished to
ascertain her aunt's opinion, if she had not thought that it would have
been exceedingly wrong of her to trouble her aunt's mind at such a time
by any such matter. Hitherto she had said not a word of Brooke's
proposal to any living being. At present it was a secret with herself,
but a secret so big that it almost caused her bosom to burst with the
load that it bore. She could not, she thought, write to Priscilla till
she had told her aunt. If she were to write a word on the subject to
any one, she could not fail to make manifest the extreme longing of her
own heart. She could not have written Brooke's name on paper, in
reference to his words to herself without covering it with epithets of
love. But all that must be known to no one if her love was to be of no
avail to her. And she had an idea that her aunt would not wish Brooke
to marry her would think that Brooke should do better; and she was
quite clear that in such a matter as this her aunt's wishes must be
law. Had not her aunt the power of disinheriting Brooke altogether? And
what then if her aunt should die should die now leaving Brooke at
liberty to do as he pleased? There was something so distasteful to her
in this view of the matter that she would not look at it. She would not
allow herself to think of any success which might possibly accrue to
herself by reason of her aunt's death. Intense as was the longing in
her heart for permission from those in authority over her to give
herself to Brooke Burgess, perfect as was the earthly Paradise which
appeared to be open to her when she thought of the good thing which had
befallen her in that matter, she conceived that she would be guilty of
the grossest ingratitude were she in any degree to curtail even her own
estimate of her aunt's prohibitory powers because of her aunt's
illness. The remembrance of the words which Brooke had spoken to her
was with her quite perfect. She was entirely conscious of the joy which
would he hers, if she might accept those words as properly sanctioned;
but she was a creature in her aunt's hands according to her own ideas
of her own duties; and while her aunt was ill she could not even learn
what might be the behests which she would be called on to obey.

She was sitting one evening alone, thinking of all this, having left
Martha with her aunt, and was trying to reconcile the circumstances of
her life as it now existed with the circumstances as they had been with
her in the old days at Nuncombe Putney, wondering at herself in that
she should have a lover, and trying to convince herself that for her
this little episode of romance could mean nothing serious, when Martha
crept down into the room to her. Of late days the alteration might
perhaps be dated from the rejection of Mr Gibson Martha, who had always
been very kind, had become more respectful in her manner to Dorothy
than had heretofore been usual with her. Dorothy was quite aware of it,
and was not unconscious of a certain rise in the world which was
thereby indicated. 'If you please, miss,' said Martha, 'who do you
think is here?'

'But there is nobody with my aunt?' said Dorothy.

'She is sleeping like a babby, and I came down just for a moment. Mr
Gibson is here, miss in the house! He asked for your aunt, and when, of
course, he could not see her, he asked for you.' Dorothy for a few
minutes was utterly disconcerted, but at last she consented to see Mr
Gibson. 'I think it is best,' said Martha, 'because it is bad to be
fighting, and missus so ill. "Blessed are the peace-makers," miss, "for
they shall be called the children of God."' Convinced by this argument,
or by the working of her own mind, Dorothy directed that Mr Gibson
might be shewn into the room. When he came, she found herself unable to
address him. She remembered the last time in which she had seen him,
and was lost in wonder that he should be there. But she shook hands
with him, and went through some form of greeting in which no word was
uttered.

'I hope you will not think that I have done wrong,' said he, 'in
calling to ask after my old friend's state of health?'

'Oh dear, no,' said Dorothy, quite bewildered.

'I have known her for so very long, Miss Dorothy, that now in the hour
of her distress, and perhaps mortal malady, I cannot stop to remember
the few harsh words that she spoke to me lately.'

'She never means to be harsh, Mr Gibson.'

'Ah; well; no perhaps not. At any rate I have learned to forgive and
forget. I am afraid your aunt is very ill, Miss Dorothy.'

'She is ill, certainly, Mr Gibson.'

'Dear, dear! We are all as the grass of the field, Miss Dorothy here
to-day and gone to-morrow, as sparks fly upwards. Just fit to be cut
down and cast into the oven. Mr Jennings has been with her, I believe?'
Mr Jennings was the other minor canon.

'He comes three times a week, Mr Gibson.'

'He is an excellent young man a very good young man. It has been a
great comfort to me to have Jennings with me. But he's very young, Miss
Dorothy; isn't he?' Dorothy muttered something, purporting to declare,
that she was not acquainted with the exact circumstances of Mr
Jennings' age. 'I should be so glad to come if my old friend would
allow me,' said Mr Gibson, almost with a sigh. Dorothy was clearly of
opinion that any change at the present would be bad for her aunt, but
she did not know how to express her opinion; so she stood silent and
looked at him. 'There needn't be a word spoken, you know, about the
ladies at Heavitree,' said Mr Gibson.

'Oh dear, no,' said Dorothy. And yet she knew well that there would be
such words spoken if Mr Gibson were to make his way into her aunt's
room. Her aunt was constantly alluding to the ladies at Heavitree, in
spite of all the efforts of her old servant to restrain her.

'There was some little misunderstanding,' said Mr Gibson; 'but all that
should be over now. We both intended for the best, Miss Dorothy; and
I'm sure nobody here can say that I wasn't sincere.' But Dorothy,
though she could not bring herself to answer Mr Gibson plainly, could
not be induced to assent to his proposition. She muttered something
about her aunt's weakness, and the great attention which Mr Jennings
shewed. Her aunt had become very fond of Mr Jennings, and she did at
last express her opinion, with some clearness, that her aunt should not
be disturbed by any changes at present. 'After that I should not think
of pressing it, Miss Dorothy,' said Mr Gibson; 'but, still, I do hope
that I may have the privilege of seeing her yet once again in the
flesh. And touching my approaching marriage, Miss Dorothy--' He paused,
and Dorothy felt that she was blushing up to the roots of her hair.
'Touching my marriage,' continued Mr Gibson, 'which however will not be
solemnized till the end of March;'--it was manifest that he regarded
this as a point that would in that household be regarded as an argument
in his favour--'I do hope that you will look upon it in the most
favourable light and your excellent aunt also, if she be spared to us.'

'I am sure we hope that you will be happy, Mr Gibson.'

'What was I to do, Miss Dorothy? I know that I have been very much
blamed but so unfairly! I have never meant to be untrue to a mouse,
Miss Dorothy.' Dorothy did not at all understand whether she were the
mouse, or Camilla French, or Arabella. 'And it is so hard to find that
one is ill-spoken of because things have gone a little amiss.' It was
quite impossible that Dorothy should make any answer to this, and at
last Mr Gibson left her, assuring her with his last word that nothing
would give him so much pleasure as to be called upon once more to see
his old friend in her last moments.

Though Miss Stanbury had been described as sleeping 'like a babby,' she
had heard the footsteps of a strange man in the house, and had made
Martha tell her whose footsteps they were. As soon as Dorothy went to
her, she darted upon the subject with all her old keenness.

'What did he want here, Dolly?'

'He said he would like to see you, aunt when you are a little better,
you know. He spoke a good deal of his old friendship and respect.'

'He should have thought of that before. How am I to see people now?'

'But when you are better, aunt ?'

'How do I know that I shall ever be better? He isn't off with those
people at Heavitree is he?'

'I hope not, aunt.'

'Psha! A poor, weak, insufficient creature that's what he is. Mr
Jennings is worth twenty of him.' Dorothy, though she put the question
again in its most alluring form of Christian charity and forgiveness,
could not induce her aunt to say that she would see Mr Gibson. 'How can
I see him, when you know that Sir Peter has forbidden me to see
anybody, except Mrs Clifford and Mr Jennings?'

Two days afterwards there was an uncomfortable little scene at
Heavitree. It must, no doubt, have been the case, that the same train
of circumstances which had produced Mr Gibson's visit to the Close,
produced also the scene in question. It was suggested by some who were
attending closely to the matter that Mr Gibson had already come to
repent his engagement with Camilla French; and, indeed, there were
those who pretended to believe that he was induced, by the prospect of
Miss Stanbury's demise, to transfer his allegiance yet again, and to
bestow his hand upon Dorothy at last. There were many in the city who
could never be persuaded that Dorothy had refused him these being, for
the most part, ladies in whose estimation the value of a husband was
counted so great, and a beneficed clergyman so valuable among suitors,
that it was to their thinking impossible that Dorothy Stanbury should
in her sound senses have rejected such an offer. 'I don't believe a bit
of it,' said Mrs Crumbie to Mrs Apjohn; 'is it likely?' The ears of all
the French family were keenly alive to rumours, and to rumours of
rumours. Reports of these opinions respecting Mr Gibson reached
Heavitree, and had their effect. As long as Mr Gibson was behaving well
as a suitor, they were inoperative there. What did it matter to them
how the prize might have been struggled for might still be struggled
for elsewhere, while they enjoyed the consciousness of possession? But
when the consciousness of possession became marred by a cankerous
doubt, such rumours were very important. Camilla heard of the visit in
the Close, and swore that she would have justice done her. She gave her
mother to understand that, if any trick were played upon her, the
diocese should be made to ring of it, in a fashion that would astonish
them all, from the bishop downwards. Whereupon Mrs French, putting much
faith in her daughter's threats, sent for Mr Gibson.

'The truth is, Mr Gibson,' said Mrs French, when the civilities of
their first greeting had been completed, 'my poor child is pining.'

'Pining, Mrs French!'

'Yes pining, Mr Gibson. I am afraid that you little understand how
sensitive is that young heart. Of course, she is your own now. To her
thinking, it would be treason to you for her to indulge in conversation
with any other gentleman; but, then, she expects that you should spend
your evenings with her of course!'

'But, Mrs French think of my engagements, as a clergyman.'

'We know all about that, Mr Gibson. We know what a clergyman's calls
are. It isn't like a doctor's, Mr Gibson.'

'It's very often worse, Mrs French.'

'Why should you go calling in the Close, Mr Gibson?' Here was the gist
of the accusation.

'Wouldn't you have me make my peace with a poor dying sister?' pleaded
Mr Gibson.

'After what has occurred,' said Mrs French, shaking her head at him,
'and while things are just as they are now, it would be more like an
honest man of you to stay away. And, of course, Camilla feels it. She
feels it very much and she won't put up with it neither.'

'I think this is the cruellest, cruellest thing I ever heard,' said Mr
Gibson.

'It is you that are cruel, sir.'

Then the wretched man turned at bay. 'I tell you what it is, Mrs French
if I am treated in this way, I won't stand it. I won't, indeed. I'll go
away. I'm not going to be suspected, nor yet blown up. I think I've
behaved handsomely, at any rate to Camilla.'

'Quite so, Mr Gibson, if you would come and see her on evenings,' said
Mrs French, who was falling back into her usual state of timidity.

'But, if I'm to be treated in this way, I will go away. I've thoughts
of it as it is. I've been already invited to go to Natal, and if I hear
anything more of these accusations, I shall certainly make up my mind
to go.' Then he left the house, before Camilla could be down upon him
from her perch on the landing-place.



CHAPTER LV - THE REPUBLICAN BROWNING

Mr Glascock had returned to Naples after his sufferings in the
dining-room of the American Minister, and by the middle of February was
back again in Florence. His father was still alive, and it was said
that the old lord would now probably live through the winter. And it
was understood that Mr Glascock would remain in Italy. He had declared
that he would pass his time between Naples, Rome, and Florence; but it
seemed to his friends that Florence was, of the three, the most to his
taste. He liked his room, he said; at the York Hotel, and he liked
being in the capital. That was his own statement. His friends said that
he liked being with Carry Spalding, the daughter of the American
Minister; but none of them, then in Italy, were sufficiently intimate
with him to express that opinion to himself.

It had been expressed more than once to Carry Spalding. The world in
general says such things to ladies more openly than it does to men, and
the probability of a girl's success in matrimony is canvassed in her
hearing by those who are nearest to her with a freedom which can seldom
be used in regard to a man. A man's most intimate friend hardly speaks
to him of the prospect of his marriage till he himself has told that
the engagement exists. The lips of no living person had suggested to Mr
Glascock that the American girl was to become his wife; but a great
deal had been said to Carry Spalding about the conquest she had made.
Her uncle, her aunt, her sister, and her great friend Miss Petrie, the
poetess the Republican Browning as she was called had all spoken to her
about it frequently. Olivia had declared her conviction that the thing
was to be. Miss Petrie had, with considerable eloquence, explained to
her friend that that English title, which was but the clatter of a
sounding brass, should be regarded as a drawback rather than as an
advantage. Mrs Spalding, who was no poetess, would undoubtedly have
welcomed Mr Glascock as her niece's husband with all an aunt's energy.
When told by Miss Petrie that old Lord Peterborough was a tinkling
cymbal she snapped angrily at her gifted countrywoman. But she was too
honest a woman, and too conscious also of her niece's strength, to say
a word to urge her on. Mr Spalding as an American minister, with full
powers at the court of a European sovereign, felt that he had full as
much to give as to receive; but he was well inclined to do both. He
would have been much pleased to talk about his nephew Lord
Peterborough, and he loved his niece dearly. But by the middle of
February he was beginning to think that the matter had been long enough
in training. If the Honourable Glascock meant anything, why did he not
speak out his mind plainly? The American Minister in such matters was
accustomed to fewer ambages than were common in the circles among which
Mr Glascock had lived.

In the meantime Caroline Spalding was suffering. She had allowed
herself to think that Mr Glascock intended to propose to her, and had
acknowledged to herself that were he to do so she would certainly
accept him. All that she had seen of him, since the day on which he had
been courteous to her about the seat in the diligence, had been
pleasant to her. She had felt the charm of his manner, his education,
and his gentleness; and had told herself that with all her love for her
own country, she would willingly become an Englishwoman for the sake of
being that man's wife. But nevertheless the warnings of her great
friend, the poetess, had not been thrown away upon her. She would put
away from herself as far as she could any desire to become Lady
Peterborough. There should be no bias in the man's favour on that
score. The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass should be nothing to
her. But yet--yet what a chance was there here for her? 'They are
dishonest, and rotten at the core,' said Miss Petrie, trying to make
her friend understand that a free American should under no
circumstances place trust in an English aristocrat. 'Their country,
Carry, is a game played out, while we are still breasting the hill with
our young lungs full of air.' Carry Spalding was proud of her intimacy
with the Republican Browning; but nevertheless she liked Mr Glascock;
and when Mr Glascock had been ten days in Florence, on his third visit
to the city, and had been four or five times at the embassy without
expressing his intentions in the proper form, Carry Spalding began to
think that she had better save herself from a heartbreak while
salvation might be within her reach. She perceived that her uncle was
gloomy and almost angry when he spoke of Mr Glascock, and that her aunt
was fretful with disappointment. The Republican Browning had uttered
almost a note of triumph; and had it not been that Olivia persisted,
Carry Spalding would have consented to go away with Miss Petrie to
Rome. 'The old stones are rotten too,' said the poetess; 'but their
dust tells no lies.' That well known piece of hers 'Ancient Marbles,
while ye crumble,' was written at this time, and contained an occult
reference to Mr Glascock and her friend.

But Livy Spalding clung to the alliance. She probably knew her sister's
heart better than did the others; and perhaps also had a clearer
insight into Mr Glascock's character. She was at any rate clearly of
opinion that there should be no running away. 'Either you do like him,
or you don't. If you do, what are you to get by going to Rome?' said
Livy.

'I shall get quit of doubt and trouble.'

'I call that cowardice. I would never run away from a man, Carry. Aunt
Sophie forgets that they don't manage these things in England just as
we do.'

'I don't know why there should be a difference.'

'Nor do I only that there is. You haven't read so many of their novels
as I have.'

'Who would ever think of learning to live out of an English novel?'
said Carry.

'I am not saying that. You may teach him to live how you like
afterwards. But if you have anything to do with people it must be well
to know what their manners are. I think the richer sort of people in
England slide into these things more gradually than we do. You stand
your ground, Carry, and hold your own, and take the goods the gods
provide you.' Though Caroline Spalding opposed her sister's arguments,
and was particularly hard upon that allusion to 'the richer sort of
people,' which, as she knew, Miss Petrie would have regarded as
evidence of reverence for sounding brasses and tinkling cymbals
nevertheless she loved Livy dearly for what she said, and kissed the
sweet counsellor, and resolved that she would for the present decline
the invitation of the poetess. Then was Miss Petrie somewhat indignant
with her friend, and threw out her scorn in those lines which have been
mentioned.

But the American Minister hardly knew how to behave himself when he met
Mr Glascock, or even when he was called upon to speak of him. Florence
no doubt is a large city, and is now the capital of a great kingdom;
but still people meet in Florence much more frequently than they do in
Paris or in London. It may almost be said that they whose habit it is
to go into society, and whose circumstances bring them into the same
circles, will see each other every day. Now the American Minister
delighted to see and to be seen in all places frequented by persons of
a certain rank and position in Florence. Having considered the matter
much, he had convinced himself that he could thus best do his duty as
minister from the great Republic of Free States to the newest and as he
called it 'the free-est of the European kingdoms.' The minister from
France was a marquis; he from England was an earl; from Spain had come
a count and so on. In the domestic privacy of his embassy Mr Spalding
would be severe enough upon the sounding brasses and the tinkling
cymbals, and was quite content himself to be the Honourable Jonas G.
Spalding Honourable because selected by his country for a post of
honour; but he liked to be heard among the cymbals and seen among the
brasses, and to feel that his position was as high as theirs. Mr
Glascock also was frequently in the same circles, and thus it came to
pass that the two gentlemen saw each other almost daily. That Mr
Spalding knew well how to bear himself in his high place no one could
doubt; but he did not quite know how to carry himself before Mr
Glascock. At home at Boston he would have been more completely master
of the situation.

He thought too that he began to perceive that Mr Glascock avoided him,
though he would hear on his return home that that gentleman had been at
the embassy, or had been walking in the Cascine with his nieces. That
their young ladies should walk in public places with unmarried
gentlemen is nothing to American fathers and guardians. American young
ladies are accustomed to choose their own companions. But the minister
was tormented by his doubts as to the ways of Englishmen, and as to the
phase in which English habits might most properly exhibit themselves in
Italy. He knew that people were talking about Mr Glascock and his
niece. Why then did Mr Glascock avoid him? It was perhaps natural that
Mr Spalding should have omitted to observe that Mr Glascock was not
delighted by those lectures on the American constitution which formed
so large a part of his ordinary conversation with Englishmen.

It happened one afternoon that they were thrown together so closely for
nearly an hour that neither could avoid the other. They were both at
the old palace in which the Italian parliament is held, and were kept
waiting during some long delay in the ceremonies of the place. They
were seated next to each other, and during such delay there was nothing
for them but to talk. On the other side of each of them was a stranger,
and not to talk in such circumstances would be to quarrel. Mr Glascock
began by asking after the ladies.

'They are quite well, sir, thank you,' said the minister. 'I hope that
Lord Peterborough was pretty well when last you heard from Naples, Mr
Glascock.' Mr Glascock explained that his father's condition was not
much altered, and then there was silence for a moment.

'Your nieces will remain with you through the spring I suppose?' said
Mr Glascock.

'Such is their intention, sir.'

'They seem to like Florence, I think.'

'Yes yes; I think they do like Florence. They see this capital, sir,
perhaps under more favourable circumstances than are accorded to most
of my countrywomen. Our republican simplicity, Mr Glascock, has this
drawback, that away from home it subjects us somewhat to the cold shade
of unobserved obscurity. That it possesses merits which much more than
compensate for this trifling evil I should be the last man in Europe to
deny.' It is to be observed that American citizens are always prone to
talk of Europe. It affords the best counterpoise they know to that
other term, America and America and the United States are of course the
same. To speak of France or of England as weighing equally against
their own country seems to an American to be an absurdity and almost an
insult to himself. With Europe he can compare himself, but even this is
done generally in the style of the Republican Browning when she
addressed the Ancient Marbles.

'Undoubtedly,' said Mr Glascock, 'the family of a minister abroad has
great advantages in seeing the country to which he is accredited.'

'That is my meaning, sir. But, as I was remarking, we carry with us as
a people no external symbols of our standing at home. The wives and
daughters, sir, of the most honoured of our citizens have no
nomenclature different than that which belongs to the least noted among
us. It is perhaps a consequence of this that Europeans who are
accustomed in their social intercourse to the assistance of titles,
will not always trouble themselves to inquire who and what are the
American citizens who may sit opposite to them at table. I have known,
Mr Glascock, the wife and daughter of a gentleman who has been thrice
sent as senator from his native State to Washington, to remain as
disregarded in the intercourse of a European city, as though they had
formed part of the family of some grocer from your Russell Square!'

'Let the Miss Spaldings go where they will,' said Mr Glascock, 'they
will not fare in that way.'

'The Miss Spaldings, sir, are very much obliged to you,' said the
minister with a bow.

'I regard it as one of the luckiest chances of my life that I was
thrown in with them at St Michael as I was,' said Mr Glascock with
something like warmth.

'I am sure, sir, they will never forget the courtesy displayed by you
on that occasion,' said the minister bowing again.

'That was a matter of course. I and my friend would have done the same
for the grocer's wife and daughter of whom you spoke. Little services
such as that do not come from appreciation of merit, but are simply the
payment of the debt due by all men to all women.'

'Such is certainly the rule of living in our country, sir,' said Mr
Spalding.

'The chances are,' continued the Englishman, 'that no further
observation follows the payment of such a debt. It has been a thing of
course.'

'We delight to think it so, Mr Glascock, in our own cities.'

'But in this instance it has given rise to one of the pleasantest, and
as I hope most enduring friendships that I have ever formed,' said Mr
Glascock with enthusiasm. What could the American Minister do but bow
again three times? And what other meaning could he attach to such words
than that which so many of his friends had been attributing to Mr
Glascock for some weeks past? It had occurred to Mr Spalding, even
since he had been sitting in his present close proximity to Mr
Glascock, that it might possibly be his duty as an uncle having to deal
with an Englishman, to ask that gentleman what were his intentions. He
would do his duty let it be what it might; but the asking of such a
question would be very disagreeable to him. For the present he
satisfied himself with inviting his neighbour to come and drink tea
with Mrs Spalding on the next evening but one. 'The girls will be
delighted, I am sure,' said he, thinking himself to be justified in
this friendly familiarity by Mr Glascock's enthusiasm. For Mr Spalding
was clearly of opinion that, let the value of republican simplicity be
what it might, an alliance with the crumbling marbles of Europe would
in his niece's circumstances be not inexpedient. Mr Glascock accepted
the invitation with alacrity, and the minister when he was closeted
with his wife that evening declared his opinion that after all the
Britisher meant fighting. The aunt told the girls that Mr Glascock was
coming, and in order that it might not seem that a net was being
specially spread for him, others were invited to join the party. Miss
Petrie consented to be there, and the Italian, Count Buonarosci, to
whose presence, though she could not speak to him, Mrs Spalding was
becoming accustomed. It was painful to her to feel that she could not
communicate with those around her, and for that reason she would have
avoided Italians. But she had an idea that she could not thoroughly
realise the advantages of foreign travel unless she lived with
foreigners; and, therefore, she was glad to become intimate at any rate
with the outside of Count Buonarosci.

'I think your uncle is wrong, dear,' said Miss Petrie early in the day
to her friend.

'But why? He has done nothing more than what is just civil.'

'If Mr Glascock kept a store in Broadway he would not have thought it
necessary to shew the same civility.'

'Yes if we all liked the Mr Glascock who kept the store.'

'Caroline,' said the poetess with severe eloquence, 'can you put your
hand upon your heart and say that this inherited title, this tinkling
cymbal as I call it, has no attraction for you or yours? Is it the
unadorned simple man that you welcome to your bosom, or a thing of
stars and garters, a patch of parchment, the minion of a throne, the
lordling of twenty descents, in which each has been weaker than that
before it, the hero of a scutcheon, whose glory is in his quarterings,
and whose worldly wealth comes from the sweat of serfs whom the
euphonism of an effete country has learned to decorate with the name of
tenants?'

But Caroline Spalding had a spirit of her own, and had already made up
her mind that she would not be talked down by Miss Petrie. 'Uncle
Jonas,' said she, 'asks him because we like him; and would do so too if
he kept the store in Broadway. But if he did keep the store perhaps we
should not like him.'

'I trow not,' said Miss Petrie.

Livy was much more comfortable in her tactics, and without consulting
anybody sent for a hairdresser. 'It's all very well for Wallachia,'
said Livy Miss Petrie's name was Wallachia 'but I know a nice sort of
man when I see him, and the ways of the world are not to be altered
because Wally writes poetry.'

When Mr Glascock was announced, Mrs Spalding's handsome rooms were
almost filled, as rooms in Florence are filled obstruction in every
avenue, a crowd in every corner, and a block at every doorway, not
being among the customs of the place. Mr Spalding immediately caught
him intercepting him between the passages and the ladies and engaged
him at once in conversation.

'Your John S. Mill is a great man,' said the minister.

'They tell me so,' said Mr Glascock. 'I don't read what he writes
myself.'

This acknowledgment seemed to the minister to be almost disgraceful,
and yet he himself had never read a word of Mr Mill's writings. 'He is
a far-seeing man,' continued the minister. 'He is one of the few
Europeans who can look forward, and see how the rivers of civilization
are running on. He has understood that women must at last be put upon
an equality with men.'

'Can he manage that men shall have half the babies?' said Mr Glascock,
thinking to escape by an attempt at playfulness.

But the minister was down upon him at once had him by the lappet of his
coat, though he knew how important it was for his dear niece that he
should allow Mr Glascock to amuse himself this evening after another
fashion. 'I have an answer ready, sir, for that difficulty,' he
said.'step aside with me for a moment. The question is important, and I
should be glad if you would communicate my ideas to your great
philosopher. Nature, sir, has laid down certain laws, which are
immutable; and, against them--'

But Mr Glascock had not come to Florence for this. There were
circumstances in his present position which made him feel that he would
be gratified in escaping, even at the cost of some seeming incivility.
'I must go in to the ladies at once,' he said, 'or I shall never get a
word with them.' There came across the minister's brow a momentary
frown of displeasure, as though he felt that he were being robbed of
that which was justly his own. For an instant his grasp fixed itself
more tightly to the coat. It was quite within the scope of his courage
to hold a struggling listener by physical strength but he remembered
that there was a purpose, and he relaxed his hold.

'I will take another opportunity,' said the minister. 'As you have
raised that somewhat trite objection of the bearing of children, which
we in our country, sir, have altogether got over, I must put you in
possession of my views on that subject; but I will find another
occasion.' Then Mr Glascock began to reflect whether an American lady,
married in England, would probably want to see much of her uncle in her
adopted country.

Mrs Spalding was all smiles when her guest reached her. 'We did not
mean to have such a crowd of people,' she said, whispering; 'but you
know how one thing leads to another, and people here really like short
invitations.' Then the minister's wife bowed very low to an Italian
lady, and for the moment wished herself in Beacon Street. It was a
great trouble to her that she could not pluck up courage to speak a
word in Italian. 'I know more about it than some that are glib enough,'
she would say to her niece Livy, 'but these Tuscans are so particular
with their Bocca Tostana.'

It was almost spiteful on the part of Miss Petrie the manner in which,
on this evening, she remained close to her friend Caroline Spalding. It
is hardly possible to believe that it came altogether from high
principle from a determination to save her friend from an impending
danger. One's friend has no right to decide for one what is, and what
is not dangerous. Mr Glascock after awhile found himself seated on a
fixed couch, that ran along the wall, between Carry Spalding and Miss
Petrie; but Miss Petrie was almost as bad to him as had been the
minister himself. 'I am afraid,' she said, looking up into his face
with some severity, and rushing upon her subject with audacity, 'that
the works of your Browning have not been received in your country with
that veneration to which they are entitled.'

'Do you mean Mr or Mrs Browning?' asked Mr Glascock perhaps with some
mistaken idea that the lady was out of her depth, and did not know the
difference.

'Either both; for they are one, the same, and indivisible. The spirit
and germ of each is so reflected in the outcome of the other, that one
sees only the result of so perfect a combination, and one is tempted to
acknowledge that here and there a marriage may have been arranged in
Heaven. I don't think that in your country you have perceived this, Mr
Glascock.'

'I am not quite sure that we have,' said Mr Glascock. 'Yours is not
altogether an inglorious mission,' continued Miss Petrie.

'I've got no mission,' said Mr Glascock 'either from the Foreign
Office, or from my own inner convictions.'

Miss Petrie laughed with a scornful laugh. 'I spoke, sir, of the
mission of that small speck on the earth's broad surface, of which you
think so much, and which we call Great Britain.'

'I do think a good deal of it,' said Mr Glascock.

'It has been more thought of than any other speck of the same size,'
said Carry Spalding.

'True,' said Miss Petrie, sharply 'because of its iron and coal. But
the mission I spoke of was this.' And she put forth her hand with an
artistic motion as she spoke. 'It utters prophecies, though it cannot
read them. It sends forth truth, though it cannot understand it. Though
its own ears are deaf as adder's, it is the nursery of poets, who sing
not for their own countrymen, but for the higher sensibilities and
newer intelligences of lands, in which philanthropy has made education
as common as the air that is breathed.'

'Wally,' said Olivia, coming up to the poetess, in anger that was
almost apparent, 'I want to take you, and introduce you to the Marchesa
Pulti.'

But Miss Petrie no doubt knew that the eldest son of an English lord
was at least as good as an Italian marchesa. 'Let her come here,' said
the poetess, with her grandest smile.



CHAPTER LVI - WITHERED GRASS

When Caroline Spalding perceived how direct an attempt had been made by
her sister to take the poetess away, in order that she might thus be
left alone with Mr Glascock, her spirit revolted against the manoeuvre,
and she took herself away amidst the crowd. If Mr Glascock should wish
to find her again he could do so. And there came across her mind
something of a half-formed idea that, perhaps after all her friend
Wallachia was right. Were this man ready to take her and she ready to
be taken, would such an arrangement be a happy one for both of them?
His high-born, wealthy friends might very probably despise her, and it
was quite possible that she also might despise them. To be Lady
Peterborough, and have the spending of a large fortune, would not
suffice for her happiness. She was sure of that. It would be a leap in
the dark' and all such leaps must needs be dangerous, and therefore
should be avoided. But she did like the man. Her friend was untrue to
her and cruel in those allusions to tinkling cymbals. It might be well
for her to get over her liking, and to think no more of one who was to
her a foreigner and a stranger of whose ways of living in his own home
she knew so little, whose people might be antipathetic to her, enemies
instead of friends, among whom her life would be one long misery; but
it was not on that ground that Miss Petrie had recommended her to start
for Rome as soon as Mr Glascock had reached Florence. 'There is no
reason,' she said to herself, 'why I should not marry a man if I like
him, even though he be a lord. And of him I should not be the least
afraid. It's the women that I fear.' And then she called to mind all
that she had ever heard of English countesses and duchesses. She
thought that she knew that they were generally cold and proud, and very
little given to receive outsiders graciously within their ranks. Mr
Glascock had an aunt who was a Duchess, and a sister who would be a
Countess. Caroline Spalding felt how her back would rise against these
new relations, if it should come to pass that they should look unkindly
upon her when she was taken to her own home how she would fight with
them, giving them scorn for scorn; how unutterably miserable she would
be; how she would long to be back among her own equals, in spite even
of her love for her husband. 'How grand a thing it is,' she said, 'to
be equal with those whom you love!' And yet she was to some extent
allured by the social position of the man. She could perceive that he
had a charm of manner which her countrymen lacked. He had read,
perhaps, less than her uncle knew, perhaps, less than most of those men
with whom she had been wont to associate in her own city life at home
was not braver, or more virtuous, or more self-denying than they; but
there was a softness and an ease in his manner which was palatable to
her, and an absence of that too visible effort of the intellect which
is so apt to mark and mar the conversation of Americans. She almost
wished that she had been English, in order that the man's home and
friends might have suited her. She was thinking of all this as she
stood pretending to talk to an American lady, who was very eloquent on
the delights of Florence.

In the meantime Olivia and Mr Glascock had moved away together, and
Miss Petrie was left alone. This was no injury to Miss Petrie, as her
mind at once set itself to work on a sonnet touching the frivolity of
modern social gatherings; and when she complained afterwards to
Caroline that it was the curse of their mode of life that no moment
could be allowed for thought in which she referred specially to a few
words that Mr Gore had addressed to her at this moment of her
meditations she was not wilfully a hypocrite. She was painfully turning
her second set of rhymes, and really believed that she had been
subjected to a hardship. In the meantime Olivia and Mr Glascock were
discussing her at a distance.

'You were being put through your facings, Mr Glascock,' Olivia had
said.

'Well; yes; and your dear friend, Miss Petrie, is rather a stern
examiner.'

'She is Carry's ally not mine,' said Olivia. Then she remembered that
by saying this she might be doing her sister an injury. Mr Glascock
might object to such a bosom friend for his wife. 'That is to say, of
course we are all intimate with her? but just at this moment Carry is
most in favour.'

'She is very clever, I am quite sure,' said he.

'Oh yes she's a genius. You must not doubt that on the peril of making
every American in Italy your enemy.'

'She is a poet is she not?'

'Mr Glascock!'

'Have I said anything wrong?' he asked.

'Do you mean to look me in the face and tell me that you are not
acquainted with her works that you don't know pages of them by heart
that you don't sleep with them under your pillow, don't travel about
with them in your dressing-bag? I'm afraid we have mistaken you, Mr
Glascock.'

'Is it so great a sin?'

'If you'll own up honestly, I'll tell you something in a whisper. You
have not read a word of her poems?'

'Not a word.'

'Neither have I. Isn't it horrible? But, perhaps, if I heard Tennyson
talking every day, I shouldn't read Tennyson. Familiarity does breed
contempt doesn't it? And then poor dear Wallachia is such a bore. I
sometimes wonder, when English people are listening to her, whether
they think that American girls generally talk like that.'

'Not all, perhaps, with that perfected eloquence.'

'I dare say you do,' continued Olivia, craftily. 'That is just the way
in which people form their opinions about foreigners. Some specially
self-asserting American speaks his mind louder than other people, and
then you say that all Americans are self-asserting.'

'But you are a little that way given, Miss Spalding.'

'Because we are always called upon to answer accusations against us,
expressed or unexpressed. We don't think ourselves a bit better than
you; or, if the truth were known, half as good. We are always
struggling to be as polished and easy as the French, or as sensible and
dignified as the English; but when our defects are thrown in our teeth
'

'Who throws them in your teeth, Miss Spalding?'

'You look it all of you if you do not speak it out. You do assume a
superiority, Mr Glascock; and that we cannot endure.'

'I do not feel that I  assume anything,' said Mr Glascock, meekly.

'If three gentlemen be together, an Englishman, a Frenchman, and an
American, is not the American obliged to be on his mettle to prove that
he is somebody among the three? I admit that he is always claiming to
be the first; but he does so only that he may not be too evidently the
last. If you knew us, Mr Glascock, you would find us to be very mild,
and humble, and nice, and good, and clever, and kind, and charitable,
and beautiful in short, the finest people that have as yet been created
on the broad face of God's smiling earth.' These last words she
pronounced with a nasal twang, and in a tone of voice which almost
seemed to him to be a direct mimicry of the American Minister. The
upshot of the conversation, however, was that the disgust against
Americans which, to a certain degree, had been excited in Mr Glascock's
mind by the united efforts of Mr Spalding and the poetess, had been
almost entirely dispelled. From all of which the reader ought to
understand that Miss Olivia Spalding was a very clever young woman.

But nevertheless Mr Glascock had not quite made up his mind to ask the
elder sister to be his wife. He was one of those men to whom
love-making does not come very easy, although he was never so much at
his ease as when he was in company with ladies. He was sorely in want
of a wife, but he was aware that at different periods during the last
fifteen years he had been angled for as a fish. Mothers in England had
tried to catch him, and of such mothers he had come to have the
strongest possible detestation. He had seen the hooks or perhaps had
fancied that he saw them when they were not there. Lady Janes and Lady
Sarahs had been hard upon him, till he learned to buckle himself into
triple armour when he went amongst them, and yet he wanted a wife no
man more sorely wanted one. The reader will perhaps remember how he
went down to Nuncombe Putney in quest of a wife, but all in vain. The
lady in that case had been so explicit with him that he could not hope
for a more favourable answer; and, indeed, he would not have cared to
marry a girl who had told him that she preferred another man to
himself, even if it had been possible for him to do so. Now he had met
a lady very different from those with whom he had hitherto associated
but not the less manifestly a lady. Caroline Spalding was bright,
pleasant, attractive, very easy to talk to, and yet quite able to hold
her own. But the American Minister was a bore; and Miss Petrie was
unbearable. He had often told himself that in this matter of marrying a
wife he would please himself altogether, that he would allow himself to
be tied down by no consideration of family pride that he would consult
nothing but his own heart and feelings.

As for rank, he could give that to his wife. As for money, he had
plenty of that also. He wanted a woman that was not blasee with the
world, that was not a fool, and who would respect him. The more he
thought of it, the more sure he was that he had seen none who pleased
him so well as Caroline Spalding; and yet he was a little afraid of
taking a step that would be irrevocable. Perhaps the American Minister
might express a wish to end his days at Monkhams, and might think it
desirable to have Miss Petrie always with him as a private secretary in
poetry!

'Between you and us, Mr Glascock, the spark of sympathy does not pass
with a strong flash,' said a voice in his ear. As he turned round
rapidly to face his foe, he was quite sure, for the moment, that under
no possible circumstances would he ever take an American woman to his
bosom as his wife.

'No,' said he; 'no, no. I rather think that I agree with you.'

'The antipathy is one,' continued Miss Petrie, 'which has been common
on the face of the earth since the clown first trod upon the courtier's
heels. It is the instinct of fallen man to hate equality, to desire
ascendancy, to crush, to oppress, to tyrannise, to enslave. Then, when
the slave is at last free, and in his freedom demands equality, man is
not great enough to take his enfranchised brother to his bosom.'

'You mean negroes,' said Mr Glascock, looking round and planning for
himself a mode of escape.

'Not negroes only not the enslaved blacks, who are now enslaved no more
but the rising nations of white men wherever they are to be seen. You
English have no sympathy with a people who claim to be at least your
equals. The clown has trod upon the courtier's heels till the clown is
clown no longer, and the courtier has hardly a court in which he may
dangle his sword-knot.'

'If so the clown might as well spare the courtier,' not meaning the
rebuke which his words implied.

'Ah h but the clown will not spare the courtier, Mr Glascock. I
understand the gibe, and I tell you that the courtier shall be spared
no longer because he is useless. He shall be cut down together with the
withered grasses and thrown into the oven, and there shall be an end of
him.' Then she turned round to appeal to an American gentleman who had
joined them, and Mr Glascock made his escape. 'I hold it to be the
holiest duty which I owe to my country never to spare one of them when
I meet him.'

'They are all very well in their way,' said the American gentleman.

'Down with them, down with them!' exclaimed the poetess, with a
beautiful enthusiasm. In the meantime Mr Glascock had made up his mind
that he could not dare to ask Caroline Spalding to be his wife. There
were certain forms of the American female so dreadful that no wise man
would wilfully come in contact with them. Miss Petrie's ferocity was
distressing to him, but her eloquence and enthusiasm were worse even
than her ferocity. The personal incivility of which she had been guilty
in calling him a withered grass was distasteful to him, as being
opposed to his ideas of the customs of society; but what would be his
fate if his wife's chosen friend should be for ever dinning her
denunciation of withered grasses into his ear?

He was still thinking of all this when he was accosted by Mrs Spalding.
'Are you going to dear Lady Banbury's to-morrow?' she asked. Lady
Banbury was the wife of the English Minister.

'I suppose I shall be there in the course of the evening.'

'How very nice she is; is she not? I do like Lady Banbury so soft, and
gentle, and kind.'

'One of the pleasantest old ladies I know,' said Mr Glascock.

'It does not strike you so much as it does me,' said Mrs Spalding, with
one of her sweetest smiles. 'The truth is, we all value what we have
not got. There are no Lady Banburys in our country, and therefore we
think the more of them when we meet them here. She is talking of going
to Rome for the Carnival, and has asked Caroline to go with her. I am
so pleased to find that my dear girl is such a favourite.'

Mr Glascock immediately told himself that he saw the hook. If he were
to be fished for by this American aunt as he had been fished for by
English mothers, all his pleasure in the society of Caroline Spalding
would be at once over. It would be too much, indeed, if in this
American household he were to find the old vices of an aristocracy
superadded to young republican sins! Nevertheless Lady Banbury was, as
he knew well, a person whose opinion about young people was supposed to
be very good. She noticed those only who were worthy of notice; and to
have been taken by the hand by Lady Banbury was acknowledged to be a
passport into good society. If Caroline Spalding was in truth going to
Rome with Lady Banbury, that fact was in itself a great confirmation of
Mr Glascock's good opinion of her. Mrs Spalding had perhaps understood
this; but had not understood that having just hinted that it was so,
she should have abstained from saying a word more about her dear girl.
Clever and well-practised must, indeed, be the hand of the fisherwoman
in matrimonial waters who is able to throw her fly without showing any
glimpse of the hook to the fish for whom she angles. Poor Mrs Spalding,
though with kindly instincts towards her niece she did on this occasion
make some slight attempt at angling, was innocent of any concerted
plan. It seemed to her to be so natural to say a good word in praise of
her niece to the man whom she believed to be in love with her niece.

Caroline and Mr Glascock did not meet each other again till late in the
evening, and just as he was about to take his leave. As they came
together each of them involuntarily looked round to see whether Miss
Petrie was near. Had she been there nothing would have been said beyond
the shortest farewell greeting. But Miss Petrie was afar off,
electrifying some Italian by the vehemence of her sentiments, and the
audacious volubility of a language in which all arbitrary restrictions
were ignored. 'Are you going?' she asked.

'Well I believe I am. Since I saw you last I've encountered Miss Petrie
again, and I'm rather depressed.'

'Ah you don't know her. If you did you wouldn't laugh at her.'

'Laugh at her! Indeed I do not do that; but when I'm told that I'm to
be thrown into the oven and burned because I'm such a worn-out old
institution--'

'You don't mean to say that you mind that!'

'Not much, when it comes up in the ordinary course of conversation; but
it palls upon one when it is asserted for the fourth or fifth time in
an evening.'

'Alas, alas!' exclaimed Miss. Spalding, with mock energy.

'And why, alas?'

'Because it is so impossible to make the oil and vinegar of the old
world and of the new mix together and suit each other.'

'You think it is impossible, Miss Spalding?'

'I fear so. We are so terribly tender, and you are always pinching us
on our most tender spot. And we never meet you without treading on your
gouty toes.'

'I don't think my toes are gouty,' said he.

'I apologise to your own, individually, Mr Glascock; but I must assert
that nationally you are subject to the gout.'

'That is, when I'm told over and over again that I'm to be cut down and
thrown into the oven--'

'Never mind the oven now, Mr Glascock. If my friend has been
over-zealous I will beg pardon for her. But it does seem to me, indeed
it does, with all the reverence and partiality I have for everything
European,' the word European was an offence to him, and he shewed that
it was so by his countenance 'that the idiosyncrasies of you and of us
are so radically different, that we cannot be made to amalgamate and
sympathise with each other thoroughly.'

He paused for some seconds before he answered her, but it was so
evident by his manner that he was going to speak, that she could
neither leave him nor interrupt him. 'I had thought that it might have
been otherwise,' he said at last, and the tone of his voice was so
changed as to make her know that he was in earnest.

But she did not change her voice by a single note. 'I'm afraid it
cannot be so,' she said, speaking after her old fashion half in
earnest, half in banter. 'We may make up our minds to be very civil to
each other when we meet. The threats of the oven may no doubt be
dropped on our side, and you may abstain from expressing in words your
sense of our inferiority.'

'I never expressed anything of the kind,' he said, quite in anger.

'I am taking you simply as the sample Englishman, not as Mr Glascock,
who helped me and my sister over the mountains. Such of us as have to
meet in society may agree to be very courteous; but courtesy and
cordiality are not only not the same, but they are incompatible.'

'Why so?'

'Courtesy is an effort, and cordiality is free. I must be allowed to
contradict the friend that I love; but I assent too often falsely to
what is said to me by a passing acquaintance. In spite of what the
Scripture says, I think it is one of the greatest privileges of a
brother that he may call his brother a fool.'

'Shall you desire to call your husband a fool?'

'My husband!'

'He will, I suppose, be at least as dear to you as a brother?'

'I never had a brother.'

'Your sister, then! It is the same, I suppose?'

'If I were to have a husband, I hope he would be the dearest to me of
all. Unless he were so, he certainly would not be my husband. But
between a man and his wife there does not spring up that playful,
violent intimacy admitting of all liberties, which comes from early
nursery associations; and, then, there is the difference of sex.'

'I should not like my wife to call me a fool,' he said.

'I hope she may never have occasion to do so, Mr Glascock. Marry an
English wife in your own class as, of course, you will and then you
will be safe.'

'But I have set my heart fast on marrying an American wife,' he said.

'Then I can't tell what may befall you. It's like enough, if you do
that, that you may be called by some name you will think hard to bear.
But you'll think better of it. Like should pair with like, Mr Glascock.
If you were to marry one of our young women, you would lose in dignity
as much as she would lose in comfort.' Then they parted, and she went
off to say farewell to other guests. The manner in which she had
answered what he had said to her had certainly been of a nature to stop
any further speech of the same kind. Had she been gentle with him, then
he would certainly have told her that she was the American woman whom
he desired to take with him to his home in England.



CHAPTER LVII - DOROTHY'S FATE

Towards the end of February Sir Peter Mancrudy declared Miss Stanbury
to be out of danger, and Mr Martin began to be sprightly on the
subject, taking to himself no inconsiderable share of the praise
accruing to the medical faculty in Exeter generally for the saving of a
life so valuable to the city. 'Yes, Mr Burgess,' Sir Peter said to old
Barty of the bank, 'our friend will get over it this time, and without
any serious damage to her constitution, if she will only take care of
herself.' Barty made some inaudible grunt, intended to indicate his own
indifference on the subject, and expressed his opinion to the chief
clerk that old Jemima Wideawake as he was pleased to call her was one
of those tough customers who would never die. 'It would be nothing to
us, Mr Barty, one way or the other,' said the clerk; to which Barty
Burgess assented with another grunt.

Camilla French declared that she was delighted to hear the news. At
this time there had been some sort of a reconciliation between her and
her lover. Mrs French had extracted from him a promise that he would
not go to Natal; and Camilla had commenced the preparations for her
wedding. His visits to Heavitree were as few and far between as he
could make them with any regard to decency; but the 31st of March was
coming on quickly, and as he was to be made a possession of them for
ever, it was considered to be safe and well to allow him some liberty
in his present condition. 'My dear, if they are driven, there is no
knowing what they won't do,' Mrs French said to her daughter. Camilla
had submitted with compressed lips and a slight nod of her head. She
had worked very hard, but her day of reward was coming. It was
impossible not to perceive both for her and her mother that the
scantiness of Mr Gibson's attention to his future bride was cause of
some weak triumph to Arabella. She said that it was very odd that he
did not come and once added with a little sigh that he used to come in
former days, alluding to those happy days in which another love was
paramount. Camilla could not endure this with an equal mind. 'Bella,
dear,' she said, 'we know what all that means. He has made his choice,
and if I am satisfied with what he does now, surely you need not
grumble.' Miss Stanbury's illness had undoubtedly been a great source
of contentment to the family at Heavitree, as they had all been able to
argue that her impending demise was the natural consequence of her
great sin in the matter of Dorothy's proposed marriage. When, however,
they heard from Mr Martin that she would certainly recover, that Sir
Peter's edict to that effect had gone forth, they were willing to
acknowledge that Providence, having so far punished the sinner, was
right in staying its hand and abstaining from the final blow. 'I'm sure
we are delighted,' said Mrs French, 'for though she has said cruel
things of us and so untrue too yet of course it is our duty to forgive
her. And we do forgive her.'

Dorothy had written three or four notes to Brooke since his departure,
which contained simple bulletins of her aunt's health. She always began
her letters with 'My dear Mr Burgess,' and ended them with 'yours
truly.' She never made any allusion to Brooke's declaration of love, or
gave the slightest sign in her letters to shew that she even remembered
it. At last she wrote to say that her aunt was convalescent; and, in
making this announcement, she allowed herself some enthusiasm of
expression. She was so happy, and was so sure that Mr Burgess would be
equally so! And her aunt had asked after her 'dear Brooke,' expressing
her great satisfaction with him, in that he had come down to see her
when she had been almost too ill to see anyone. In answer to this there
came to her a real love-letter from Brooke Burgess. It was the first
occasion on which he had written to her. The little bulletins had
demanded no replies, and had received none. Perhaps there had been a
shade of disappointment on Dorothy's side, in that she had written
thrice, and had been made rich with no word in return. But, although
her heart had palpitated on hearing the postman's knock, and had
palpitated in vain, she had told herself that it was all as it should
be. She wrote to him, because she possessed information which it was
necessary that she should communicate. He did not write to her, because
there was nothing for him to tell. Then had come the love-letter, and
in the love-letter there was an imperative demand for a reply.

What was she to do? To have recourse to Priscilla for advice was her
first idea; but she herself believed that she owed a debt of gratitude
to her aunt, which Priscilla would not take into account--the
existence of which Priscilla would by no means admit. She knew
Priscilla's mind in this matter, and was sure that Priscilla's advice,
whatever it might be, would be given without any regard to her aunt's
views. And then Dorothy was altogether ignorant of her aunt's views.
Her aunt had been very anxious that she should marry Mr Gibson, but had
clearly never admitted into her mind the idea that she might possibly
marry Brooke Burgess; and it seemed to her that she herself would be
dishonest, both to her aunt and to her lover, if she were to bind this
man to herself without her aunt's knowledge. He was to be her aunt's
heir, and she was maintained by her aunt's liberality! Thinking of all
this, she at last resolved that she would take the bull by the horns,
and tell her aunt. She felt that the task would be one almost beyond
her strength. Thrice she went into her aunt's room, intending to make a
clean breast; Thrice her courage failed her, and she left the room with
her tale untold, excusing herself on various pretexts. Her aunt had
seemed to be not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or
had been a little cross or else Martha had come in at the nick of time.
But there was Brooke Burgess's letter unanswered a letter that was read
night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of her mind.
He had demanded a reply, and he had a right at least to that. The
letter had been with her for four entire days before she had ventured
to speak to her aunt on the subject.

On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bed-room for the
first time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponing her
communication for this occasion; but, when she found herself sitting in
the little sitting-room up stairs close at her aunt's elbow, and
perceived the signs of weakness which the new move had made
conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the little journey had
been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. She ought to have
told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. But presently there came
a question, which put her into such a flutter that she was for the time
devoid of all resolution. 'Has Brooke written?' said Miss Stanbury.

'Yes aunt; he has written.'

'And what did he say?' Dorothy was struck quite dumb. 'Is there
anything wrong?' And now, as Miss Stanbury asked the question, she
seemed herself to have forgotten that she had two minutes before
declared herself to be almost too feeble to speak. 'I'm sure there is
something wrong. What is it? I will know'

'There is nothing wrong, Aunt Stanbury'

'Where is the letter? Let me see it.'

'I mean there is nothing wrong about him.'

'What is it, then?'

'He is quite well, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Shew me the letter. I will see the letter. I know that there is
something the matter. Do you mean to say you won't shew me Brooke's
letter?'

There was a moment's pause before Dorothy answered. 'I will shew you
his letter though I am sure he didn't mean that I should shew it to
anyone.'

'He hasn't written evil of me?'

'No; no; no. He would sooner cut his hand off than say a word bad of
you. He never says or writes anything bad of anybody. But Oh, aunt;
I'll tell you everything. I should have told you before, only that you
were ill.'

Then Miss Stanbury was frightened. 'What is it?' she said hoarsely,
clasping the arms of the great chair, each with a thin, shrivelled
hand.

'Aunt Stanbury, Brooke Brooke wants me to be his wife!'

'What!'

'You cannot be more surprised than I have been, Aunt Stanbury; and
there has been no fault of mine.'

'I don't believe it,' said the old woman.

'Now you may read the letter,' said Dorothy, standing up. She was quite
prepared to be obedient, but she felt that her aunt's manner of
receiving the information was almost an insult.

'He must be a fool,' said Miss Stanbury.

This was hard to hear, and the colour went and came rapidly across
Dorothy's cheeks as she gave herself a few moments to prepare an
answer. She already perceived that her aunt would be altogether adverse
to the marriage, and that therefore the marriage could never take
place. She had never for a moment allowed herself to think otherwise,
but, nevertheless, the blow was heavy on her. We all know how
constantly hope and expectation will rise high within our own bosoms in
opposition to our own judgment how we become sanguine in regard to
events which we almost know can never come to pass. So it had been with
Dorothy. Her heart had been almost in a flutter of happiness since she
had had Brooke's letter in her possession, and yet she never ceased to
declare to herself her own conviction that that letter could lead to no
good result. In regard to her own wishes on the subject she had never
asked herself a single question. As it had been quite beyond her power
to bring herself to endure the idea of marrying Mr Gibson, so it had
been quite impossible to her not to long to be Brooke's wife from the
moment in which a suggestion to that effect had fallen from his lips.
This was a state of things so certain, so much a matter of course,
that, though she had not spoken a word to him in which she owned her
love, she had never for a moment doubted that he knew the truth and
that everybody else concerned would know it too. But she did not
suppose that her wishes would go for anything with her aunt. Brooke
Burgess was to become a rich man as her aunt's heir, and her aunt would
of course have her own ideas about Brooke's advancement in life. She
was quite prepared to submit without quarrelling when her aunt should
tell her that the idea must not be entertained. But the order might be
given, the prohibition might be pronounced, without an insult to her
own feelings as a woman. 'He must he a fool,' Miss Stan-bury had said,
and Dorothy took time to collect her thoughts before she would reply.
In the meantime her aunt finished the reading of the letter.

'He may be foolish in this,' Dorothy said; 'but I don't think you
should call him a fool.'

'I shall call him what I please. I suppose this was going on at the
time when you refused Mr Gibson.'

'Nothing was going on. Nothing has gone on at all,' said Dorothy, with
as much indignation as she was able to assume.

'How can you tell me that? That is an untruth.'

'It is not an untruth,' said Dorothy, almost sobbing, but driven at the
same time to much anger.

'Do you mean to say that this is the first you ever heard of it?' And
she held out the letter, shaking it in her thin hand.

'I have never said so, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Yes, you did.'

'I said that nothing was going on, when Mr Gibson was  .If you choose
to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I'll go away. I won't stay here if you
suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn't like it.'

'Of course I don't like it.' But she gave no reason why she did not
like it.

'And there was nothing more till this letter came. I couldn't help his
writing to me. It wasn't my fault.'

'Psha!'

'If you are angry, I am very sorry. But you haven't a right to be
angry.'

'Go on, Dorothy; go on. I'm so weak that I can hardly stir myself; it's
the first moment that I've been out of my bed for weeks and of course
you can say what you please. I know what it will be. I shall have to
take to my bed again, and then in a very little time you can both make
fools of yourselves just as you like.'

This was an argument against which Dorothy of course found it to be
quite impossible to make continued combat. She could only shuffle her
letter back into her pocket, and be, if possible, more assiduous than
ever in her attentions to the invalid. She knew that she had been
treated most unjustly, and there would be a question to be answered as
soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of her remaining
in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her aunt say what she
might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leave her for the
present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quite motionless,
with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs of life till
Dorothy touched her arm, asking her whether she would not take some
broth which had been prepared for her. 'Where's Martha? Why does not
Martha come?' said Miss Stanbury. This was a hard blow, and from that
moment Dorothy believed that it would be expedient that she should
return to Nuncombe Putney. The broth, however, was taken, while Dorothy
sat by in silence. Only one word further was said that evening by Miss
Stanbury about Brooke and his love-affair. 'There must be nothing more
about this, Dorothy; remember that; nothing at all. I won't have it.'
Dorothy made no reply. Brooke's letter was in her pocket, and it should
be answered that night. On the following day she would let her aunt
know what she had said to Brooke. Her aunt should not see the letter,
but should be made acquainted with its purport in reference to Brooke's
proposal of marriage.

'I won't have it!' That had been her aunt's command. What right had her
aunt to give any command upon the matter? Then crossed Dorothy's mind,
as she thought of this, a glimmering of an idea that no one can be
entitled to issue commands who cannot enforce obedience. If Brooke and
she chose to become man and wife by mutual consent, how could her aunt
prohibit the marriage? Then there followed another idea, that commands
are enforced by the threatening and, if necessary, by the enforcement
of penalties. Her aunt had within her hand no penalty of which Dorothy
was afraid on her own behalf; but she had the power of inflicting a
terrible punishment on Brooke Burgess. Now Dorothy conceived that she
herself would be the meanest creature alive if she were actuated by
fears as to money in her acceptance or rejection of a man whom she
loved as she did Brooke Burgess. Brooke had an income of his own which
seemed to her to be ample for all purposes. But that which would have
been sordid in her, did not seem to her to have any stain of sordidness
for him. He was a man, and was bound to be rich if he could. And,
moreover, what had she to offer in herself such a poor thing as was she
to make compensation to him for the loss of fortune? Her aunt could
inflict this penalty, and therefore the power was hers, and the power
must be obeyed. She would write to Brooke in a manner that should
convey to him her firm decision.

But not the less on that account would she let her aunt know that she
thought herself to have been ill-used. It was an insult to her, a most
ill-natured insult that telling her that Brooke had been a fool for
loving her. And then that accusation against her of having been false,
of having given one reason for refusing Mr Gibson, while there was
another reason in her heart of having been cunning and then untrue, was
not to be endured. What would her aunt think of her if she were to bear
such allegations without indignant protest? She would write her letter,
and speak her mind to her aunt as soon as her aunt should be well
enough to hear it.

As she had resolved, she wrote her letter that night before she went to
bed. She wrote it with floods of tears, and a bitterness of heart which
almost conquered her. She too had heard of love, and had been taught to
feel that the success or failure of a woman's life depended upon that
whether she did, or whether she did not, by such gifts as God might
have given to her, attract to herself some man strong enough, and good
enough, and loving enough to make straight for her her paths, to bear
for her her burdens, to be the father of her children, the staff on
which she might lean, and the wall against which she might grow,
feeling the sunshine, and sheltered from the wind. She had ever
estimated her own value so lowly as to have told herself often that
such success could never come in her way. From her earliest years she
had regarded herself as outside the pale within which such joys are to
be found. She had so strictly taught herself to look forward to a blank
existence, that she had learned to do so without active misery. But not
the less did she know where happiness lay; and when the good thing came
almost within her reach, when it seemed that God had given her gifts
which might have sufficed, when a man had sought her hand whose nature
was such that she could have leaned on him with a true worship, could
have grown against him as against a wall with perfect confidence, could
have lain with her head upon his bosom, and have felt that of all spots
that in the world was the most fitting for her when this was all but
grasped, and must yet be abandoned, there came upon her spirit an agony
so bitter that she had not before known how great might be the depth of
human disappointment. But the letter was at last written, and when
finished was as follows:



'The Close, Exeter, March 1, 186-.

DEAR BROOKE.'

There had been many doubts about this; but at last they were conquered,
and the name was written.

'I have shewn your letter to my aunt, as I am sure you will think was
best. I should have answered it before, only that I thought that she
was not quite well enough to talk about it. She says, as I was sure she
would, that what you propose is quite out of the question. I am aware
that I am bound to obey her; and as I think that you also ought to do
so, I shall think no more of what you have said to me and have written.
It is quite impossible now, even if it might have been possible under
other circumstances. I shall always remember your great kindness to me.
Perhaps I ought to say that I am very grateful for the compliment you
have paid me. I shall think of you always till I die.

Believe me to be,

Your very sincere friend,

DOROTHY STANBURY.'



The next day Miss Stanbury again came out of her room, and on the third
day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yet not spoken
of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as she thought that a
fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two to say for herself;
but she must not again subject herself to being told that she was
taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too ill to defend
herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself asked the question.
'Have you written anything to Brooke?' she asked.

'I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury.'

'And what have you said to him?'

'I have told him that you disapproved of it, and that nothing more must
be said about it.'

'Yes of course you made me out to be an ogre.'

'I don't know what you mean by that, aunt. I am sure that I told him
the truth.'

'May I see the letter?'

'It has gone.'

'But you have kept a copy,' said Miss Stanbury.

'Yes; I have got a copy,' replied Dorothy; 'but I would rather not shew
it. I told him just what I tell you.'

'Dorothy, it is not at all becoming that you should have a
correspondence with any young man of such a nature that you should be
ashamed to shew it to your aunt.'

'I am not ashamed of anything,' said Dorothy sturdily.

'I don't know what young women in these days have come to,' continued
Miss Stanbury.

'There is no respect, no subjection, no obedience, and too often no
modesty.'

'Does that mean me, Aunt Stanbury?' asked Dorothy.

'To tell you the truth, Dorothy, I don't think you ought to have been
receiving love-letters from Brooke Burgess when I was lying ill in bed.
I didn't expect it of you. I tell you fairly that I didn't expect it of
you.'

Then Dorothy spoke out her mind. 'As you think that, Aunt Stanbury, I
had better go away. And if you please I will when you are well enough
to spare me.'

'Pray don't think of me at all,' said her aunt.

'And as for love-letters Mr Burgess has written to me once. I don't
think that there can be anything immodest in opening a letter when it
comes by the post. And as soon as I had it I determined to shew it to
you. As for what happened before, when Mr Burgess spoke to me, which
was long, long after all that about Mr Gibson was over, I told him that
it couldn't be so; and I thought there would be no more about it. You
were so ill that I could not tell you. Now you know it all.'

'I have not seen your letter to him.'

'I shall never shew it to anybody. But you have said things, Aunt
Stanbury, that are very cruel.'

'Of course! Everything I say is wrong.'

'You have told me that I was telling untruths, and you have called me
immodest. That is a terrible word.'

'You shouldn't deserve it then.'

'I never have deserved it, and I won't bear it. No; I won't. If Hugh
heard me called that word, I believe he'd tear the house down.'

'Hugh, indeed! He's to be brought in between us is he?'

'He's my brother, and of course I'm obliged to think of him. And if you
please, I'll go home as soon as you are well enough to spare me.'

Quickly after this there were many letters coming and going between the
house in the Close and the ladies at Nuncombe Putney, and Hugh
Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess. The correspondent of Brooke Burgess was
of course Miss Stanbury herself. The letters to Hugh and to Nuncombe
Putney were written by Dorothy. Of the former we need be told nothing
at the present moment; but the upshot of all poor Dolly's letters was,
that on the tenth of March she was to return home to Nuncombe Putney,
share once more her sister's bed and mother's poverty, and abandon the
comforts of the Close. Before this became a definite arrangement Miss
Stanbury had given way in a certain small degree. She had acknowledged
that Dorothy had intended no harm. But this was not enough for Dorothy,
who was conscious of no harm either done or intended. She did not
specify her terms, or require specifically that her aunt should make
apology for that word, immodest, or at least withdraw it; but she
resolved that she would go unless it was most absolutely declared to
have been applied to her without the slightest reason. She felt,
moreover, that her aunt's house ought to be open to Brooke Burgess, and
that it could not be open to them both. And so she went having resided
under her aunt's roof between nine and ten months.

'Good-bye, Aunt Stanbury,' said Dorothy, kissing her aunt, with a tear
in her eye and a sob in her throat.

'Good-bye, my dear, good-bye.' And Miss Stanbury, as she pressed her
niece's hand, left in it a bank-note.

'I'm much obliged, aunt; I am indeed; but I'd rather not.' And the
bank-note was left on the parlour table.



CHAPTER LVIII - DOROTHY AT HOME

Dorothy was received at home with so much affection and such
expressions of esteem as to afford her much consolation in her misery.
Both her mother and her sister approved of her conduct. Mrs Stanbury's
approval was indeed accompanied by many expressions of regret as to the
good things lost. She was fully alive to the fact that life in the
Close at Exeter was better for her daughter than life in their little
cottage at Nuncombe Putney. The outward appearance which Dorothy bore
on her return home was proof of this. Her clothes, the set of her hair,
her very gestures and motions had framed themselves on town ideas. The
faded, wildered, washed-out look, the uncertain, purposeless bearing
which had come from her secluded life and subjection to her sister had
vanished from her. She had lived among people, and had learned
something of their gait and carriage. Money we know will do almost
everything, and no doubt money had had much to do with this. It is very
pretty to talk of the alluring simplicity of a clean calico gown; but
poverty will shew itself to be meagre, dowdy, and draggled in a woman's
dress, let the woman be ever so simple, ever so neat, ever so
independent, and ever so high-hearted. Mrs Stanbury was quite alive to
all that her younger daughter was losing. Had she not received two
offers of marriage while she was at Exeter? There was no possibility
that offers of marriage should be made in the cottage at Nuncombe
Putney. A man within the walls of the cottage would have been
considered as much out of place as a wild bull. It had been matter of
deep regret to Mrs Stanbury that her daughter should not have found
herself able to marry Mr Gibson. She knew that there was no matter for
reproach in this, but it was a misfortune a great misfortune. And in
the mother's breast there had been a sad, unrepressed feeling of regret
that young people should so often lose their chances in the world
through over-fancifulness, and ignorance as to their own good. Now when
she heard the story of Brooke Burgess, she could not but think that had
Dorothy remained at Exeter, enduring patiently such hard words as her
aunt might speak, the love affair might have been brought at some
future time to a happy conclusion. She did not say all this; but there
came on her a silent melancholy, made expressive by constant little
shakings of the head and a continued reproachful sadness of demeanour,
which was quite as intelligible to Priscilla as would have been any
spoken words. But Priscilla's approval of her sister's conduct was
clear, outspoken, and satisfactory. She had been quite sure that her
sister had been right about Mr Gibson; and was equally sure that she
was now right about Brooke Burgess. Priscilla had in her mind an idea
that if B. B., as they called him, was half as good as her sister
represented him to be for indeed Dorothy endowed him with every virtue
consistent with humanity he would not be deterred from his pursuit
either by Dolly's letter or by Aunt Stanbury's commands. But of this
she thought it wise to say nothing. She paid Dolly the warm and
hitherto unaccustomed compliment of equality, assuming to regard her
sister's judgment and persistent independence to be equally strong with
her own; and, as she knew well, she could not have gone further than
this. 'I never shall agree with you about Aunt Stanbury,' she said. 'To
me she seems to be so imperious, so exacting, and also so unjust, as to
be unbearable.'

'But she is affectionate,' said Dolly.

'So is the dog that bites you, and, for aught I know, the horse that
kicks you. But it is ill living with biting dogs and kicking horses.
But all that matters little as you are still your own mistress. How
strange these nine months have been, with you in Exeter, while we have
been at the Clock House. And here we are, together again in the old
way, just as though nothing had happened.' But Dorothy knew well that a
great deal had happened, and that her life could never be as it had
been heretofore. The very tone in which her sister spoke to her was
proof of this. She had an infinitely greater possession in herself than
had belonged to her before her residence at Exeter; but that possession
was so heavily mortgaged and so burthened as to make her believe that
the change was to be regretted.

At the end of the first week there came a letter from Aunt Stanbury to
Dorothy. It began by saying that Dolly had left behind her certain
small properties which had now been made up in a parcel and sent by the
railway, carriage paid. 'But they weren't mine at all,' said Dolly,
alluding to certain books in which she had taken delight.' She means to
give them to you,' said Priscilla, 'and I think you must take them.'
'And the shawl is no more mine than it is yours, though I wore it two
or three times in the winter.' Priscilla was of opinion that the shawl
must be taken also. Then the letter spoke of the writer's health, and
at last fell into such a strain of confidential gossip that Mrs
Stanbury, when she read it, could not understand that there had been a
quarrel. 'Martha says that she saw Camilla French in the street to-day,
such a guy in her new finery as never was seen before except on
May-day.' Then in the postscript Dorothy was enjoined to answer this
letter quickly. 'None of your short scraps, my dear,' said Aunt
Stanbury.

'She must mean you to go back to her,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'No doubt she does,' said Priscilla; 'but Dolly need not go because my
aunt means it. We are not her creatures.'

But Dorothy answered her aunt's letter in the spirit in which it had
been written. She asked after her aunt's health, thanked her aunt for
the gift of the books in each of which her name had been clearly
written, protested about the shawl, sent her love to Martha and her
kind regards to Jane, and expressed a hope that C. F. enjoyed her new
clothes. She described the cottage, and was funny about the cabbage
stumps in the garden, and at last succeeded in concocting a long
epistle. 'I suppose there will he a regular correspondence,' said
Priscilla.

Two days afterwards, however, the correspondence took altogether
another form. The cottage in which they now lived was supposed to be
beyond the beat of the wooden-legged postman, and therefore it was
necessary that they should call at the post-office for their letters.
On the morning in question Priscilla obtained a thick letter from
Exeter for her mother, and knew that it had come from her aunt. Her
aunt could hardly have found it necessary to correspond with Dorothy's
mother so soon after that letter to Dorothy had been written had there
not arisen some very peculiar cause. Priscilla, after much meditation,
thought it better that the letter should be opened in Dorothy's
absence, and in Dorothy's absence the following letter was read both by
Priscilla and her mother.



'The Close, March 19, 186-.

DEAR SISTER STANBURY,

After much consideration, I think it best to send under cover to you
the enclosed letter from Mr Brooke Burgess, intended for your daughter
Dorothy. You will see that I have opened it and read it as I was
clearly entitled to do, the letter having been addressed to my niece
while she was supposed to be under my care. I do not like to destroy
the letter, though, perhaps, that would be best; but I would advise you
to do so, if it be possible, without shewing it to Dorothy. I have told
Mr Brooke Burgess what I have done.

I have also told him that I cannot sanction a marriage between him and
your daughter. There are many reasons of old date not to speak of
present reasons also which would make such a marriage highly
inexpedient. Mr Brooke Burgess is, of course, his own master, but your
daughter understands completely how the matter stands.

Yours truly,

JEMIMA STANBURY.'



'What a wicked old woman!' said Priscilla. Then there arose a question
whether they should read Brooke's letter, or whether they should give
it unread to Dorothy. Priscilla denounced her aunt in the strongest
language she could use for having broken the seal. "Clearly entitled,"
because Dorothy had been living with her!' exclaimed Priscilla. 'She
can have no proper conception of honour or of honesty. She had no more
right to open Dorothy's letter than she had to take her money.' Mrs
Stanbury was very, anxious to read Brooke's letter, alleging that they
would then be able to judge whether it should be handed over to
Dorothy. But Priscilla's sense of right would not admit of this.
Dorothy must receive the letter from her lover with no further stain
from unauthorised eyes than that to which it had been already
subjected. She was called in, therefore, from the kitchen, and the
whole packet was given to her. 'Your aunt has read the enclosure,
Dolly; but we have not opened it.'

Dorothy took the packet without a word and sat herself down. She first
read her aunt's letter very slowly. 'I understand perfectly,' she said,
folding it up, almost listlessly, while Brooke's letter lay still
unopened on her lap. Then she took it up, and held it awhile in both
hands, while her mother and Priscilla watched her. 'Priscilla,' she
said, 'do you read it first.'

Priscilla was immediately at her side, kissing her. 'No, my darling;
no,' she said; 'it is for you to read it.' Then Dorothy took the
precious contents from the envelope, and opened the folds of the paper.
When she had read a dozen words, her eyes were so suffused with tears,
that she could hardly make herself mistress of the contents of the
letter; but she knew that it contained renewed assurances of her
lover's love, and assurance on his part that he would take no refusal
from her based on any other ground than that of her own indifference to
him. He had written to Miss Stanbury to the same effect; but he had not
thought it necessary to explain this to Dorothy; nor did Miss Stanbury
in her letter tell them that she had received any communication from
him.'shall I read it now?' said Priscilla, as soon as Dorothy again
allowed the letter to fall into her lap.

Both Priscilla and Mrs Stanbury read it, and for awhile they sat with
the two letters among them without much speech about them. Mrs Stanbury
was endeavouring to make herself believe that her sister-in-law's
opposition might be overcome, and that then Dorothy might be married.
Priscilla was inquiring of herself whether it would be well that
Dorothy should defy her aunt so much, at any rate, would he well and
marry the man, even to his deprivation of the old woman's fortune.
Priscilla had her doubts about this, being very strong in her ideas of
self-denial. That her sister should put up with the bitterest
disappointment rather than injure the man she loved was right but then
it would also be so extremely right to defy Aunt Stanbury to her teeth!
But Dorothy, in whose character was mixed with her mother's softness
much of the old Stanbury strength, had no doubt in her mind. It was
very sweet to be so loved. What gratitude did she not owe to a man who
was so true to her! What was she that she should stand in his way? To
lay herself down that she might be crushed in his path was no more than
she owed to him. Mrs Stanbury was the first to speak.

'I suppose he is a very good young man,' she said.

'I am sure he is a noble, true-hearted man,' said Priscilla.

'And why shouldn't he marry whom he pleases, as long as she is
respectable?' said Mrs Stanbury.

'In some people's eyes poverty is more disreputable than vice,' said
Priscilla.

'Your aunt has been so fond of Dorothy,' pleaded Mrs Stanbury.

'Just as she is of her servants,' said Priscilla.

But Dorothy said nothing. Her heart was too full to enable her to
defend her aunt; nor at the present moment was she strong enough to
make her mother understand that no hope was to be entertained. In the
course. of the day she walked out with her sister on the road towards
Ridleigh, and there, standing among the rocks and ferns, looking down
upon the river, with the buzz of the little mill within her ears, she
explained the feelings of her heart and her many thoughts with a flow
of words stronger, as Priscilla thought, than she had ever used before.

'It is not what he would suffer now, Pris, or what he would feel, but
what he would feel ten, twenty years hence, when he would know that his
children would have been all provided for, had, he not lost his fortune
by marrying me.'

'He must be the only judge whether he prefers you to the old woman's
money,' said Priscilla.

'No, dear; not the only judge. And it isn't that, Pris not which he
likes best now, but which it is best for him that he should have. What
could I do for him?'

'You can love him.'

'Yes I can do that.' And Dorothy paused a moment, to think how
exceedingly well she could do that one thing. 'But what is that? As you
said the other day, a dog can do that. I am not clever. I can't play,
or talk French, or do things that men like their wives to do. And I
have lived here all my life; and what am I, that for me he should lose
a great fortune?'

'That is his look out.'

'No, dearest it is mine, and I will look out. I shall be, able, at any
rate, to remember always that I have loved him, and have not injured
him. He may be angry with me now,' and there was a feeling of pride at
her heart, as she thought that he would be angry with her, because she
did not go to him 'but he will know at last that I have been as good to
him as I knew how to be.'

Then Priscilla wound her arms round Dorothy, and kissed her. 'My
sister,' she said; 'my own sister!' They walked on further, discussing
the matter in all its bearings, talking of the act of self-denial which
Dorothy was called on to perform, as though it were some abstract
thing, the performance of which was, or perhaps was not, imperatively
demanded by the laws which should govern humanity; but with no idea on
the mind of either of them that there was any longer a doubt as to this
special matter in hand. They were away from home over three hours; and,
when they returned, Dorothy at once wrote her two letters. They were
very simple, and very short. She told Brooke, whom she now addressed as
'Dear Mr Burgess,' that it could not be as he would have it; and she
told her aunt with some terse independence of expression, which Miss
Stanbury quite understood that she had considered the matter, and had
thought it right to refuse Mr Burgess's offer.

'Don't you think she is very much changed?' said Mrs Stanbury to her
eldest daughter.

'Not changed in the least, mother; but the sun has opened the bud, and
now we see the fruit.'



CHAPTER LIX - MR BOZZLE AT HOME

It had now come to pass that Trevelyan had not a friend in the world to
whom he could apply in the matter of his wife and family. In the last
communication which he had received from Lady Milborough she had
scolded him, in terms that were for her severe, because he had not
returned to his wife and taken her off with him to Naples. Mr
Bideawhile had found himself obliged to decline to move in the matter
at all. With Hugh Stanbury, Trevelyan had had a direct quarrel. Mr and
Mrs Outhouse he regarded as bitter enemies, who had taken the part of
his wife without any regard to the decencies of life. And now it had
come to pass that his sole remaining ally, Mr Samuel Bozzle, the
ex-policeman, was becoming weary of his service. Trevelyan remained in
the north of Italy up to the middle of March, spending a fortune in
sending telegrams to Bozzle, instigating Bozzle by all the means in his
power to obtain possession of the child, desiring him at one time to
pounce down upon the parsonage of St. Diddulph's with a battalion of
policemen armed to the teeth with the law's authority, and at another
time suggesting to him to find his way by stratagem into Mr Outhouse's
castle and carry off the child in his arms. At last he sent word to say
that he himself would be in England before the end of March, and would
see that the majesty of the law should be vindicated in his favour.

Bozzle had in truth made but one personal application for the child at
St. Diddulph's. In making this he had expected no success, though, from
the energetic nature of his disposition, he had made the attempt with
some zeal. But he had never applied again at the parsonage,
disregarding the letters, the telegrams, and even the promises which
had come to him from his employer with such frequency. The truth was
that Mrs Bozzle was opposed to the proposed separation of the mother
and the child, and that Bozzle was a man who listened to the words of
his wife. Mrs Bozzle was quite prepared to admit that Madame T. as Mrs
Trevelyan had come to be called at No. 55, Stony Walk was no better
than she should be. Mrs Bozzle was disposed to think that ladies of
quality, among whom Madame T. was entitled in her estimation to take
rank, were seldom better than they ought to be, and she was quite
willing that her husband should earn his bread by watching the lady or.
the lady's lover. She had participated in Bozzle's triumph when he had
discovered that the Colonel had gone to Devonshire, and again when he
had learned that the Lothario had been at St. Diddulph's. And had the
case been brought before the judge ordinary by means of her husband's
exertions, she would have taken pleasure in reading every word of the
evidence, even though her husband should have been ever so roughly
handled by the lawyers. But now, when a demand was made upon Bozzle to
violate the sanctity of the clergyman's house, and withdraw the child
by force or stratagem, she began to perceive that the palmy days of the
Trevelyan affair were over for them, and that it would be wise on her
husband's part gradually to back out of the gentleman's employment.
'Just put it on the fire-back, Bozzle,' she said one morning, as her
husband stood before her reading for the second time a somewhat lengthy
epistle which had reached him from Italy, while he held the baby over
his shoulder with his left arm. He had just washed himself at the sink,
and though his face was clean, his hair was rough, and his shirt
sleeves were tucked up.

'That's all very well, Maryanne; but when a party has took a gent's
money, a party is bound to go through with the job.'

'Gammon, Bozzle.'

'It's all very well to say gammon; but his money has been took and
there's more to come.'

'And ain't you worked for the money down to Hexeter one time, across
the water pretty well day and night watching that ere clergyman's 'ouse
like a cat? What more'd he have? As to the child, I won't hear of it,
B. The child shan't come here. We'd all be shewed up in the papers as
that black, that they'd hoot us along the streets. It ain't the regular
line of business, Bozzle; and there ain't no good to be got, never, by
going off the regular line.' Whereupon Bozzle scratched his head and
again read the letter. A distinct promise of a hundred pounds was made
to him, if he would have the child ready to hand over to Trevelyan on
Trevelyan's arrival in England.

'It ain't to be done, you know,' said Bozzle.

'Of course it ain't,' said Mrs Bozzle.

'It ain't to be done anyways not in my way of business. Why didn't he
go to Skint, as I told him, when his own lawyer was too dainty for the
job? The paternal parent has a right to his hinfants, no doubt.' That
was Bozzle's law.

'I don't believe it, B.'

'But he have, I tell you.'

'He can't suckle 'em can he? I don't believe a bit of his rights.'

'When a married woman has followers, and the husband don't go the wrong
side of the post too, or it ain't proved again him that he do, they'll
never let her have nothing to do with the children. It's been before
the court a hundred times. He'll get the child fast enough if he'll go
before, the court.'

'Anyways it ain't your business, Bozzle, and don't you meddle nor make.
The money's good money as long as it's honest earned; but when you come
to rampaging and breaking into a gent's house, then I say money may be
had a deal, too hard.' In this special letter, which had now come to
hand, Bozzle was not instructed to 'rampage.' He was simply desired to
make a further official requisition for the boy at the parsonage, and
to explain to Mr Outhouse, Mrs Outhouse, and Mrs Trevelyan, or to as
many of them as he could contrive to see, that Mr Trevelyan was
immediately about to return to London, and that he would put the law
into execution if his son were not given up to him at once. 'I'll tell
you what it is, B.,' exclaimed Mrs Bozzle, 'it's my belief as he ain't
quite right up here;' and Mrs Bozzle touched her forehead.

'It's love for her as has done it then,' said Bozzle, shaking his head.

'I'm not a taking of her part, B. A woman as has a husband as finds her
with her wittels regular, and with what's decent and comfortable
beside, ought to be contented. I've never said no other than that. I
ain't no patience with your saucy madames as can't remember as they're
eating an honest man's bread. Drat 'em all; what is it they wants? They
don't know what they wants. It's just hidleness cause there ain't a
ha'porth for 'em to do. It's that as makes 'em, I won't say what. But
as for this here child, B. . . .' At that moment there came a knock at
the door. Mrs Bozzle going into the passage, opened it herself, and saw
a strange gentleman. Bozzle, who had stood at the inner door, saw that
the gentleman was Mr Trevelyan.

The letter, which was still in the ex-policeman's hand, had reached
Stony Walk on the previous day; but the master of the house had been
absent, finding out facts, following up his profession, and earning an
honest penny. Trevelyan had followed his letter quicker than he had
intended when it was written, and was now with his prime minister,
before his prime minister had been able to take any action on the last
instruction received. 'Does one Mr Samuel Bozzle live here?' asked
Trevelyan. Then Bozzle came forward and Introduced his wife. There was
no one else present except the baby, and Bozzle intimated that let
matters be as delicate as they might, they could be discussed with
perfect security in his wife's presence. But Trevelyan was of a
different opinion, and he was disgusted and revolted most unreasonably
by the appearance of his minister's domestic arrangements. Bozzle had
always waited upon him with a decent coat, and a well-brushed hat, and
clean shoes. It is very much easier for such men as Mr Bozzle to carry
decency of appearance about with them than to keep it at home.
Trevelyan had never believed his ally to be more than an ordinary
ex-policeman, but he had not considered how unattractive might be the
interior of a private detective's private residence. Mrs Bozzle had set
a chair for him, but he had declined to sit down. The room was dirty,
and very close as though no breath of air was ever allowed to find
entrance there. 'Perhaps you could put on your coat, and walk out with
me for a few minutes,' said Trevelyan. Mrs Bozzle, who well understood
that business was business, and that wives were not business, felt no
anger at this, and handed her husband his best coat. The well-brushed
hat was fetched from a cupboard, and it was astonishing to see how
easily and how quickly the outer respectability of Bozzle was restored.

'Well?' said Trevelyan, as soon as they were together in the middle of
Stony Walk.

'There hasn't been nothing to be done, sir,' said Bozzle.

'Why not?' Trevelyan could perceive at once that the authority which he
had once respected had gone from the man. Bozzle away from his own
home, out on business, with his coat buttoned over his breast, and his
best hat in his hand, was aware that he commanded respect and he could
carry himself accordingly. He knew himself to be somebody, and could be
easy, self-confident, confidential, severe, authoritative, or even
arrogant, as the circumstances of the moment might demand. But he had
been found with his coat off, and a baby in his arms, and he could not
recover himself. 'I do not suppose that anybody will question my right
to have the care of my own child,' said Trevelyan.

'If you would have gone to Mr Skint, sir ,' suggested Bozzle. 'There
ain't no smarter gent in all the profession, sir, than Mr Skint.'

Mr Trevelyan made no reply to this, but walked on in silence, with his
minister at his elbow. He was very wretched, understanding well the
degradation to which he was subjecting himself in discussing his wife's
conduct with this man but with whom else could he discuss it? The man
seemed to be meaner now than he had been before he had been seen in his
own home. And Trevelyan was conscious too that he himself was not in
outward appearance as he used to be that he was ill-dressed, and
haggard, and worn, and visibly a wretched being. How can any man care
to dress himself with attention who is always alone, and always
miserable when alone? During the months which had passed over him since
he had sent his wife away from him, his very nature had been altered,
and he himself was aware of the change. As he went about, his eyes were
ever cast downwards, and he walked with a quick shuffling gait, and he
suspected others, feeling that he himself was suspected. And all work
had ceased with him. Since she had left him he had not read a single
book that was worth the reading. And he knew it all. He was conscious
that he was becoming disgraced and degraded. He would sooner have shot
himself than have walked into his club, or even have allowed himself to
be seen by daylight in Pall Mall, or Piccadilly. He had taken in his
misery to drinking little drops of brandy in the morning, although he
knew well that there was no shorter road to the devil than that opened
by such a habit. He looked up for a moment at Bozzle, and then asked
him a question. 'Where is he now?'

'You mean the Colonel, sir. He up in town, sir, a minding of his
parliamentary duties. He have been up all this month, sir.'

'They haven't met?'

Bozzle paused a moment before he replied, and then smiled as he spoke.
'It is so hard, to say, sir. Ladies is so cute and cunning. I've
watched as sharp as watching can go, pretty near. I've put a youngster
on at each bend, and both of 'em'd hear a mouse stirring in his sleep.
I ain't got no evidence, Mr Trevelyan. But if you ask me my opinion,
why in course they've been together somewhere. It stands to reason, Mr
Trevelyan; don't it?' And Bozzle as he said this smiled almost aloud.

'D n and b  t it all for ever!' said Trevelyan, gnashing his teeth, and
moving away into Union Street as fast as he could walk. And he did go
away, leaving Bozzle standing in the middle of Stony Walk.

'He's disturbed in his mind quite 'orrid,' Bozzle said when he got back
to his wife. 'He cursed and swore as made even me feel bad.'

'B.,' said is wife, 'do you listen to me. Get in what's a howing and
don't you have any more to do with it.'



CHAPTER LX - ANOTHER STRUGGLE

Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to reach England about the end of
March or the beginning of April, and both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora Rowley
were almost sick for their arrival. Both their uncle and aunt had done
very much for them, had been true to them in their need, and had
submitted to endless discomforts in order that their nieces might have
respectable shelter in their great need; but nevertheless their conduct
had not been of a kind to produce either love or friendship. Each of
the sisters felt that she had been much better off at Nuncombe Putney;
and that either the weakness of Mrs Stanbury, or the hardness of
Priscilla, was preferable to the repulsive forbearance of their
clerical host. He did not scold them. He never threw it in Mrs
Trevelyan's teeth that she had been separated from her husband by her
own fault; he did not tell them of his own discomfort. But he showed it
in every gesture, and spoke of it in every tone of his voice so that
Mrs Trevelyan could not refrain from apologising for the misfortune of
her presence.

'My dear,' he said, 'things can't be pleasant and unpleasant at the
same time. You were quite right to come here. I am glad for all our
sakes that Sir Marmaduke will be with us so soon.'

She had almost given up in her mind the hope that she had long
cherished, that she might some day be able to live again with her
husband. Every step which he now took in reference to her seemed to be
prompted by so bitter an hostility, that she could not but believe that
she was hateful to him. How was it possible that a husband and his wife
should again come together, when there had been between them such an
emissary as a detective policeman? Mrs Trevelyan had gradually come to
learn that Bozzle had been at Nuncombe Putney, watching her, and to be
aware that she was still under the surveillance of his eye. For some
months past now she had neither seen Colonel Osborne, nor heard from
him. He had certainly by his folly done much to produce the ruin which
had fallen upon her; but it never occurred to her to blame him. Indeed
she did not know that he was liable to blame. Mr Outhouse always spoke
of him with indignant scorn, and Nora had learned to think that much of
their misery was due to his imprudence. But Mrs Trevelyan would not see
this, and, not seeing it, was more widely separated from her husband
than she would have been had she acknowledged that any excuse for his
misconduct had been afforded by the vanity and folly of the other man.

Lady Rowley had written to have a furnished house taken for them from
the first of April, and a house had been secured in Manchester Street.
The situation in question is not one which is of itself very charming,
nor is it supposed to be in a high degree fashionable; but Nora looked
forward to her escape from St. Diddulph's to Manchester Street as
though Paradise were to be re-opened to her as soon as she should be
there with her father and mother. She was quite clear now as to her
course about Hugh Stanbury. She did not doubt that that she could so
argue the matter as to get the consent of her father and mother. She
felt herself to be altogether altered in her views of life, since
experience had come upon her, first at Nuncombe Putney, and after that,
much more heavily and seriously, at St. Diddulph's. She looked back as
though to a childish dream to the ideas which had prevailed with her
when she had told herself, as she used to do so frequently, that she
was unfit to be a poor man's wife. Why should she be more unfit for
such a position than another? Of course there were many thoughts in her
mind, much of memory if nothing of regret, in regard to Mr Glascock and
the splendour that had been offered to her. She had had her chance of
being a rich man's wife, and had rejected it had rejected it twice,
with her eyes open. Readers will say that if she loved Hugh Stanbury
with all her heart, there could be nothing of regret in her
reflections. But we are perhaps accustomed in judging for ourselves and
of others to draw the lines too sharply, and to say that on this side
lie vice, folly, heartlessness, and greed and on the other honour,
love, truth, and wisdom the good and the bad each in its own domain.
But the good and the bad mix themselves so thoroughly in our thoughts,
even in our aspirations, that we must look for excellence rather in
overcoming evil than in freeing ourselves from its influence. There had
been many moments of regret with Nora but none of remorse. At the very
moment in which she had sent Mr Glascock away from her, and had felt
that he had now been sent away for always, she had been full of regret.
Since that there had been many hours in which she had thought of her
own self-lesson, of that teaching by which she had striven to convince
herself that she could never fitly become a poor man's wife. But the
upshot of it all was a healthy pride in what she had done, and a strong
resolution that she would make shirts and hem towels for her husband if
he required it. It had been given her to choose, and she had chosen.
She had found herself unable to tell a man that she loved him when she
did not love him and equally unable to conceal the love which she did
feel. 'If he wheeled a barrow of turnips about the street, I'd marry
him tomorrow,' she said to her sister one afternoon as they were
sitting together in the room which ought to have been her uncle's
study.

'If he wheeled a big barrow, you'd have to wheel a little one,' said
her sister.

'Then I'd do it. I shouldn't mind. There has been this advantage in St.
Diddulph's, that nothing can be triste, nothing dull, nothing ugly
after it.'

'It may be so with you, Nora that is in imagination.'

'What I mean is that living here has taught me much that I never could
have learned in Curzon Street. I used to think myself such a fine young
woman but, upon my word, I think myself a finer one now.'

'I don't quite know what you mean.'

'I don't quite know myself; but I nearly know. I do know this, that
I've made up my own mind about what I mean to do.'

'You'll change it, dear, when mamma is here, and things are comfortable
again. It's my belief that Mr Glascock would come to you again tomorrow
if you would let him.' Mrs Trevelyan was, naturally, in complete
ignorance of the experience of transatlantic excellence which Mr
Glascock had encountered in Italy.

'But I certainly should not let him. How would it be possible after
what I wrote to Hugh?'

'All that might pass away,' said Mrs Trevelyan slowly, after a long
pause.

'All what might pass away? Have I not given him a distinct promise?
Have I not told him that I loved him, and sworn that I would be true to
him? Can that be made to pass away. even if one wished it?'

'Of course it can. Nothing need be fixed for you till you have stood at
the altar with a man and been made his wife. You may choose still. I
can never choose again.'

'I never will, at any rate,' said Nora.

Then there was another pause. 'It seems strange to me, Nora,' said the
elder sister, 'that after what you have seen you should be so keen to
be married to any one.'

'What is a girl to do?'

'Better drown herself than do as I have done. Only think what there is
before me. What I have gone through is nothing to it. Of course I must
go back to the Islands. Where else am I to live? Who else will take
me?'

'Come to us,' said Nora.

'Us, Nora! Who are the us? But in no way would that be possible. Papa
will be here, perhaps, for six months.' Nora thought it quite possible
that she might have a home of her own before six months were passed
even though she might be wheeling the smaller barrow but she would not
say so. 'And by that time everything must be decided.'

'I suppose it must.'

'Of course papa and mamma must go back,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Papa might take a pension. He's entitled to a pension now.'

'He'll never do that as long as he can have employment. They'll go
back, and I must go with them. Who else would take me in?'

'I know who would take you in, Emily.'

'My darling, that is romance. As for myself, I should not care where I
went. If it were even to remain here, I could bear it.'

'I could not,' said Nora, decisively.

'It is so different with you, dear. I don't suppose it is possible I
should take my boy with me to the Islands; and how am I to go anywhere
without him?' Then she broke down, and fell into a paroxysm of sobs,
and was in very truth a broken-hearted woman.

Nora was silent for some minutes, but at last she spoke. 'Why do you
not go back to him, Emily?'

'How am I to go back to him? What am I to do to make him take me back?'
At this very moment Trevelyan was in the house, but they did not know
it.

'Write to him,' said Nora.

'What am I to say? In very truth I do believe that he is mad. If I
write to him, should I defend myself or accuse myself? A dozen times I
have striven to write such a letter not that I might send it, but that
I might find what I could say should I ever wish to send it. And it is
impossible. I can only tell him how unjust he has been, how cruel, how
mad, how wicked!'

'Could you not say to him simply this? "Let us be together, wherever it
may be; and let bygones be bygones."'

'While he is watching me with a policeman? While he is still thinking
that I entertain a lover? While he believes that I am the base thing
that he has dared to think me?'

'He has never believed it.'

'Then how can he be such a villain as to treat me like this? I could
not go to him, Nora not unless I went to him as one who was known to be
mad, over whom in his wretched condition it would be my duty to keep
watch. In no other way could I overcome my abhorrence of the outrages
to which he has subjected me.'

'But for the child's sake, Emily.'

'Ah, yes! If it were simply to grovel in the dust before him it should
be done. If humiliation would suffice or any self-abasement that were
possible to me! But I should be false if I said that I look forward to
any such possibility. How can he wish to have me back again after what
he has said and done? I am his wife, and he has disgraced me before all
men by his own words. And what have I done, that I should not have done
what left undone on his behalf that I should have done? It is hard that
the foolish workings of a weak man's mind should be able so completely
to ruin the prospects of a woman's life!'

Nora was beginning to answer this by attempting to shew that the
husband's madness was, perhaps, only temporary, when there came a knock
at the door, and Mrs Outhouse was at once in the room. It will be well
that the reader should know what had taken place at the parsonage while
the two sisters had been together upstairs, so that the nature of Mrs
Outhouse's mission to them may explain itself. Mr Outhouse had been in
his closet downstairs, when the maid-servant brought word to him that
Mr Trevelyan was in the parlour, and was desirous of seeing him.

'Mr Trevelyan!' said the unfortunate clergyman, holding up both his
hands. The servant understood the tragic importance of the occasion
quite as well as did her master, and simply shook her head. 'Has your
mistress seen him?' said the master. The girl again shook her head.
'Ask your mistress to come to me,' said the clergyman. Then the girl
disappeared; and in a few minutes Mrs Outhouse, equally imbued with the
tragic elements of the day, was with her husband.

Mr Outhouse began by declaring that no consideration should induce him
to see Trevelyan, and commissioned his wife to go to the man and tell,
him that he must leave the house. When the unfortunate woman expressed
an opinion that Trevelyan had some legal rights upon which he might
probably insist, Mr Outhouse asserted roundly that he could have no
legal right to remain in that parsonage against the will of the rector.
'If he wants to claim his wife and child, he must do it by law not by
force; and thank God, Sir Marmaduke will be here before he can do
that.' 'But I can't make him go,' said Mrs Outhouse. 'Tell him that
you'll send for a policeman,' said the clergyman.

It had come to pass that there had been messages backwards and forwards
between the visitor and the master of the house, all carried by that
unfortunate lady.

Trevelyan did not demand that his wife and child should be given up to
him did not even, on this occasion, demand that his boy should be
surrendered to him now, at once. He did say, very repeatedly, that of
course he must have his boy, but seemed to imply that, under certain
circumstances, he would be willing to take his wife to live with him
again. This appeared to Mrs Outhouse to be so manifestly the one thing
that was desirable to be the only solution of the difficulty that could
be admitted as a solution at all that she went to work on that hint,
and ventured to entertain a hope that a reconciliation might be
effected. She implored her husband to lend a hand to the work by which
she intended to imply that he should not only see Trevelyan, but
consent to meet the sinner on friendly terms. But Mr Outhouse was on
the occasion ever more than customarily obstinate. His wife might co
what she liked. He would neither meddle nor make. He would not
willingly see Mr Trevelyan in his own house unless, indeed, Mr
Trevelyan should attempt to force his way up into the nursery. Then he
said that which left no doubt on his wife's mind that, should any
violence be attempted, her husband would manfully join the melee.

But it soon became evident that no such attempt was to be made on that
day. Trevelyan was lachrymose, heartbroken, and a sight pitiable to
behold. When Mrs Outhouse loudly asserted that his wife had not sinned
against him in the least 'not in a tittle, Mr Trevelyan,' she repeated
over and over again he began to assert himself, declaring that she had
seen the man in Devonshire, and corresponded with him since she had
been at St. Diddulph's; and when the lady had declared that the latter
assertion was untrue, he had shaken his head, and had told her that
perhaps she did not know all. But the misery of the man had its effect
upon her, and at last she proposed to be the bearer of a message to his
wife. He had demanded to see his child, offering his promise that he
would not attempt to take the boy by force on this occasion saying,
also, that his claim by law was so good, that no force could be
necessary. It was proposed by Mrs Outhouse that he should first see the
mother and to this he at last assented. How blessed a thing would it be
if these two persons could be induced to forget the troubles of the
last twelve months, and once more to love and trust each other! 'But,
sir,' said Mrs Outhouse, putting her hand upon his arm 'you must not
upbraid her, for she will not bear it.'she knows nothing of what is due
to a husband,' said Trevelyan, gloomily. The task was not hopeful; but,
nevertheless, the poor woman resolved to do her best.

And now Mrs Outhouse was in her niece's room, asking her to go down and
see her husband. Little Louis had at the time been with the nurse, and
the very moment that the mother heard that the child's father was in
the house, she jumped up and rushed away to get possession of her
treasure. 'Has he come for baby?' Nora asked in dismay. Then Mrs
Outhouse, anxious to obtain a convert to her present views, boldly
declared that Mr Trevelyan had no such intention. Mrs Trevelyan came
back at once with the boy, and then listened to all her aunt's
arguments. 'But I will not take baby with me,' she said. At last it was
decided that she should go down alone, and that the child should
afterwards be taken to his father in the drawing-room; Mrs Outhouse
pledging herself that the whole household should combine in her defence
if Mr Trevelyan should attempt to take the child out of that room. 'But
what am I to say to him?' she asked.

'Say as little as possible,' said Mrs Outhouse 'except to make him
understand that he has been in error in imputing fault to you.'

'He will never understand that,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

A considerable time elapsed after that before she could bring herself
to descend the stairs. Now that her husband was so near her, and that
her aunt had assured her that she might reinstate herself in her
position, if she could only abstain from saying hard words to him, she
wished that he was away from her again, in Italy. She knew that she
could not refrain from hard words.

How was it possible that she should vindicate her own honour, without
asserting with all her strength that she had been ill-used; and, to
speak truth on the matter, her love for the man, which had once been
true and eager, had been quelled by the treatment she had received. She
had clung to her love in some shape, in spite of the accusations made
against her, till she had heard that the policeman had been set upon
her heels. Could it be possible that any woman should love a man, or at
least that any wife should love a husband, after such usage as that? At
last she crept gently down the stairs, and stood at the parlour-door.
She listened, and could hear his steps, as he paced backwards and
forwards through the room. She looked back, and could see the face of
the servant peering round from the kitchen-stairs. She could not endure
to be watched in her misery, and, thus driven, she opened the
parlour-door.' 'Louis,' she said, walking into the room, 'Aunt Mary has
desired me to come to you.'

'Emily!' he exclaimed, and ran to her and embraced her. She did not
seek to stop him, but she did not return the kiss which he gave her.
Then he held her by her hands, and looked into her face, and she could
see how strangely he was altered. She thought that she would hardly
have known him, had she not been sure that it was he. She herself was
also changed. Who can bear sorrow without such change, till age has
fixed the lines of the face, or till care has made them hard and
unmalleable? But the effect on her was as nothing to that which grief,
remorse, and desolation had made on him. He had had no child with him,
no sister, no friend. Bozzle had been his only refuge a refuge not
adapted to make life easier to such a man as Trevelyan; and he in spite
of the accusations made by himself against his wife, within his own
breast hourly since he had left her had found it to be very difficult
to satisfy his own conscience. He told himself from hour to hour that
he knew that he was right but in very truth he was ever doubting his
own conduct.

'You have been ill, Louis,' she said, looking at him.

'Ill at ease, Emily very ill at ease! A sore heart will make the face
thin, as well as fever or ague. Since we parted I have not had much to
comfort me.' 'Nor have I nor any of us,' said she. 'How was comfort to
come from such a parting?'

Then they both stood silent together He was still holding her by the
hand, but she was careful not to return his pressure. She would not
take her hand away from him; but she would show him no sign of softness
till he should have absolutely acquitted her of the accusation he had
made against her. 'We are man and wife,' he said after awhile. 'In
spite of all that has come and gone I am yours, and you are mine.'

'You should have remembered that always, Louis.'

'I have never forgotten it never. In no thought have I been untrue to
you. My heart has never changed since first I gave it you.' There came
a bitter frown upon her face, of which she was so conscious herself,
that she turned her face away from him. She still remembered her
lesson, that she was not to anger him, and, therefore, she refrained
from answering him at all.

But the answer was there, hot within her bosom. Had he loved her and
yet suspected that she was false to him and to her vows, simply because
she had been on terms of intimacy with an old friend? Had he loved her,
and yet turned her from his house? Had he loved her and set a policeman
to watch her? Had he loved her, and yet spoken evil of her to all their
friends? Had he loved her, and yet striven to rob her of her child?
'Will you come to me?' he said.

'I suppose it will be better so,' she answered slowly.

'Then you will promise me--' He paused, and attempted to turn her
towards him, so that he might look her in the face.

'Promise what?' she said, quickly glancing round at him, and drawing
her hand away from him as she did so.

'That all intercourse with Colonel Osborne shall be at an end.'

'I will make no promise. You come to me to add one insult to another.
Had you been a man, you would not have named him to me after what you
have done to me.'

'That is absurd. I have a right to demand from you such a pledge. I am
willing to believe that you have not--'

'Have not what?'

'That you have not utterly disgraced me.'

'God in heaven, that I should hear this!' she exclaimed. 'Louis
Trevelyan, I have not disgraced you at all in thought, in word, in
deed, in look, or in gesture. It is you that have disgraced yourself,
and ruined me, and degraded even your own child.'

'Is this the way in which you welcome me?'

'Certainly it is in this way and in no other if you speak to me of what
is past, without acknowledging your error.' Her brow became blacker and
blacker as she continued to speak to him. 'It would be best that
nothing should be said not a word. That it all should be regarded as an
ugly dream. But, when you come to me and at once go back to it all, and
ask me for a promise'

'Am I to understand then that all idea of submission to your husband is
to be at an end?'

'I will submit to no imputation on my honour even from you. One would
have thought that it would have been for you to preserve it
untarnished.'

'And you will give me no assurance as to your future life?'

'None certainly none. If you want promises from me, there can be no
hope for the future. What am I to promise? That I will not have a
lover? What respect can I enjoy as your wife if such a promise be
needed? If you should choose to fancy that it had been broken you would
set your policeman to watch me again! Louis, we can never live together
again ever with comfort, unless you acknowledge in your own heart that
you have used me shamefully.'

'Were you right to see him in Devonshire?'

'Of course I was right. Why should I not see him or any one?'

'And you will see him again?'

'When papa comes, of course I shall see him.'

'Then it is hopeless,' said he, turning away from her.

'If that man is to be a source of disquiet to you, it is hopeless,' she
answered. 'If you cannot so school yourself that he shall be the same
to you as other men, it is quite hopeless. You must still be mad as you
have been mad hitherto.'

He walked about the room restlessly for a time, while she stood with
assumed composure near the window.'send me my child,' he said at last.

'He shall come to you, Louis for a little; but he is not to be taken
out from hence. Is that a promise?'

'You are to exact promises from me, where my own rights are concerned,
while you refuse to give me any, though I am entitled to demand them! I
order you to send the boy to me. Is he not my own?'

'Is he not mine too? And is he not all that you have left to me?'

He paused again, and then gave the promise. 'Let him be brought to me.
He shall not be removed now. I intend to have him. I tell you so
fairly. He shall be taken from you unless you come back to me with such
assurances as to your future conduct as I have a right to demand. There
is much that the law cannot give me. It cannot procure wife-like
submission, love, gratitude, or even decent matronly conduct. But that
which it can give me, I will have.'

She walked off to the door, and then as she was quitting the room she
spoke to him once again. 'Alas, Louis,' she said, 'neither can the law,
nor medicine, nor religion, restore to you that fine intellect which
foolish suspicions have destroyed.' Then she left him and returned to
the room in which her aunt, and Nora, and the child were all clustered
together, waiting to learn the effects of the interview. The two women
asked their questions with their eyes, rather than with spoken words.
'It is all over,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'There is nothing left for me but
to go back to papa. I only hear the same accusations, repeated again
and again, and make myself subject to the old insults.' Then Mrs
Outhouse knew that she could interfere no further, and that in truth
nothing could be done till the return of Sir Marmaduke should relieve
her and her husband from all further active concern in the matter.

But Trevelyan was still down-stairs waiting for the child. At last it
was arranged that Nora should take the boy into the drawing-room, and
that Mrs Outhouse should fetch the father up from the parlour to the
room above it. Angry as was Mrs Trevelyan with her husband, not the
less was she anxious to make the boy good-looking and seemly in his
father's eyes. She washed the child's face, put on him a clean frill
and a pretty ribbon; and, as she did so, she bade him kiss his papa,
and speak nicely to him, and love him. 'Poor papa is unhappy,' she
said, 'and Louey must be very good to him.' The boy, child though he
was, understood much more of what was passing around him than his
mother knew. How was he to love papa when mamma did not do so? In some
shape that idea had framed itself in his mind; and, as he was taken
down, he knew it was impossible that he should speak nicely to his
papa. Nora did as she was bidden, and went down to the first-floor. Mrs
Outhouse, promising that even if she were put out of the room by Mr
Trevelyan she would not stir from the landing outside the door,
descended to the parlour and quickly returned with the unfortunate
father. Mr Outhouse, in the meantime, was still sitting in his closet,
tormented with curiosity, but yet determined not to be seen till the
intruder should have left his house.

'I hope you are well, Nora,' he said, as he entered the room with Mrs
Outhouse.

'Quite well, thank you, Louis.'

'I am sorry that our troubles should have deprived you of the home you
had been taught to expect.' To this Nora made no reply, but escaped,
and went up to her sister. 'My poor little boy,' said Trevelyan, taking
the child and placing it on his knee. 'I suppose you have forgotten
your unfortunate father.' The child, of course, said nothing, but just
allowed himself to be kissed.

'He is looking very well,' said Mrs Outhouse.

'Is he? I dare say he is well. Louey, my boy, are you happy?' The
question was asked in a voice that was dismal beyond compare, and it
also remained unanswered. He had been desired to speak nicely to his
papa; but how was it possible that a child should speak nicely under
such a load of melancholy? 'He will not speak to me,' said Trevelyan.
'I suppose it is what I might have expected.' Then the child was put
off his knee on to the floor, and began to whimper. 'A few months since
he would sit there for hours, with his head upon my breast,' said
Trevelyan.

'A few months is a long time in the life of such an infant,' said Mrs
Outhouse.

'He may go away,' said Trevelyan. Then the child was led out of the
room, and sent up to his mother.

'Emily has done all she can to make the child love your memory,' said
Mrs Outhouse.

'To love my memory! What as though I were dead. I will teach him to
love me as I am, Mrs Outhouse. I do not think that it is too late. Will
you tell your husband from me, with my compliments, that I shall cause
him to be served with a legal demand for the restitution of my child?'

'But Sir Marmaduke will be here in a few days.'

'I know nothing of that. Sir Marmaduke is nothing to me now. My child
is my own and so is my wife. Sir Marmaduke has no authority over either
one or the other. I find my child here, and it is here that I must look
for him. I am sorry that you should be troubled, but the fault does not
rest with me. Mr Outhouse has refused to give me up my own child, and I
am driven to take such steps for his recovery as the law has put within
my reach.'

'Why did you turn your wife out of doors, Mr Trevelyan?' asked Mrs
Outhouse boldly.

'I did not turn her out of doors. I provided a fitting shelter for her.
I gave her everything that she could want. You know what happened. That
man went down and was received there. I defy you, Mrs Outhouse, to say
that it was my fault.'

Mrs Outhouse did attempt to show him that it was his fault; but while
she was doing so he left the house. 'I don't think she could go back to
him,' said Mrs Outhouse to her husband. 'He is quite insane upon this
matter.'

'I shall be insane, I know,' said Mr Outhouse, 'if Sir Marmaduke does
not come home very quickly.' Nevertheless he quite ignored any legal
power that might be brought to bear against him as to the restitution
of the child to its father.



CHAPTER LXI - PARKER'S HOTEL, MOWBRAY STREET

Within a week of the occurrence which is related in the last chapter,
there came a telegram from Southampton to the parsonage at St.
Diddulph's, saying that Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley had reached
England. On the evening of that day they were to lodge at a small
family hotel in Baker Street, and both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora were to
be with them. The leave-taking at the parsonage was painful, as on both
sides there existed a feeling that affection and sympathy were wanting.
The uncle and aunt had done their duty, and both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora
felt that they ought to have been demonstrative and cordial in their
gratitude but they found it impossible to become so. And the rector
could not pretend but that he was glad to be rid of his guests. There
were, too, some last words about money to be spoken, which were
grievous thorns in the poor man's flesh. Two bank notes, however, were
put upon his table, and he knew that unless he took them he could not
pay for the provisions which his unwelcome visitors had consumed.
Surely there never was a man so cruelly ill-used as had been Mr
Outhouse in all this matter. 'Another such winter as that would put me
in my grave,' he said, when his wife tried to comfort him after they
were gone. 'I know that they have both been very good to us,' said Mrs
Trevelyan, as she and her sister, together with the child and the
nurse, hurried away toward Baker Street in a cab, 'but I have never for
a moment felt that they were glad to have us.' 'But how could they have
been glad to have us,' she added afterwards, 'when we brought such
trouble with us?' But they to whom they were going now would receive
her with joy would make her welcome with all her load of sorrows, would
give to her a sympathy which it was impossible that she should receive
from others. Though she might not be happy now for in truth how could
she be ever really happy again there would be a joy to her in placing
her child in her mother's arms, and in receiving her father's warm
caresses. That her father would be very vehement in his anger against
her husband she knew well for Sir Marmaduke was a vehement man. But
there would be some support for her in the very violence of his wrath,
and at this moment it was such support that she most needed. As they
journeyed together in the cab, the married sister seemed to be in the
higher spirits of the two. She was sure, at any rate, that those to
whom she was going would place themselves on her side. Nora had her own
story to tell about Hugh Stanbury, and was by no means so sure that her
tale would be received with cordial agreement. 'Let me tell them
myself,' she whispered to her sister. 'Not to-night, because they will
have so much to say to you; but I shall tell mamma to-morrow.'

The train by which the Rowleys were to reach London was due at the
station at 7.30 p.m., and the two sisters timed their despatch from St.
Diddulph's so as to enable them to reach the hotel at eight. 'We shall
be there now before mamma,' said Nora, 'because they will have so much
luggage, and so many things, and the trains are always late.' When they
started from the door of the parsonage, Mr Outhouse gave the direction
to the cabman, 'Gregg's Hotel, Baker Street.' Then at once he began to
console himself in that they were gone.

It was a long drive from St. Diddulph's in the east, to Marylebone in
the west, of London. None of the part in the cab knew anything of the
region through which they passed. The cabman took the line by the back
of the Bank, and Finsbury Square and the City Road, thinking it best,
probably, to avoid the crush at Holborn Hill, though at the expense of
something of a circuit. But of this Mrs Trevelyan and Nora knew
nothing. Had their way taken them along Piccadilly, or through Mayfair,
or across Grosvenor Square, they would have known where they were; but
at present they were not thinking of those once much-loved localities.
The cab passed the Angel, and up and down the hill at Pentonville, and
by the King's Cross stations, and through Euston Square and then it
turned up Gower Street. Surely the man should have gone on along the
New Road, now that he had come so far out of his way. But of this the
two ladies knew nothing nor did the nurse. It was a dark, windy night,
but the lamps in the streets had given them light, so that they had not
noticed the night. Nor did they notice it now as the streets became
narrower and darker. They were hardly thinking that their journey was
yet at an end, and the mother was in the act of covering her boy's face
as he lay asleep on the nurse's lap, when the cab was stopped. Nora
looking out through the window, saw the word 'Hotel' over a doorway,
and was satisfied.'shall I take the child, ma'am?' said a man in black,
and the child was handed out. Nora was the first to follow, and she
then perceived that the door of the hotel was not open. Mrs Trevelyan
followed; and then they looked round them and the child was gone. They
heard the rattle of another cab as it was carried away at a gallop
round a distant corner and then some inkling of what had happened came
upon them. The father had succeeded in getting possession of his child.

It was a narrow, dark street, very quiet, having about it a certain air
of poor respectability an obscure, noiseless street, without even a
sign of life. Some unfortunate one had endeavoured here to keep an
hotel but there was no hotel kept there now. There had been much craft
in selecting the place in which the child had been taken from them. As
they looked around them, perceiving the terrible misfortune which had
befallen them, there was not a human being near them save the cabman,
who was occupied in unchaining, or pretending to unchain the heavy mass
of luggage on the roof. The windows of the house before which they were
stopping, were closed, and Nora perceived at once that the hotel was
not inhabited. The cabman must have perceived it also. As for the man
who had taken the child, the nurse could only say that he was dressed
in black, like a waiter, that he had a napkin under his arm, and no hat
on his head. He had taken the boy tenderly in his arms and then she had
seen nothing further. The first thing that Nora had seen, as she stood
on the pavement, was the other cab moving off rapidly.

Mrs Trevelyan had staggered against the railings, and was soon
screaming in her wretchedness. Before long there was a small crowd
around them, comprising three or four women, a few boys, an old man or
two and a policeman. To the policeman Nora had soon told the whole
story, and the cabman was of course attacked. But the cabman played his
part very well. He declared that he had done just what he had been told
to do. Nora was indeed sure that she had heard her uncle desire him to
drive to Gregg's Hotel in Baker Street. The cabman in answer to this,
declared that he had not clearly heard the old gentleman's directions;
but that a man whom he had conceived to be a servant, had very plainly
told him to drive to Parker's Hotel, Mowbray Street, Gower Street. 'I
comed ever so far out of my way,' said the cabman, 'to avoid the rumpus
with the homnibuses at the hill cause the ladies things is so heavy
we'd never got up if the 'otherwise had once jibbed.' All which, though
it had nothing to do with the matter, seemed to impress the policeman
with the idea that the cabman, if not a true man, was going to be too
clever for them on this occasion. And the crafty cabman went on to
declare that his horse was so tired with the road that he could not go
on to Baker Street. They must get another cab. Take his number! Of
course they could take his number. There was his number. His fare was
four and six that is if the ladies wouldn't pay him anything extra for
the terrible load; and he meant to have it. It would be sixpence more
if they kept him there many minutes longer. The number was taken, and
another cab was got, and the luggage was transferred, and the money was
paid, while the unhappy mother was still screaming in hysterics against
the railings. What had been done was soon clear enough to all those
around her. Nora had told the policeman, and had told one of the women,
thinking to obtain their sympathy and assistance. 'It's the kid's dada
as has taken it,' said one man, 'and there ain't nothing to be done.'
There was nothing to be done nothing at any rate then and there.

Nora had been very eager that the cabman should be arrested; but the
policeman assured her that such an arrest was out of the question, and
would have been useless had it been possible. The man would be
forthcoming if his presence should be again desired, but he had
probably so said the policeman really been desired to drive to Mowbray
Street. 'They knows where to find me if they wants me only I must be
paid my time,' said the cabman confidently. And the policeman was of
opinion that as the boy had been kidnapped on behalf of the father, no
legal steps could be taken either for the recovery of the child or for
the punishment of the perpetrators of the act. He got up, however, on
the box of the cab, and accompanied the party to the hotel in Baker
Street. They reached it almost exactly at the same time with Sir
Marmaduke and Lady Rowley, and the reader must imagine the confusion,
the anguish, and the disappointment of that meeting. Mrs Trevelyan was
hardly in possession of her senses when she reached her mother, and
could not be induced to be tranquil even when she was assured by her
father that her son would suffer no immediate evil by being transferred
to his father's hands. She in her frenzy declared that she would never
see her little one again, and seemed to the father might not improbably
destroy the child. 'He is mad, papa, and does not know what he does. Do
you mean to say that a madman may do as he pleases? that he may rob my
child from me in the streets? that he may take him out of my very arms
in that way?' And she was almost angry with her father because no
attempt was made that night to recover the boy.

Sir Marmaduke, who was not himself a good lawyer, had been closeted
with the policeman for a quarter of an hour, and had learned the
policeman's views. Of course, the father of the child was the person
who had done the deed. Whether the cabman had been in the plot or not,
was not matter of much consequence. There could be no doubt that some
one had told the man to go to Parker's Hotel, as the cab was starting;
and it would probably be impossible to punish him in the teeth of such
instructions. Sir Marmaduke, however, could doubtless have the cabman
summoned. And as for the absolute abduction of the child, the policeman
was of opinion that a father could not be punished for obtaining
possession of his son by such a stratagem, unless the custody of the
child had been made over to the mother by some court of law. The
policeman, indeed, seemed to think that nothing could be done, and Sir
Marmaduke was inclined to agree with him. When this was explained to
Mrs Trevelyan by her mother, she again became hysterical in her agony,
and could hardly be restrained from going forth herself to look for her
lost treasure.

It need hardly be further explained that Trevelyan had planned the
stratagem in concert with Mr Bozzle. Bozzle, though strongly cautioned
by his wife to keep himself out of danger in the matter, was sorely
tempted by his employer's offer of a hundred pounds. He positively
refused to be a party to any attempt at violence at St. Diddulph's; but
when he learned, as he did learn, that Mrs Trevelyan, with her sister
and baby, were to be transferred from St. Diddulph's in a cab to Baker
Street, and that the journey was luckily to be made during the shades
of evening, his active mind went to work, and he arranged the plan.
There were many difficulties, and even some pecuniary difficulty. He
bargained that he should have his hundred pounds clear of all deduction
for expenses and then the attendant expenses were not insignificant. It
was necessary that there should be four men in the service, all good
and true; and men require to be well paid for such goodness and truth.
There was the man, himself an ex-policeman, who gave the instructions
to the first cabman, as he was starting. The cabman would not undertake
the job at all unless he were so instructed on the spot, asserting that
in this way he would be able to prove that the orders he obeyed came
from the lady's husband. And there was the crafty pseudo-waiter, with
the napkin and no hat, who had carried the boy to the cab in which his
father was sitting. And there were the two cabmen. Bozzle planned it
all, and with some difficulty arranged the preliminaries. How
successful was the scheme, we have seen; and Bozzle, for a month, was
able to assume a superiority over his wife, which that honest woman
found to be very disagreeable.

'There ain't no fraudulent abduction in it at all,' Bozzle exclaimed,
'because a wife ain't got no rights again her husband not in such a
matter as that.' Mrs Bozzle implied that if her husband were to take
her child away from her without her leave, she'd let him know something
about it. But as the husband had in his possession the note for a
hundred pounds, realized, Mrs Bozzle had not much to say in support of
her view of the case.

On the morning after the occurrence, while Sir Marmaduke was waiting
with his solicitor upon a magistrate to find whether anything could be
done, the following letter was brought to Mrs Trevelyan at Gregg's
Hotel:

'Our child is safe with me, and will remain so. If you care to obtain
legal advice you will find that I as his father have a right to keep
him under my protection. I shall do so; but will allow you to see him
as soon as I shall have received a full guarantee that you have no idea
of withdrawing him from my charge.

A home for yourself with me is still open to you on condition that you
will give me the promise that I have demanded from you; and as long as
I shall not hear that you again see or communicate with the person to
whose acquaintance I object. While, you remain away from me I will
cause you to be paid 50 a month, as I do not wish that you should be a
burden on others. But this payment will depend also on your not seeing
or holding any communication with the person to whom I have alluded.

Your affectionate and offended husband,

Louis TREVELYAN.

A letter addressed to The Acrobats' Club will reach me.'



Sir Rowley came home dispirited and unhappy, and could not give much
comfort to his daughter. The magistrate had told him that though the
cabman might probably be punished for taking the ladies otherwise than
as directed if the direction to Baker Street could be proved nothing
could be done to punish the father. The magistrate explained that under
a certain Act of Parliament the mother might apply to the Court of
Chancery for the custody of any children under seven years of age, and
that the court would probably grant such custody unless it were shewn
that the wife had left her husband without sufficient cause. The
magistrate could not undertake to say whether or no sufficient cause
had here been given or whether the husband was in fault or the wife. It
was, however, clear that nothing could be done without application to
the Court of Chancery. It appeared so said the magistrate that the
husband had offered a home to his wife, and that in offering it he had
attempted to impose no conditions which could be shewn to be cruel
before a judge. The magistrate thought that Mr Trevelyan had done
nothing illegal in taking the child from the cab. Sir Marmaduke, on
hearing this, was of opinion that nothing could be gained by legal
interference. His private desire was to get hold of Trevelyan and pull
him limb from limb. Lady Rowley thought that her daughter had better go
back to her husband, let the future consequences be what they might.
And the poor desolate mother herself had almost brought herself to
offer to do so, having in her brain some idea that she would after a
while be able to escape with her boy. As for love for her husband,
certainly there was none now left in her bosom. Nor could she teach
herself to think it possible that she should ever live with him again
on friendly terms. But she would submit to anything with the object of
getting back her boy. Three or four letters were written to Mr
Trevelyan in as many days from his wife, from Lady Rowley, and from
Nora; in which various overtures were made. Trevelyan wrote once again
to his wife. She knew, he said, already the terms on which she might
come back. These terms were still open to her. As for the boy, he
certainly should not leave his father. A meeting might be planned on
condition that he, Trevelyan, were provided with a written assurance
from his wife that she would not endeavour to remove the boy, and that
he himself should be present at the meeting.

Thus the first week was passed after Sir Marmaduke's return and a most
wretched time it was for all the party at Gregg's Hotel.



CHAPTER LXII - LADY ROWLEY MAKES AN ATTEMPT

Nothing could be more uncomfortable than the state of Sir Marmaduke
Rowley's family for the first ten days after the arrival in London of
the Governor of the Mandarin Islands. Lady Rowley had brought with her
two of her girls the third and fourth and, as we know, had been joined
by the two eldest, so that there was a large family of ladies gathered
together. A house had been taken in Manchester Street, to which they
had intended to transfer themselves after a single night passed at
Gregg's Hotel. But the trouble and sorrow inflicted upon them by the
abduction of Mrs Trevelyan's child, and the consequent labours thrust
upon Sir Marmaduke's shoulders had been so heavy, that they had slept
six nights at the hotel, before they were able to move themselves into
the house prepared for them. By that time all idea had been abandoned
of recovering the child by any legal means to be taken as a consequence
of the illegality of the abduction. The boy was with his father, and
the lawyers seemed to think that the father's rights were paramount as
he had offered a home to his wife without any conditions which a court
of law would adjudge to be cruel. If she could shew that he had driven
her to live apart from him by his own bad conduct, then probably the
custody of her boy might be awarded to her, until the child should be
seven years old. But when the circumstances of the case were explained
to Sir Marmaduke's lawyer by Lady Rowley, that gentleman shook his
head. Mrs Trevelyan had, he said, no case with which she could go into
court. Then by degrees there were words whispered as to the husband's
madness. The lawyer said that that was a matter for the doctors. If a
certain amount of medical evidence could be obtained to show that the
husband was in truth mad, the wife could, no doubt, obtain the custody
of the child. When this was reported to Mrs Trevelyan, she declared
that conduct such as her husband's must suffice to prove any man to be
mad; but at this Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and Lady Rowley sat,
sadly silent, with her daughter's hand within her own. They would not
dare to tell her that she could regain her child by that plea.

During those ten days they did not learn whither the boy had been
carried, nor did they know even where the father might be found. Sir
Marmaduke followed up the address as given in the letter, and learned
from the porter at 'The Acrobats' that the gentleman's letters were
sent to No. 65, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. To this
uncomfortable locality Sir Marmaduke travelled more than once. Thrice
he went thither, intent on finding his son-in-law's residence. On the
two first occasions he saw no one but Mrs Bozzle; and the discretion of
that lady in declining to give any information was most admirable.
'Trewillian!' Yes, she had heard the name certainly. It might be that
her husband had business engagements with a gent of that name. She
would not say even that for certain, as it was not her custom ever to
make any inquiries as to her husband's business engagements. Her
husband's business engagements were, she said, much too important for
the 'likes of she' to know anything about them. When was Bozzle likely
to be at home? Nozzle was never likely to be at home. According to her
showing, Bozzle was of all husbands the most erratic. He might perhaps
come in for an hour or two in the middle of the day on a Wednesday, or
perhaps would take a cup of tea at home on Friday evening. But anything
so fitful and uncertain as were Bozzle's appearances in the bosom of
his family was not to be conceived in the mind of woman. Sir Marmaduke
then called in the middle of the day on Wednesday, but Bozzle was
reported to be away in the provinces. His wife had no idea in which of
the provinces he was at that moment engaged. The persevering governor
from the islands called again on the Friday evening, and then, by
chance, Bozzle was found at home. But Sir Marmaduke succeeded in
gaining very little information even from Bozzle. The man acknowledged
that he was employed by Mr Trevelyan. Any letter or parcel left with
him for Mr Trevelyan should be duly sent to that gentleman. If Sir
Marmaduke wanted Mr Trevelyan's address, he could write to Mr Trevelyan
and ask for it. If Mr Trevelyan declined to give it, was it likely that
he, Bozzle, should betray it? Sir Marmaduke explained who he was at
some length. Bozzle with a smile assured the governor that he knew very
well who he was. He let drop a few words to show that he was intimately
acquainted with the whole course of Sir Marmaduke's family affairs. He
knew all about the Mandarins, and Colonel Osborne, and Gregg's Hotel
not that he said anything about Parker's Hotel and the Colonial Office.
He spoke of Miss Nora, and even knew the names of the other two young
ladies, Miss Sophia and Miss Lucy. It was a weakness with Bozzle that
of displaying his information. He would have much liked to be able to
startle Sir Marmaduke by describing the Government House in the island,
or by telling him something of his old carriage-horses. But of such
information as Sir Marmaduke desired, Sir Marmaduke got none.

And there were other troubles which fell very heavily upon the poor
governor, who had come home as it were for a holiday, and who was a man
hating work naturally, and who, from the circumstances of his life, had
never been called on to do much work. A man may govern the Mandarins
and yet live in comparative idleness. To do such governing work well a
man should have a good presence, a flow of words which should mean
nothing, an excellent temper, and a love of hospitality. With these
attributes Sir Rowley was endowed; for, though his disposition was by
nature hot, for governing purposes it had been brought by practice
under good control. He had now been summoned home through the
machinations of his dangerous old friend Colonel Osborne, in order that
he might give the results of his experience in governing before a
committee of the House of Commons. In coming to England on this
business he had thought much more of his holiday, of his wife and
children, of his daughters at home, of his allowance per day while he
was to be away from his government, and of his salary to be paid to him
entire during his absence, instead of being halved as it would be if he
were away on leave he had thought much more in coming home on these
easy and pleasant matters, than he did on the work that was to be
required from him when he arrived. And then it came to pass that he
felt himself almost injured, when the Colonial Office demanded his
presence from day to day, and when clerks bothered him with questions
as to which they expected ready replies, but in replying to which Sir
Marmaduke was by no means ready. The working men at the Colonial Office
had not quite thought that Sir Marmaduke was the most fitting man for
the job in hand. There was a certain Mr Thomas Smith at another set of
islands in quite another part of the world, who was supposed by these
working men at home to be a very paragon of a governor. If he had been
had home so said the working men no Committee of the House would have
been able to make anything of him. They might have asked him questions
week after week, and he would have answered them all fluently and would
have committed nobody. He knew all the ins and outs of governing did Mr
Thomas Smith and was a match for the sharpest Committee that ever sat
at Westminster. Poor Sir Marmaduke was a man of a very different sort;
all of which was known by the working men; but the Parliamentary
interest had been too strong, and here was Sir Marmaduke at home. But
the working men were not disposed to make matters so pleasant for Sir
Marmaduke, as Sir Marmaduke had expected. The Committee would not
examine Sir Marmaduke till after Easter, in the middle of April; but it
was expected of him that, he should read blue-books without number, and
he was so catechised by the working men that he almost began to wish
himself back at the Mandarins. In this way the new establishment in
Manchester Street was not at first in a happy or even in a contented
condition.

At last, after about ten days, Lady Rowley did succeed in obtaining an
interview with Trevelyan. A meeting was arranged through Bozzle, and
took place in a very dark and gloomy room at an inn in the City. Why
Bozzle should have selected the Bremen Coffee House, in Poulter's
Alley, for this meeting no fit reason can surely be given, unless it
was that he conceived himself bound to select the most dreary locality
within his knowledge on so melancholy an occasion. Poulter's Alley is a
narrow dark passage somewhere behind the Mansion House; and the Bremen
Coffee House why so called no one can now tell is one of those strange
houses of public resort in the City at which the guests seem never to
eat, never to drink, never to sleep, but to come in and out after a
mysterious and almost ghostly fashion, seeing their friends or perhaps
their enemies, in nooks and corners, and carrying on their conferences
in low melancholy whispers. There is an aged waiter at the Bremen
Coffee House; and there is certainly one private sitting-room upstairs.
It was a dingy, ill-furnished room, with an old large mahogany table,
an old horse-hair sofa, six horse-hair chairs, two old round mirrors,
and an old mahogany press in a corner. It was a chamber so sad in its
appearance that no wholesome useful work could have been done within
it; nor could men have eaten there with any appetite, or have drained
the flowing bowl with any touch of joviality. It was generally used for
such purposes as that to which it was now appropriated, and no doubt
had been taken by Bozzle on more than one previous occasion. Here Lady
Rowley arrived precisely at the hour fixed, and was told that the
gentleman was waiting up stairs for her.

There had, of course, been many family consultations as to the manner
in which this meeting should be arranged. Should Sir Marmaduke
accompany his wife or, perhaps, should Sir Marmaduke go alone? Lady
Rowley had been very much in favour of meeting Mr Trevelyan without any
one to assist her in the conference. As for Sir Marmaduke, no meeting
could be concluded between him and his son-in-law without a personal,
and probably a violent quarrel. Of that Lady Rowley had been quite
sure. Sir Marmaduke, since he had been home, had, in the midst of his
various troubles, been driven into so vehement a state of indignation
against his son-in-law as to be unable to speak of the wretched man
without strongest terms of opprobrium. Nothing was too bad to be said
by him of one who had ill-treated his dearest daughter. It must be
admitted that Sir Marmaduke had heard only one side of the question. He
had questioned his daughter, and had constantly seen his old friend
Osborne. The colonel's journey down to Devonshire had been made to
appear the most natural proceeding in the world. The correspondence of
which Trevelyan thought so much had been shown to consist of such notes
as might pass between any old gentleman and any young woman. The
promise which Trevelyan had endeavoured to exact, and which Mrs
Trevelyan had declined to give, appeared to the angry father to be a
monstrous insult. He knew that the colonel was an older man than
himself, and his Emily was still to him only a young girl. It was
incredible to him that anybody should have regarded his old comrade as
his daughter's lover. He did not believe that anybody had, in truth, so
regarded the man. The tale had been a monstrous invention on the part
of the husband, got up because he had become tired of his young wife.
According to Sir Marmaduke's way of thinking, Trevelyan should either
be thrashed within an inch of his life, or else locked up in a
mad-house. Colonel Osborne shook his head, and expressed a conviction
that the poor man was mad.

But Lady Rowley was more hopeful. Though she was as confident about her
daughter as was the father, she was less confident about the old
friend. She, probably, was alive to the fact that a man of fifty might
put on the airs and assume the character of a young lover; and acting
on that suspicion, entertaining also some hope that bad as matters now
were they might be mended, she had taken care that Colonel Osborne and
Mrs Trevelyan should not be brought together. Sir Marmaduke had fumed,
but Lady Rowley had been firm. 'If you think so, mamma,' Mrs Trevelyan
had said, with something of scorn in her tone 'of course let it be so.'
Lady Rowley had said that it would be better so; and the two had not
seen each other since the memorable visit to Nuncombe Putney. And now
Lady Rowley was about to meet her son-in law with some slight hope that
she might arrange affairs. She was quite aware that present
indignation, though certainly a gratification, might be indulged in at
much too great a cost. It would be better for all reasons that Emily
should go back to her husband and her home, and that Trevelyan should
be forgiven for his iniquities.

Bozzle was at the tavern during the interview, but he was not seen by
Lady Rowley. He remained seated downstairs, in one of the dingy
corners, ready to give assistance to his patron should assistance be
needed. When Lady Rowley was shown into the gloomy sitting-room by the
old waiter, she found Trevelyan alone, standing in the middle of the
room, and waiting for her. 'This is a sad occasion,' he said, as he
advanced to give her his hand.

'A very sad occasion, Louis.'

'I do not know what you may have heard of what has occurred, Lady
Rowley. It is natural, however, to suppose that you must have heard me
spoken of with censure.'

'I think my child has been ill used, Louis,' she replied.

'Of course you do. I could not expect that it should be otherwise. When
it was arranged that I should meet you here, I was quite aware that you
would have taken the side against me before you had heard my story. It
is I that have been ill used cruelly misused; but I do not expect that
you should believe me. I do not wish you to do. I would not for worlds
separate the mother from her daughter.'

'But why have you separated your own wife from her child?'

'Because it was my duty. What! Is a father not to have the charge of
his own son. I have done nothing, Lady Rowley, to justify a separation
which is contrary to the laws of nature.'

'Where is the boy, Louis?'

'Ah that is just what I am not prepared to tell any one who has taken
my wife's side till I know that my wife has consented to pay to me that
obedience which I, as her husband, have a right to demand. If Emily
will do as I request of her as I command her,' as Trevelyan said this,
he spoke in a tone which was intended to give the highest possible idea
of his own authority and dignity 'then she may see her child without
delay.'

'What is it you request of my daughter?'

'Obedience simply that. Submission to my will, which is surely a wife's
duty. Let her beg my pardon for what has occurred.'

'She cannot do that, Louis.'

'And solemnly promise me,' continued Trevelyan, not deigning to notice
Lady Rowley's interruption, 'that she will hold no further intercourse
with that snake in the grass who wormed his way into my house let her
be humble, and penitent, and affectionate, and then she shall be
restored to her husband and to her child.' He said this walking up and
down the room, and waving his hand, as though he were making a speech
that was intended to be eloquent as though he had conceived that he was
to overcome his mother-in-law by the weight of his words and the
magnificence of his demeanour. And yet his demeanour was ridiculous,
and his words would have had no weight had they not tended to show Lady
Rowley how little prospect there was that she should be able to heal
this breach. He himself, too, was so altered in appearance since she
had last seen him, bright with the hopes of his young married
happiness, that she would hardly have recognised him had she met him in
the street. He was thin, and pale, and haggard, and mean. And as he
stalked up and down the room, it seemed to her that the very character
of the man was changed. She had not previously known him to be pompous,
unreasonable, and absurd. She did not answer him at once, as she
perceived that he had not finished his address and, after a moment's
pause, he continued. 'Lady Rowley, there is nothing I would not have
done for your daughter for my wife. All that I had was hers. I did not
dictate to her any mode of life; I required from her no sacrifices; I
subjected her to no caprices; but I was determined to be master in my
own house.'

'I do not think, Louis, that she has ever denied your right to be
master.'

'To be master in my own house, and to be paramount in my influence over
her. So much I had a right to demand.'

'Who has denied your right?'

'She has submitted herself to the counsels and to the influences of a
man who has endeavoured to undermine me in her affection. In saying
that I make my accusation as light against her as is possible. I might
make it much heavier, and yet not sin against the truth.'

'This is an illusion, Louis.'

'Ah well. No doubt it becomes you to defend your child. Was it an
illusion when he went to Devonshire? Was it an illusion when he
corresponded with her contrary to my express orders both before and
after that unhallowed journey? Lady Rowley, there must be no more such
illusions. If my wife means to come back to me, and to have her child
in her own hands, she must be penitent as regards the past, and
obedient as regards the future.'

There was a wicked bitterness in that word penitent which almost
maddened Lady Rowley. She had come to this meeting believing that
Trevelyan would be rejoiced to take back his wife, if details could be
arranged for his doing so which should not subject him to the necessity
of crying, peccavi; but she found him speaking of his wife as though he
would be doing her the greatest possible favour in allowing her to come
back to him dressed in sackcloth, and with ashes on her head. She could
understand from what she had heard that his tone and manner were much
changed since he obtained possession of the child, and that he now
conceived that he had his wife within his power. That he should become
a tyrant because he had the power to tyrannise was not in accordance
with her former conception of the man's character but then he was so
changed, that she felt that she knew nothing of the man who now stood
before her. 'I cannot acknowledge that my daughter has done anything
that requires penitence,' said Lady Rowley.

'I dare say not but my view is different.'

'She cannot admit herself to be wrong when she knows herself to be
right. You would not have her confess to a fault, the very idea of
which has always been abhorrent to her?'

'She must be crushed in spirit, Lady Rowley, before she can again
become a pure and happy woman.'

'This is more than I can bear,' said Lady Rowley, now, at last, worked
up to a fever of indignation. 'My daughter, sir, is as pure a woman as
you have ever known, or are likely to know. You, who should have
protected her against the world, will some day take blame to yourself
as you remember that you have so cruelly maligned her.' Then she walked
away to the door, and would not listen to the words which he was
hurling after her. She went down the stairs, and out of the house, and
at the end of Poulter's Alley found the cab which was waiting for her.

Trevelyan, as soon as he was alone, rang the bell, and sent for Bozzle.
And while the waiter was coming to him, and until his myrmidon had
appeared, he continued to stalk up and down the room, waving his hand
in the air as though he were continuing his speech. 'Bozzle,' said he,
as soon as the man had closed the door, 'I have changed my mind.'

'As how, Mr Trewillian?'

'I shall make no further attempt. I have done all that man can do, and
have done it in vain. Her father and mother uphold her in her conduct,
and she is lost to me for ever.'

'But the boy, Mr T.?'

'I have my child. Yes I have my child. Poor infant. Bozzle, I look to
you to see that none of them learn our retreat.'

'As for that, Mr Trewillian why facts is to be come at by one party
pretty well as much as by another. Now, suppose the things was changed,
wicey warsey and as I was hacting for the Colonel's party.'

'D  the Colonel!' exclaimed Trevelyan.

'Just so, Mr Trewillian; but if I was hacting for the other party, and
they said to me, "Bozzle where's the boy?" why, in three days I'd be
down on the facts. Facts is open, Mr Trewillian, if you knows where to
look for them.'

'I shall take him abroad at once.'

'Think twice of it, Mr T. The boy is so young, you see, and a mother's
'art is softer and lovinger than anything. I'd think twice of it, Mr
T., before I kept 'em apart.' This was a line of thought which Mr
Bozzle's conscience had not forced him to entertain to the prejudice of
his professional arrangements; but now, as he conversed with his
employer, and became by degrees aware of the failure of Trevelyan's
mind, some shade of remorse came upon him, and made him say a word on
behalf of the 'other party.'

'Am I not always thinking of it? What else have they left me to think
of? That will do for to-day. You had better come down to me to-morrow
afternoon.' Bozzle promised obedience to these instructions, and as
soon as his patron had started he paid the bill, and took himself home.

Lady Rowley, as she travelled back to her house in Manchester Street,
almost made up her mind that the separation between her daughter and
her son-in-law had better be continued. It was a very sad conclusion to
which to come, but she could not believe that any high-spirited woman
could long continue to submit herself to the caprices of a man so
unreasonable and dictatorial as he to whom she had just been listening.
Were it not for the boy, there would, she felt, be no doubt upon the
matter. And now, as matters stood, she thought that it should be their
great object to regain possession of the child. Then she endeavoured to
calculate what would be the result to her daughter, if in very truth it
should be found that the wretched man was mad. To hope for such a
result seemed to her to be very wicked and yet she hardly knew how not
to hope for it.

'Well, mamma,' said Emily Trevelyan, with a faint attempt at a smile,
'you saw him?'

'Yes, dearest, I saw him. I can only say that he is a most unreasonable
man.'

'And he would tell you nothing of Louey?'

'No dear not a word.'



CHAPTER LXIII - SIR MARMADUKE AT HOME

Nora Rowley had told her lover that there was to be no further
communication between them till her father and mother should be in
England; but in telling him so, had so frankly confessed her own
affection for him and had so sturdily promised to be true to him, that
no lover could have been reasonably aggrieved by such an interdiction.
Nora was quite conscious of this, and was aware that Hugh Stanbury had
received such encouragement as ought at any rate to bring him to the
new Rowley establishment, as soon as he should learn where it had fixed
itself. But when at the end of ten days he had not shown himself, she
began to feel doubts. Could it be that he had changed his mind, that he
was unwilling to encounter refusal from her father, or that he had
found, on looking into his own affairs more closely, that it would be
absurd for him to propose to take a wife to himself while his means
were so poor and so precarious? Sir Marmaduke during this time had been
so unhappy, so fretful, so indignant, and so much worried, that Nora
herself had become almost afraid of him; and, without much reasoning on
the matter, had taught herself to believe that Hugh might be actuated
by similar fears. She had intended to tell her mother of what had
occurred between her and Stanbury the first moment that she and Lady
Rowley were together; but then there had fallen upon them that terrible
incident of the loss of the child, and the whole family had become at
once so wrapped up in the agony of the bereaved mother, and so full of
rage against the unreasonable father, that there seemed to Nora to be
no possible opportunity for the telling of her own love-story. Emily
herself appeared to have forgotten it in the midst of her own misery,
and had not mentioned Hugh Stanbury's name since they had been in
Manchester Street. We have all felt how on occasions our own hopes and
fears, nay, almost our own individuality become absorbed in and
obliterated by the more pressing cares and louder voices of those
around us. Nora hardly dared to allude to herself while her sister's
grief was still so prominent, and while her father was daily
complaining of his own personal annoyances at the Colonial Office. It
seemed to her that at such a moment she could not introduce a new
matter for dispute, and perhaps a new subject of dismay.

Nevertheless, as the days passed by, and as she saw nothing of Hugh
Stanbury, her heart became sore and her spirit vexed. It seemed to her
that if she were now deserted by him, all the world would be over for
her. The Glascock episode in her life had passed by that episode which
might have been her history, which might have been a history so
prosperous, so magnificent, and probably so happy. As she thought of
herself and of circumstances as they had happened to her, of the
resolutions which she had made as to her own career when she first came
to London, and of the way in which she had thrown all those resolutions
away in spite of the wonderful success which had come in her path, she
could not refrain from thinking that she had brought herself to
shipwreck by her own indecision. It must not be imagined that she
regretted what she had done. She knew very well that to have acted
otherwise than she did when Mr Glascock came to her at Nuncombe Putney
would have proved her to be heartless, selfish, and unwomanly. Long
before that time she had determined that it was her duty to marry a
rich man and, if possible, a man in high position. Such a one had come
to her one endowed with all the good things of the world beyond her
most sanguine expectation and she had rejected him! She knew that she
had been right because she had allowed herself to love the other man.
She did not repent what she had done, the circumstances being as they
were, but she almost regretted that she had been so soft in heart, so
susceptible of the weakness of love, so little able to do as she
pleased with herself. Of what use to her was it that she loved this man
with all her strength of affection when he never came to her, although
the time at which he had been told that he might come was now ten days
past?

She was sitting one afternoon in the drawing-room listlessly reading,
or pretending to read, a novel, when, on a sudden, Hugh Stanbury was
announced. The circumstances of the moment were most unfortunate for
such a visit. Sir Marmaduke, who had been down at Whitehall in the
morning, and from thence had made a journey to St. Diddulph's-in-the-East
and back, was exceedingly cross and out of temper. They had told him at
his office that they feared he would not suffice to carry through the
purpose for which he had been brought home. And his brother-in-law, the
parson, had expressed to him an opinion that he was in great part
responsible for the misfortune of his daughter, by the encouragement
which he had given to such a man as Colonel Osborne. Sir Marmaduke had
in consequence quarrelled both with the chief clerk and with Mr
Outhouse, and had come home surly and discontented. Lady Rowley and her
eldest daughter were away, closeted at the moment with Lady Milborough,
with whom they were endeavouring to arrange some plan by which the boy
might at any rate be given back. Poor Emily Trevelyan was humble enough
now to Lady Milborough was prepared to be humble to any one, and in any
circumstances, so that she should not be required to acknowledge that
she had entertained Colonel Osborne as her lover. The two younger
girls, Sophy and Lucy, were in the room when Stanbury was announced, as
was also Sir Marmaduke, who at that very moment was uttering angry
growls at the obstinacy and want of reason with which he had been
treated by Mr Outhouse. Now Sir Marmaduke had not so much as heard the
name of Hugh Stanbury as yet; and Nora, though her listlessness was all
at an end, at once felt how impossible it would be to explain any of
the circumstances of her case in such an interview as this. While,
however, Hugh's dear steps were heard upon the stairs, her feminine
mind at once went to work to ascertain in what best mode, with what
most attractive reason for his presence, she might introduce the young
man to her father. Had not the girls been then present, she thought
that it might have been expedient to leave Hugh to tell his own story
to Sir Marmaduke. But she had no opportunity of sending her sisters
away; and, unless chance should remove them, this could not be done.

'He is son of the lady we were with at Nuncombe Putney,' she whispered
to her father as she got up to move across the room to welcome her
lover. Now Sir Marmaduke had expressed great disapproval of that
retreat to Dartmoor, and had only understood respecting it that it had
been arranged between Trevelyan and the family in whose custody his two
daughters had been sent away into banishment. He was not therefore
specially disposed to welcome Hugh Stanbury in consequence of this mode
of introduction.

Hugh, who had asked for Lady Rowley and Mrs Trevelyan and had learned
that they were out before he had mentioned Miss Rowley's name, was
almost prepared to take his sweetheart into his arms. In that
half-minute he had taught himself to expect that he would meet her
alone, and had altogether forgotten Sir Marmaduke. Young men when they
call at four o'clock in the day never expect to find papas at home. And
of Sophia and Lucy he had either heard nothing or had forgotten what he
had heard. He repressed himself however in time, and did not commit
either Nora or himself by any very vehement demonstration of affection.
But he did hold her hand longer than he should have done, and Sir
Marmaduke saw that he did so.

'This is papa,' said Nora. 'Papa, this is our friend, Mr Hugh
Stanbury.' The introduction was made in a manner almost absurdly
formal, but poor Nora's difficulties lay heavy upon her. Sir Marmaduke
muttered something but it was little more than a grunt. 'Mamma and
Emily are out,' continued Nora. 'I dare say they will be in soon.' Sir
Marmaduke looked round sharply at the man. Why was he to be encouraged
to stay till Lady Rowley should return? Lady Rowley did not want to see
him. It seemed to Sir Marmaduke, in the midst of his troubles, that
this was no time to be making new acquaintances. 'These are my sisters,
Mr Stanbury,' continued Nora. 'This is Sophia, and this is Lucy.'
Sophia and Lucy would have been thoroughly willing to receive their
sister's lover with genial kindness if they had been properly
instructed, and if the time had been opportune; but, as it was, they
had nothing to say. They, also, could only mutter some little sound
intended to be more courteous than their father's grunt. Poor Nora!

'I hope you are comfortable here,' said Hugh.

'The house is all very well,' said Nora, 'but we don't like the
neighbourhood.'

Hugh also felt that conversation was difficult. He had soon come to
perceive before he had been in the room half a minute that the
atmosphere was not favourable to his mission. There was to be no
embracing or permission for embracing on the present occasion. Had he
been left alone with Sir Marmaduke he would probably have told his
business plainly, let Sir Marmaduke's manner to him have been what it
might; but it was impossible for him to do this with three young ladies
in the room with him. Seeing that Nora was embarrassed by her
difficulties, and that Nora's father was cross and silent, he
endeavoured to talk to the other girls, and asked them concerning their
journey and the ship in which they had come. But it was very up-hill
work. Lucy and Sophy could talk as glibly as any young ladies home from
any colony and no higher degree of fluency can be expressed but now
they were cowed. Their elder sister was shamefully and most
undeservedly disgraced, and this man had had something they knew not
what to do with it. 'Is Priscilla quite well?' Nora asked at last.

'Quite well. I heard from her yesterday. You know they have left the
Clock House.'

'I had not heard it.'

'Oh yes and they are living in a small cottage just outside the
village. And what else do you think has happened?'

'Nothing bad, I hope, Mr Stanbury.'

'My sister Dorothy has left her aunt, and is living with them again at
Nuncombe.'

'Has there been a quarrel, Mr Stanbury?'

'Well, yes after a fashion there has, I suppose. But it is a long story
and would not interest Sir Marmaduke. The wonder is that Dorothy should
have been able to stay so long with my aunt. I will tell it you all
some day.' Sir Marmaduke could not understand why a long story about
this man's aunt and sister should be told to his daughter. He forgot as
men always do in such circumstances forget that, while he was living in
the Mandarins, his daughter, living in England, would of course pick up
new interest and become intimate with new histories. But he did not
forget that pressure of the hand which he had seen, and he determined
that his daughter Nora could not have any worse lover than the friend
of his elder daughter's husband.

Stanbury had just determined that he must go, that there was no
possibility for him either to say or do anything to promote his cause
at the present moment, when the circumstances were all changed by the
return home of Lady Rowley and Mrs Trevelyan. Lady Rowley knew, and had
for some days known, much more of Stanbury than had come to the ears of
Sir Marmaduke. She understood in the first place that the Stanburys had
been very good to her daughter, and she was aware that Hugh Stanbury
had thoroughly taken her daughter's part against his old friend
Trevelyan. She would therefore have been prepared to receive him kindly
had he not on this very morning been the subject of special
conversation between her and Emily. But, as it had happened, Mrs
Trevelyan had this very day told Lady Rowley the whole story of Nora's
love. The elder sister had not intended to be treacherous to the
younger; but in the thorough confidence which mutual grief and close
conference had created between the mother and daughter, everything had
at last come out, and Lady Rowley had learned the story, not only of
Hugh Stanbury's courtship, but of those rich offers which had been made
by the heir to the barony of Peterborough.

It must be acknowledged that Lady Rowley was greatly grieved and
thoroughly dismayed. It was not only that Mr Glascock was the eldest
son of a peer, but that he was represented by the poor suffering wife
of the ill-tempered man to be a man blessed with a disposition sweet as
an angel's. 'And she would have liked him,' Emily had said, 'if it had
not been for this unfortunate young man.' Lady Rowley was not worse
than are other mothers, not more ambitious, or more heartless, or more
worldly. She was a good mother, loving her children, and thoroughly
anxious for their welfare. But she would have liked to be the
mother-in-law of Lord Peterborough, and she would have liked, dearly,
to see her second daughter removed from the danger of those rocks
against which her eldest child had been shipwrecked. And when she asked
after Hugh Stanbury, and his means of maintaining a wife, the statement
which Mrs Trevelyan made was not comforting. 'He writes for a penny
newspaper and, I believe, writes very well,' Mrs Trevelyan had said.

'For a penny newspaper! Is that respectable?'

'His aunt, Miss Stanbury, seemed to think not. But I suppose men of
education do write for such things now. He says himself that it is very
precarious as an employment.'

'It must be precarious, Emily. And has he got nothing?'

'Not a penny of his own,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

Then Lady Rowley had thought again of Mr Glascock, and of the family
title, and of Markhams. And she thought of her present troubles, and of
the Mandarins, and the state of Sir Marmaduke's balance at the bankers
and of the other girls, and of all there was before her to do. Here had
been a very Apollo among suitors kneeling at her child's feet, and the
foolish girl had sent him away for the sake of a young man who wrote
for a penny newspaper! Was it worth the while of any woman to bring up
daughters with such results? Lady Rowley, therefore, when she was first
introduced to Hugh Stanbury, was not prepared to receive him with open
arms.

On this occasion the task of introducing him fell to Mrs Trevelyan, and
was done with much graciousness. Emily knew that Hugh Stanbury was her
friend, and would sympathise with her respecting her child. 'You have
heard what has happened to me?' she said. Stanbury, however, had heard
nothing of that kidnapping of the child. Though to the Rowleys it
seemed that such a deed of iniquity, done in the middle of London, must
have been known to all the world, he had not as yet been told of it and
now the story was given to him. Mrs Trevelyan herself told it, with
many tears and an agony of fresh grief; but still she told it as to one
whom she regarded as a sure friend, and from whom she knew that she
would receive sympathy. Sir Marmaduke sat by the while, still gloomy
and out of humour. Why was their family sorrow to be laid bare to this
stranger?

'It is the cruellest thing I ever heard,' said Hugh.

'A dastardly deed,' said Lady Rowley.

'But we all feel that for the time he can hardly know what he does,'
said Nora.

'And where is the child?' Stanbury asked.

'We have not the slightest idea,' said Lady Rowley. 'I have seen him,
and he refuses to tell us. He did say that my daughter should see her
boy; but he now accompanies his offer with such conditions that it is
impossible to listen to him.'

'And where is he?'

'We do not know where he lives. We can reach him only through a certain
man.'

'Ah, I know the man,' said Stanbury; 'one who was a policeman once. His
name is Bozzle.'

'That is the man,' said Sir Marmaduke. 'I have seen him.'

'And of course he will tell us nothing but what he is told to tell us,'
continued Lady Rowley. 'Can there be anything so horrible as this that
a wife should be bound to communicate with her own husband respecting
her own child through such a man as that?'

'One might possibly find out where he keeps the child,' said Hugh.

'If you could manage that, Mr Stanbury!' said Lady Rowley.

'I hardly see that it would do much good,' said Hugh. 'Indeed I do not
know why he should keep the place a secret. I suppose he has a right to
the boy until the mother shall have made good her claim before the
court.' He promised, however, that he would do his best to ascertain
where the child was kept, and where Trevelyan resided, and then having
been nearly an hour at the house he was forced to get up and take his
leave. He had said not a word to any one of the business that had
brought him there. He had not even whispered an assurance of his
affection to Nora. Till the two elder ladies had come in, and the
subject of the taking of the boy had been mooted, he had sat there as a
perfect stranger. He thought that it was manifest enough that Nora had
told her secret to no one. It seemed to him that Mrs Trevelyan must
have forgotten it that Nora herself must have forgotten it, if such
forgetting could be possible! He got up, however, and took his leave,
and was comforted in some slight degree by seeing that there was a tear
in Nora's eye.

'Who is he?' demanded Sir Marmaduke, as soon as the door was closed.

'He is a young man who was an intimate friend of Louis's,' answered Mrs
Trevelyan; 'but he is so no longer, because he sees how infatuated
Louis has been.'

'And why does he come here?'

'We know him very well,' continued Mrs Trevelyan. 'It was he that
arranged our journey down to Devonshire. He was very kind about it, and
so were his mother and sister. We have every reason to be grateful to
Mr Stanbury.' This was all very well, but Nora nevertheless felt that
the interview had been anything but successful.

'Has he any profession?' asked Sir Marmaduke.

'He writes for the press,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'What do you mean books?'

'No for a newspaper.'

'For a penny newspaper,' said Nora boldly 'for the Daily Record.'

'Then I hope he won't come here any more,' said Sir Marmaduke. Nora
paused a moment, striving to find words for some speech which might be
true to her love and yet not unseemly but finding no such words ready,
she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. 'What is the
meaning of it all?' asked Sir Marmaduke. There was a silence for a
while, and then he repeated his question in another form. 'Is there any
reason for his coming here about Nora?'

'I think he is attached to Nora,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'My dear,' said
Lady Rowley, 'perhaps we had better not speak about it just now.'

'I suppose he has not a penny in the world,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'He has what he earns,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'If Nora understands her duty she will never let me hear his name
again,' said Sir Marmaduke. Then there was nothing more said, and as
soon as they could escape, both Lady Rowley and Mrs Trevelyan left the
room.

'I should have told you everything,' said Nora to her mother that
night. 'I had no intention to keep anything a secret from you. But we
have all been so unhappy about Louey, that we have had no heart to talk
of anything else.'

'I understand all that, my darling.'

'And I had meant that you should tell papa, for I supposed that he
would come. And I meant that he should go to papa himself. He intended
that himself only, to-day as things turned out.'

'Just so, dearest but it does not seem that he has got any income. It
would be very rash wouldn't it?'

'People must be rash sometimes. Everybody can't have an income without
earning it. I suppose people in professions do marry without having
fortunes.'

'When they have settled professions, Nora.'

'And why is not his a settled profession? I believe he receives quite
as much at seven and twenty as Uncle Oliphant does at sixty.'

'But your Uncle Oliphant's income is permanent.'

'Lawyers don't have permanent incomes, or doctors or merchants.'

'But those professions are regular and sure. They don't marry, without
fortunes, till they have made their incomes sure.'

'Mr Stanbury's income is sure. I don't know why it shouldn't be sure.
He goes on writing and writing every day, and it seems to me that of
all professions in the world it is the finest. I'd much sooner write
for a newspaper than be one of those old musty, fusty lawyers, who'll
say anything that they're paid to say.'

'My dearest Nora, all that is nonsense. You know as well as I do that
you should not marry a man when there is a doubt whether he can keep a
house over your head that is his position.'

'It is good enough for me, mamma.'

'And what is his income from writing?'

'It is quite enough for me, mamma. The truth is I have promised, and I
cannot go back from it. Dear, dear mamma, you won't quarrel with us,
and oppose us, and make papa hard against us. You can do what you like
with papa. I know that. Look at poor Emily. Plenty of money has not
made her happy.'

'If Mr Glascock had only asked you a week sooner,' said Lady Rowley,
with a handkerchief to her eyes.

'But you see he didn't, mamma.'

'When I think of it I cannot but weep;' and the poor mother burst out
into a full flood of tears 'such a man, so good, so gentle, and so
truly devoted to you.'

'Mamma, what's the good of that now?'

'Going down all the way to Devonshire after you!'

'So did Hugh, mamma.'

'A position that any girl in England would have envied you. I cannot
but feel it. And Emily says she is sure he would come back, if he got
the very slightest encouragement.'

'That is quite impossible, mamma.'

'Why should it be impossible? Emily declares that she never saw a man
so much in love in her life and she says also that she believes he is
abroad now simply because he is broken-hearted about it.'

'Mr Glascock, mamma, was very nice and good and all that; but indeed he
is not the man to suffer from a broken heart. And Emily is quite
mistaken. I told him the whole truth.'

'What truth?'

'That there was somebody else that I did love. Then he said that of
course that put an end to it all, and he wished me good-bye ever so
calmly.'

'How could you be so infatuated? Why should you have cut the ground
away from your feet in that way?'

'Because I chose that there should be an end to it. Now there has been
an end to it; and it is much better, mamma, that we should not think
about Mr Glascock any more. He will never come again to me and if he
did, I could only say the same thing.'

'You mustn't be surprised, Nora, if I'm unhappy; that is all. Of course
I must feel it. Such a connection as it would have been for your
sisters! Such a home for poor Emily in her trouble! And as for this
other man--'

'Mamma, don't speak ill of him.'

'If I say anything of him, I must say the truth,' said Lady Rowley.

'Don't say anything against him, mamma, because he is to be my husband.
Dear, dear mamma, you can't change me by anything you say. Perhaps I
have been foolish; but it is settled now. Don't make me wretched by
speaking against the man whom I mean to love all my life better than
all the world.'

'Think of Louis Trevelyan.'

'I will think of no one but Hugh Stanbury. I tried not to love him,
mamma. I tried to think that it was better to make believe that I loved
Mr Glascock. But he got the better of me, and conquered me, and I will
never rebel against him. You may help me, mamma but you can't change
me.'



CHAPTER LXIV - SIR MARMADUKE AT HIS CLUB

Sir Marmaduke had come away from his brother-in-law the parson in much
anger, for Mr Outhouse, with that mixture of obstinacy and honesty
which formed his character, had spoken hard words of Colonel Osborne,
and words which by implication had been hard also against Emily
Trevelyan. He had been very staunch to his niece when attacked by his
niece's husband; but when his sympathies and assistance were invoked by
Sir Marmaduke it seemed as though he had transferred his allegiance to
the other side. He pointed out to the unhappy father that Colonel
Osborne had behaved with great cruelty in going to Devonshire, that the
Stanburys had been untrue to their trust in allowing him to enter the
house, and that Emily had been 'indiscreet' in receiving him. When a
young woman is called indiscreet by her friends it may be assumed that
her character is very seriously assailed. Sir Marmaduke had understood
this, and on hearing the word had become wroth with his brother-in-law.
There had been hot words between them, and Mr Outhouse would not yield
an inch or retract a syllable. He conceived it to be his duty to advise
the father to caution his daughter with severity, to quarrel absolutely
with Colonel Osborne, and to let Trevelyan know that this had been
done. As to the child, Mr Outhouse expressed a strong opinion that the
father was legally entitled to the custody of his boy, and that nothing
could be done to recover the child, except what might be done with the
father's consent. In fact, Mr Outhouse made himself exceedingly
disagreeable, and sent away Sir Marmaduke with a very heavy heart.
Could it really be possible that his old friend Fred Osborne, who seven
or eight-and-twenty years ago had been potent among young ladies, had
really been making love to his old friend's married daughter? Sir
Marmaduke looked into himself, and conceived it to be quite out of the
question that he should make love to any one. A good dinner, good wine,
a good cigar, an easy chair, and a rubber of whist all these things,
with no work to do, and men of his own standing around him were the
pleasures of life which Sir Marmaduke desired. Now Fred Osborne was an
older man than he, and, though Fred Osborne did keep up a foolish
system of padded clothes and dyed whiskers, still at fifty-two or
fifty-three surely a man might be reckoned safe. And then, too, that
ancient friendship! Sir Marmaduke, who had lived all his life in the
comparative seclusion of a colony, thought perhaps more of that ancient
friendship than did the Colonel, who had lived amidst the blaze of
London life, and who had had many opportunities of changing his
friends. Some inkling of all this made its way into Sir Marmaduke's
bosom, as he thought of it with bitterness; and he determined that he
would have it out with his friend.

Hitherto he had enjoyed very few of those pleasant hours which he had
anticipated on his journey homewards. He had had no heart to go to his
club, and he had fancied that Colonel Osborne had been a little
backward in looking him up, and providing him with amusement. He had
suggested this to his wife, and she had told him that the Colonel had
been right not to come to Manchester Street. 'I have told Emily,' said
Lady Rowley, 'that she must not meet him, and she is quite of the same
opinion.' Nevertheless, there had been remissness. Sir Marmaduke felt
that it was so, in spite of his wife's excuses. In this way he was
becoming sore with everybody, and very unhappy. It did not at all
improve his temper when he was told that his second daughter had
refused an offer from Lord Peterborough's eldest son. 'Then she may go
into the workhouse for me,' the angry father had said, declaring at the
same time that he would never give his consent to her marriage with the
man who 'did dirty work' for the Daily Record as he, with his paternal
wisdom, chose to express it. But this cruel phrase was not spoken in
Nora's hearing, nor was it repeated to her. Lady Rowley knew her
husband, and was aware that he would on occasions change his opinion.

It was not till two or three days after his visit to St. Diddulph's
that he met Colonel Osborne. The Easter recess was then over, and
Colonel Osborne had just returned to London. They met on the door-steps
of 'The Acrobats,' and the Colonel immediately began with an apology.
'I have been so sorry to be away just when you are here upon my word I
have. But I was obliged to go down to the duchess's. I had promised
early in the winter; and those people are so angry if you put them off.
By George, it's almost as bad as putting off royalty.'

'D n the duchess,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'With all my heart,' said the Colonel 'only I thought it as well that I
should tell you the truth.'

'What I mean is, that the duchess and her people make no difference to
me. I hope you had a pleasant time; that's all.'

'Well yes, we had. One must get away somewhere at Easter. There is no
one left at the club, and there's no House, and no one asks one to
dinner in town. In fact, if one didn't go away one wouldn't know what
to do. There were ever so many people there that I liked to meet. Lady
Glencora was there, and uncommon pleasant she made it. That woman has
more to say for herself than any half-dozen men that I know. And Lord
Cantrip, your chief, was there. He said a word or two to me about you.'

'What sort of word?'

'He says he wishes you would read up some blue books, or papers, or
reports, or something of that kind, which he says that some of his
fellows have sent you. It seems that there are some new rules, or
orders, or fashions, which he wants you to have at your finger's ends.
Nothing could be more civil than he was but he just wished me to
mention this, knowing that you and I are likely to see each other.'

'I wish I had never come over,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Why so?'

'They didn't bother me with their new rules and fashions over there.
When the papers came somebody read them, and that was enough. I could
do what they wanted me to do there.'

'And so you will here after a bit.'

'I'm not so sure of that. Those young fellows seem to forget that an
old dog can't learn new tricks. They've got a young brisk fellow there
who seems to think that a man should be an encyclopaedia of knowledge
because he has lived in a colony over twenty years.'

'That's the new under-secretary.'

'Never mind who it is. Osborne, just come up to the library, will you?
I want to speak to you.'

Then Sir Marmaduke, with considerable solemnity, led the way up to the
most deserted room in the club, and Colonel Osborne followed him, well
knowing that something was to be said about Emily Trevelyan.

Sir Marmaduke seated himself on a sofa, and his friend sat close beside
him. The room was quite deserted. It was four o'clock in the afternoon,
and the club was full of men. There were men in the morning-room, and
men in the drawing-room, and men in the card-room, and men in the
billiard-room; but no better choice of a chamber for a conference
intended to be silent and secret could have been made in all London
than that which had induced Sir Marmaduke to take his friend into the
library of 'The Acrobats.' And yet a great deal of money had been spent
in providing this library for 'The Acrobats.' Sir Marmaduke sat for
awhile silent, and had he sat silent for an hour, Colonel Osborne would
not have interrupted him. Then, at last, he began, with a voice that
was intended to be serious, but which struck upon the ear of his
companion as being affected and unlike the owner of it. 'This is a very
sad thing about my poor girl,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Indeed it is. There is only one thing to be said about it, Rowley.'

'And what's that?'

'The man must be mad.'

'He is not so mad as to give us any relief by his madness poor as such
comfort would be. He has got Emily's child away from her, and I think
it will about kill her. And what is to become of her? As to taking her
back to the islands without her child, it is out of the question. I
never knew anything so cruel in my life.'

'And so absurd, you know.'

'Ah that's just the question. If anybody had asked me, I should have
said that you were the man of all men whom I could have best trusted.'

'Do you doubt it now?'

'I don't know what to think.'

'Do you mean to say that you suspect me and your daughter too?'

'No by heavens! Poor dear. If I suspected her, there would be an end of
all things with me. I could never get over that. No I don't suspect
her!' Sir Marmaduke had now dropped his affected tone, and was speaking
with natural energy.

'But you do me?'

'No if I did, I don't suppose I should be sitting with you here; but
they tell me--'

'They tell you what?'

'They tell me that that you did not behave wisely about it. Why could
you not let her alone when you found out how matters were going?'

'Who has been telling you this, Rowley?'

Sir Marmaduke considered for awhile, and then, remembering that Colonel
Osborne could hardly quarrel with a clergyman, told him the truth.
'Outhouse says that you have done her an irretrievable injury by going
down to Devonshire to her, and by writing to her.'

'Outhouse is an ass.'

'That is easily said but why did you go?'

'And why should I not go? What the deuce! Because a man like that
chooses to take vagaries into his head I am not to see my own
godchild!' Sir Marmaduke tried to remember whether the Colonel was in
fact the godfather of his eldest daughter, but he found that his mind
was quite a blank about his children's godfathers and godmothers. 'And
as for the letters I wish you could see them. The only letters which
had in them a word of importance were those about your coming home. I
was anxious to get that arranged, not only for your sake, but because
she was so eager about it.'

'God bless her, poor child,' said Sir Marmaduke, rubbing the tears away
from his eyes with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.

'I will acknowledge that those letters there may have been one or two
were the beginning of the trouble. It was these that made this man show
himself to be a lunatic. I do admit that. I was bound not to talk about
your coming, and I told her to keep the secret. He went spying about,
and found her letters, I suppose and then he took fire, because there
was to be a secret from him. Dirty, mean dog! And now I'm to be told by
such a fellow as Outhouse that it's my fault, that I have caused all
the trouble, because, when I happened to be in Devonshire, I went to
see your daughter!' We must do the Colonel the justice of supposing
that he had by this time quite taught himself to believe that the
church porch at Cockchaffington had been the motive cause of his
journey into Devonshire. 'Upon my word it is too hard,' continued he
indignantly. 'As for Outhouse only for the gown upon his hack, I'd pull
his nose. And I wish that you would tell him that I say so.'

'There is trouble enough without that,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'But it is hard. By G--, it is hard. There is this comfort if it hadn't
been me, it would have been some one else. Such a man as that couldn't
have gone two or three years, without being jealous of some one. And as
for poor Emily, she is better off perhaps with an accusation so absurd
as this, than she might have been had her name been joined with a
younger man, or with one whom you would have less reason for trusting.'

There was so much that seemed to be sensible in this, and it was spoken
with so well assumed a tone of injured innocence, that Sir Marmaduke
felt that he had nothing more to say. He muttered something further
about the cruelty of the case, and then slunk away out of the club, and
made his way home to the dull gloomy house in Manchester Street. There
was no comfort for him there but neither was there any comfort for him
at the club. And why did that vexatious Secretary of State send him
messages about blue books? As he went, he expressed sundry wishes that
he was back at the Mandarins, and told himself that it would be well
that he should remain there till he died.



CHAPTER LXV - MYSTERIOUS AGENCIES

When the thirty-first of March arrived, Exeter had not as yet been made
gay with the marriage festivities of Mr Gibson and Camilla French. And
this delay had not been the fault of Camilla. Camilla had been ready,
and when, about the middle of the month, it was hinted to her that some
postponement was necessary, she spoke her mind out plainly, and
declared that she was not going to stand that kind of thing. The
communication had not been made to her by Mr Gibson in person. For some
days previously he had not been seen at Heavitree, and Camilla had from
day to day become more black, gloomy, and harsh in her manners both to
her mother and her sister. Little notes had come and little notes had
gone, but no one in the house, except Camilla herself, knew what those
notes contained. She would not condescend to complain to Arabella; nor
did she say much in condemnation of her lover to Mrs French, till the
blow came. With unremitting attention she pursued the great business of
her wedding garments, and exacted from the unfortunate Arabella an
amount of work equal to her own of thankless work, as is the custom of
embryo brides with their unmarried sisters. And she drew with great
audacity on the somewhat slender means of the family for the amount of
feminine gear necessary to enable her to go into Mr Gibson's house with
something of the eclat of a well-provided bride. When Mrs French
hesitated, and then expostulated, Camilla replied that she did not
expect to be married above once, and that in no cheaper or more
productive way than this could her mother allow her to consume her
share of the family resources. 'What matter, mamma, if you do have to
borrow a little money? Mr Burgess will let you have it when he knows
why. And as I shan't be eating and drinking at home any more, nor yet
getting my things here, I have a right to expect it.' And she ended by
expressing an opinion, in Arabella's hearing, that any daughter of a
house who proves herself to be capable of getting a husband for
herself, is entitled to expect that those left at home shall pinch
themselves for a time, in order that she may go forth to the world in a
respectable way, and be a credit to the family.

Then came the blow. Mr Gibson had not been at the house for some days,
but the notes had been going and coming. At last Mr Gibson came
himself; but, as it happened, when he came Camilla was out shopping. In
these days she often did go out shopping between eleven and one,
carrying her sister with her. It must have been but a poor pleasure for
Arabella, this witnessing the purchases made, seeing the pleasant
draperies and handling the real linens and admiring the fine cambrics
spread out before them on the shop counters by obsequious attendants.
And the questions asked of her by her sister, whether this was good
enough for so august an occasion, or that sufficiently handsome, must
have been harassing. She could not have failed to remember that it
ought all to have been done for her that had she not been treated with
monstrous injustice, with most unsisterly cruelty, all these good
things would have been spread on her behoof. But she went on and
endured it, and worked diligently with her needle, and folded and
unfolded as she was desired, and became as it were quite a younger
sister in the house creeping out by herself now and again into the
purlieus of the city, to find such consolation as she might receive
from her solitary thoughts.

But Arabella and Camilla were both away when Mr Gibson called to tell
Mrs French of his altered plans. And as he asked, not for his
lady-love, but for Mrs French herself, it is probable that he watched
his opportunity and that he knew to what cares his Camilla was then
devoting herself. 'Perhaps it is quite as well that I should find you
alone,' he said, after sundry preludes, to his future mother-in-law,
'because you can make Camilla understand this better than I can. I must
put off the day for about three weeks.'

'Three weeks, Mr Gibson?'

'Or a month. Perhaps we had better say the 29th of April.' Mr Gibson
had by this time thrown off every fear that he might have entertained
of the mother, and could speak to her of such an unwarrantable change
of plans with tolerable equanimity.

'But I don't know that that will suit Camilla at all.'

'She can name any other day she pleases, of course that is, in May.'

'But why is this to be?'

'There are things about money, Mrs French, which I cannot arrange
sooner. And I find that unfortunately I must go up to London.' Though
many other questions were asked, nothing further was got out of Mr
Gibson on that occasion; and he left the house with a perfect
understanding on his own part and on that of Mrs French that the
marriage was postponed till some day still to be fixed, but which could
not and should not be before the 29th of April. Mrs French asked him
why he did not come up and see Camilla. He replied false man that he
was that he had hoped to have seen her this morning, and that he would
come again before the week was over.

Then it was that Camilla spoke her mind out plainly. 'I shall go to his
house at once,' she said, 'and find out all about it. I don't
understand it. I don't understand it at all; and I won't put up with
it. He shall know who he has to deal with, if he plays tricks upon me.
Mamma, I wonder you let him out of the house, till you had made him
come back to his old day.'

'What could I do, my dear?'

'What could you do? Shake him out of it as I would have done. But he
didn't dare to tell me because he is a coward.'

Camilla in all this showed her spirit; but she allowed her anger to
hurry her away into an indiscretion. Arabella was present, and Camilla
should have repressed her rage.

'I don't think he's at all a coward,' said Arabella.

'That's my business. I suppose I'm entitled to know what he is better
than you.'

'All the same I don't think Mr Gibson is at all a coward,' said
Arabella, again pleading the cause of the man who had misused her.

'Now, Arabella, I won't take any interference from you; mind that. I
say it was cowardly, and he should have come to me. It's my concern,
and I shall go to him. I'm not going to be stopped by any shilly-shally
nonsense, when my future respectability, perhaps, is at stake. All
Exeter knows that the marriage is to take place on the 31st of this
month.'

On the next day Camilla absolutely did go to Mr Gibson's house at an
early hour, at nine, when, as she thought, he would surely be at
breakfast. But he had flown. He had left Exeter that morning by an
early train, and his servant thought that he had gone to London. On the
next morning Camilla got a note from him, written in London. It
affected to be very cheery and affectionate, beginning 'Dearest Cammy,'
and alluding to the postponement of his wedding as though it were a
thing so fixed as to require no further question. Camilla answered this
letter, still in much wrath, complaining, protesting, expostulating
throwing in his teeth the fact that the day had been fixed by him, and
not by her. And she added a postscript in the following momentous words
'If you have any respect for the name of your future wife, you will
fall back upon your first arrangement.' To this she got simply a line
of an answer, declaring that this falling back was impossible, and then
nothing was heard of him for ten days.

He had gone from Tuesday to Saturday week and the first that Camilla
saw of him was his presence in the reading desk when he chaunted the
cathedral service as priest-vicar on the Sunday.

At this time Arabella was very ill, and was confined to her bed. Mr
Martin declared that her system had become low from over anxiety that
she was nervous, weak, and liable to hysterics that her feelings were
in fact too many for her and that her efforts to overcome them, and to
face the realities of the world, had exhausted her. This was, of
course, not said openly, at the town-cross of Exeter; but such was the
opinion which Mr Martin gave in confidence to the mother.
'Fiddle-de-dee!' said Camilla, when she was told of feelings,
susceptibilities, and hysterics. At the present moment she had a claim
to the undivided interest of the family, and she believed that her
sister's illness was feigned in order to defraud her of her rights. 'My
dear, she is ill,' said Mrs French. 'Then let her have a dose of
salts,' said the stern Camilla. This was on the Sunday afternoon.
Camilla had endeavoured to see Mr Gibson as he came out of the
cathedral, but had failed. Mr Gibson had been detained within the
building no doubt by duties connected with the choral services. On that
evening he got a note from Camilla, and quite early on the Monday
morning he came up to Heavitree.

'You will find her in the drawing-room,' said Mrs French, as she opened
the hall-door for him. There was a smile on her face as she spoke, but
it was a forced smile. Mr Gibson did not smile at all.

'Is it all right with her?' he asked.

'Well you had better go to her. You see, Mr Gibson, young ladies, when
they are going to be married, think that they ought to have their own
way a little, just for the last time, you know.' He took no notice of
the joke, but went with slow steps up to the drawing-room. It would be
inquiring too curiously to ask whether Camilla, when she embraced him,
discerned that he had fortified his courage that morning with a glass
of curacoa.

'What does all this mean, Thomas?' was the first question that Camilla
asked when the embrace was over.

'All what mean, dear?'

'This untoward delay? Thomas, you have almost broken my heart. You have
been away, and I have not heard from you.'

'I wrote twice, Camilla.'

'And what sort of letters? If there is anything the matter, Thomas, you
had better tell me at once.' She paused, but Thomas held his tongue. 'I
don't suppose you want to kill me.'

'God forbid,' said Thomas.

'But you will. What must everybody think of me in the city when they
find that it is put off. Poor mamma has been dreadful quite dreadful!
And here is Arabella now laid up on a bed of sickness.' This, too, was
indiscreet. Camilla should have said nothing about her sister's
sickness.

'I have been so sorry to hear about dear Bella,' said Mr Gibson.

'I don't suppose she's very bad,' said Camilla, 'but of course we all
feel it. Of course we're upset. As for me, I bear up; because I've that
spirit that I won't give way if it's ever so; but, upon my word, it
tries me hard. What is the meaning of it, Thomas?'

But Thomas had nothing to say beyond what he had said before to Mrs
French. He was very particular, he said, about money; and certain money
matters made it incumbent on him not to marry before the 29th of April.
When Camilla suggested to him that as she was to be his wife, she ought
to know all about his money matters, he told her that she should some
day. When they were married, he would tell her all. Camilla talked a
great deal, and said some things that were very severe. Mr Gibson did
not enjoy his morning, but he endured the upbraidings of his fair one
with more firmness than might perhaps have been expected from him. He
left all the talking to Camilla; but when he got up to leave her, the
29th of April had been fixed, with some sort of assent from her, as the
day on which she was really to become Mrs Gibson.

When he left the room, he again met Mrs French on the landing-place.
She hesitated a moment, waiting to see whether the door would be shut;
but the door could not be shut, as Camilla was standing in the
entrance. 'Mr Gibson,' said Mrs French, in a voice that was scarcely a
whisper, 'would you mind stepping in and seeing poor Bella for a
moment?'

'Why she is in bed,' said Camilla.

'Yes she is in bed; but she thinks it would be a comfort to her. She
has seen nobody these four days except Mr Martin, and she thinks it
would comfort her to have a word or two with Mr Gibson.' Now Mr Gibson
was not only going to be Bella's brother-in-law, but he was also a
clergyman. Camilla in her heart believed that the half-clerical aspect
which her mother had given to the request was false and hypocritical.
There were special reasons why Bella should not have wished to see Mr
Gibson in her bedroom, at any rate till Mr Gibson had become her
brother-in-law. The expression of such a wish at the present moment was
almost indecent.

'You'll be there with them?' said Camilla. Mr Gibson blushed up to his
ears as he heard the suggestion. 'Of course you'll be there with them,
mamma.'

'No, my dear, I think not. I fancy she wishes him to read to her or
something of that sort.' Then Mr Gibson, without speaking a word, but
still blushing up to his ears, was taken to Arabella's room; and
Camilla, flouncing into the drawing-room, banged the door behind her.
She had hitherto fought her battle with considerable skill and with
great courage but her very success had made her imprudent. She had
become so imperious in the great position which she had reached, that
she could not control her temper or wait till her power was confirmed.
The banging of that door was heard through the whole house, and every
one knew why it was banged. She threw herself on to a sofa, and then,
instantly rising again, paced the room with quick step. Could it be
possible that there was treachery? Was it on the cards that that weak,
poor creature, Bella, was intriguing once again to defraud her of her
husband? There were different things that she now remembered. Arabella,
in that moment of bliss in which she had conceived herself to be
engaged to Mr Gibson, had discarded her chignon. Then she had resumed
it in all its monstrous proportions. Since that it had been lessened by
degrees, and brought down, through various interesting but abnormal
shapes, to a size which would hardly have drawn forth any anathema from
Miss Stanbury. And now, on this very morning, Arabella had put on a
clean nightcap, with muslin frills. It is perhaps not unnatural that a
sick lady, preparing to receive a clergyman in her bedroom, should put
on a clean nightcap but to suspicious eyes small causes suffice to
create alarm. And if there were any such hideous wickedness in the
wind, had Arabella any colleague in her villainy? Could it be that the
mother was plotting against her daughter's happiness and
respectability? Camilla was well aware that her mamma would at first
have preferred to give Arabella to Mr Gibson, had the choice in the
matter been left to her. But now, when the thing had been settled
before all the world, would not such treatment on a mother's part be
equal to infanticide? And then as to Mr Gibson himself! Camilla was not
prone to think little of her own charms, but she had been unable not to
perceive that her lover had become negligent in his personal attentions
to her. An accepted lover, who deserves to have been accepted, should
devote every hour at his command to his mistress. But Mr Gibson had of
late been so chary of his presence at Heavitree, that Camilla could not
but have known that he took no delight in coming thither. She had
acknowledged this to herself; but she had consoled herself with the
reflection that marriage would make this all right. Mr Gibson was not
the man to stray from his wife, and she could trust herself to obtain a
sufficient hold upon her husband hereafter, partly by the strength of
her tongue, partly by the ascendancy of her spirit, and partly, also,
by the coin-forts which she would provide for him. She had not doubted
but that it would be all well when they should be married but how if,
even now, there should be no marriage for her? Camilla French had never
heard of Creusa and of Jason, but as she paced her mother's
drawing-room that morning she was a Medea in spirit. If any plot of
that kind should be in the wind, she would do such things that all
Devonshire should hear of her wrongs and of her revenge!

In the meantime Mr Gibson was sitting by Arabella's bedside, while Mrs
French was trying to make herself busy in her own chamber, next door.
There had been a reading of some chapter of the Bible or of some
portion of a chapter. And Mr Gibson, as he read, and Arabella, as she
listened, had endeavoured to take to their hearts and to make use of
the word which they heard. The poor young woman, when she begged her
mother to send to her the man who was so dear to her, did so with some
half-formed condition that it would be good for her to hear a clergyman
read to her. But now the chapter had been read, and the book was back
in Mr Gibson's pocket, and he was sitting with his hand on the bed.'she
is so very arrogant,' said Bella,' and so domineering.' To this Mr
Gibson made no reply. 'I'm sure I have endeavoured to bear it well,
though you must have known what I have suffered, Thomas. Nobody can
understand it so well as you do.'

'I wish I had never been born,' said Mr Gibson tragically.

'Don't say that, Thomas because it's wicked.'

'But I do. See all the harm I have done and yet I did not mean it.'

'You must try and do the best you can now. I am not saying what that
should be. I am not dictating to you. You are a man, and, of course,
you must judge for yourself. But I will say this. You shouldn't do
anything just because it is the easiest. I don't suppose I should live
after it. I don't indeed. But that should not signify to you.'

'I don't suppose that any man was ever before in such a terrible
position since the world began.'

'It is difficult I am sure of that, Thomas.'

'And I have meant to be so true. I fancy sometimes that some mysterious
agency interferes with the affairs of a man and drives him on and on
and on almost till he doesn't know where it drives him.' As he said
this in a voice that was quite sepulchral in its tone, he felt some
consolation in the conviction that this mysterious agency could not
affect a man without imbuing him with a certain amount of grandeur very
uncomfortable, indeed, in its nature, but still having considerable
value as a counterpoise. Pride must bear pain but pain is recompensed
by pride.

'She is so strong, Thomas, that she can put up with anything,' said
Arabella, in a whisper.

'Strong yes,' said he, with a shudder 'she is strong enough.'

'And as for love--'

'Don't talk about it,' said he, getting up from his chair. 'Don't talk
about it. You will drive me frantic.'

'You know what my feelings are, Thomas; you have always known them.
There has been no change since I was the young thing you first knew
me.' As she spoke, she just touched his hand with hers; but he did not
seem to notice this, sitting with his elbow on the arm of his chair and
his forehead on his hand. In reply to what she said to him, he merely
shook his head not intending to imply thereby any doubt of the truth of
her assertion. 'You have now to make up your mind, and to be bold,
Thomas,' continued Arabella.'she says that you are a coward; but I know
that you are no coward. I told her so, and she said that I was
interfering. Oh that she should be able to tell me that I interfere
when I defend you!'

'I must go,' said Mr Gibson, jumping up from his chair. 'I must go.
Bella, I cannot stand this any longer. It is too much for me. I will
pray that I may decide aright. God bless you!' Then he kissed her brow
as she lay in bed, and hurried out of the room.

He had hoped to go from the house without further converse with any of
its inmates; for his mind was disturbed, and he longed to be at rest.
But he was not allowed to escape so easily. Camilla met him at the
dining-room door, and accosted him with a smile. There had been time
for much meditation during the last half hour, and Camilla had
meditated. 'How do you find her, Thomas?' she asked.

'She seems weak, but I believe she is better. I have been reading to
her.'

'Come in, Thomas will you not? It is bad for us to stand talking on the
stairs. Dear Thomas, don't let us be so cold to each other.' He had no
alternative but to put his arm round her waist, and kiss her, thinking,
as he did so, of the mysterious agency which afflicted him. 'Tell me
that you love me, Thomas,' she said.

'Of course I love you.' The question is not a pleasant one when put by
a lady to a gentleman whose affections towards her are not strong, and
it requires a very good actor to produce an efficient answer.

'I hope you do, Thomas. It would be sad, indeed, if you did not. You
are not weary of your Camilla are you?'

For a moment there came upon him an idea that he would confess that he
was weary of her, but he found at once that such an effort was beyond
his powers. 'How can you ask such a question?' he said.

'Because you do not come to me.' Camilla, as she spoke, laid her head
upon his shoulder and wept. 'And now you have been five minutes with me
and nearly an hour with Bella.'

'She wanted me to read to her,' said Mr Gibson and he hated himself
thoroughly as he said it.

'And now you want to get away as fast as you can,' continued Camilla.

'Because of the morning service,' said Mr Gibson. This was quite true,
and yet he hated himself again for saying it. As Camilla knew the truth
of the last plea, she was obliged to let him go; but she made him swear
before he went that he loved her dearly. 'I think it's all right,' she
said to herself as he went down the stairs. 'I don't think he'd dare
make it wrong. If he does o-oh!'

Mr Gibson, as he walked into Exeter, endeavoured to justify his own
conduct to himself. There was no moment, he declared to himself, in
which he had not endeavoured to do right. Seeing the manner in which he
had been placed among these two young women, both of whom had fallen in
love with him, how could he have saved himself from vacillation? And by
what untoward chance had it come to pass that he had now learned to
dislike so vigorously, almost to hate, the one with whom he had been
for a moment sufficiently infatuated to think that he loved?

But with all his arguments he did not succeed in justifying to himself
his own conduct, and he hated himself.



CHAPTER LXVI - OF A QUARTER OF LAMB

Miss Stanbury, looking out of her parlour window, saw Mr Gibson
hurrying towards the cathedral, down the passage which leads from
Southernhay into the Close. 'He's just come from Heavitree, I'll be
bound,' said Miss Stanbury to Martha, who was behind her.

'Like enough, ma'am.'

'Though they do say that the poor fool of a man has become quite sick
of his bargain already.'

'He'll have to be sicker yet, ma'am,' said Martha.

'They were to have been married last week, and nobody ever knew why it
was put off. It's my belief he'll never marry her. And she'll be served
right quite right.'

'He must marry her now, ma'am. She's been buying things all over
Exeter, as though there was no end of their money.'

'They haven't more than enough to keep body and soul together,' said
Miss Stanbury. 'I don't see why I mightn't have gone to service this
morning, Martha. It's quite warm now out in the Close.'

'You'd better wait, ma'am, till the east winds is over. She was at
Puddock's only the day before yesterday, buying bed-linen the finest
they had, and that wasn't good enough.'

'Psha!' said Miss Stanbury.

'As though Mr Gibson hadn't things of that kind good enough for her,'
said Martha.

Then there was silence in the room for awhile. Miss Stanbury was
standing at one window, and Martha at the other, watching the people as
they passed backwards and forwards, in and out of the Close. Dorothy
had now been away at Nuncombe Putney for some weeks, and her aunt felt
her loneliness with a heavy sense of weakness. Never had she
entertained a companion in the house who had suited her as well as her
niece, Dorothy. Dorothy would always listen to her, would always talk
to her, would always bear with her. Since Dorothy had gone, various
letters had been interchanged between them. Though there had been anger
about Brooke Burgess, there had been no absolute rupture; but Miss
Stanbury had felt that she could not write and beg her niece to come
back to her. She had not sent Dorothy away. Dorothy had chosen to go,
because her aunt had bad an opinion of her own as to what was fitting
for her heir; and as Miss Stanbury would not give up her opinion, she
could not ask her niece to return to her. Such had been her resolution,
sternly expressed to herself a dozen times during these solitary weeks;
but time and solitude had acted upon her, and she longed for the girl's
presence in the house. 'Martha,' she said at last, 'I think I shall get
you to go over to Nuncombe Putney.'

'Again, ma'am?'

'Why not again? It's not so far, I suppose, that the journey will hurt
you.'

'I don't think it'd hurt me, ma'am only what good will I do?'

'If you'll go rightly to work, you may do good. Miss Dorothy was a fool
to go the way she did a great fool.'

'She stayed longer than I thought she would, ma'am.'

'I'm not asking you what you thought. I'll tell you what. Do you send
Giles to Winslow's, and tell them to send in early to-morrow a nice
fore-quarter of lamb. Or it wouldn't hurt you if you went and chose it
yourself.'

'It wouldn't hurt me at all, ma'am.'

'You get it nice not too small, because meat is meat at the price
things are now; and how they ever see butcher's meat at all is more
than I can understand.'

'People as has to be careful, ma'am, makes a little go a long way.'

'You get it a good size, and take it over in a basket. It won't hurt
you, done up clean in a napkin.'

'It won't hurt me at all, ma'am.'

'And you give it to Miss Dorothy with my love. Don't you let 'em think
I sent it to my sister-in-law.'

'And is that to be all, ma'am?'

'How do you mean all?'

'Because, ma'am, the railway and the carrier would take it quite ready,
and there would be a matter of ten or twelve shillings saved in the
journey.'

'Whose affair is that?'

'Not mine, ma'am, of course.'

'I believe you're afraid of the trouble, Martha. Or else you don't like
going because they're poor.'

'It ain't fair, ma'am, of you to say so that it ain't. All I ask is is
that to be all? When I've giv'em the lamb, am I just to come away
straight, or am I to say anything? It will look so odd if I'm just to
put down the basket and come away without e'er a word.'

'Martha!'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'You're a fool.'

'That's true, too, ma'am.'

'It would be like you to go about in that dummy way wouldn't it and you
that was so fond of Miss Dorothy.'

'I was fond of her, ma'am.'

'Of course you'll be talking to her and why not? And if she should say
anything about returning--'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'You can say that you know her old aunt wouldn't wouldn't refuse to
have her back again. You can put it your own way, you know. You needn't
make me find words for you.'

'But she won't, ma'am.'

'Won't what?'

'Won't say anything about returning.'

'Yes, she will, Martha, if you talk to her rightly.' The servant didn't
reply for a while, but stood looking out of the window. 'You might as
well go about the lamb at once, Martha.'

'So I will, ma'am, when I've got it out, all clear.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Why just this, ma'am. May I tell Miss Dolly straight out that you want
her to come back, and that I've been sent to say so?'

'No, Martha.'

'Then how am I to do it, ma'am?'

'Do it out of your own head, just as it comes up at the moment.'

'Out of my own head, ma'am?'

'Yes just as you feel, you know.'

'Just as I feel, ma'am?'

'You understand what I mean, Martha.'

'I'll do my best, ma'am, and I can't say no more. And if you scolds me
afterwards, ma'am why, of course, I must put up with it.'

'But I won't scold you, Martha.'

'Then I'll go out to Winslow's about the lamb at once, ma'am.'

'Very nice, and not too small, Martha.'



Martha went out and ordered the lamb, and packed it as desired quite
clean in a napkin, and fitted it into the basket, and arranged with
Giles Hickbody to carry it down for her early in the morning to the
station, so that she might take the first train to Lessborough. It was
understood that she was to hire a fly at Lessborough to take her to
Nuncombe Putney. Now that she understood the importance of her mission
and was aware that the present she took with her was only the customary
accompaniment of an ambassadress entrusted with a great mission, Martha
said nothing even about the expense. The train started for Lessborough
at seven, and as she was descending from her room at six, Miss Stanbury
in her flannel dressing-gown stepped out of the door of her own room.
'Just put this in the basket,' said she, handing a note to her servant.
'I thought last night I'd write a word. Just put it in the basket and
say nothing about it.' The note which she sent was as follows:



'The Close, 8th April, 186-.

MY DEAR DOROTHY

As Martha talks of going over to pay you a visit, I've thought that I'd
just get her to take you a quarter of lamb, which is coming in now very
nice. I do envy her going to see you, my dear, for I had gotten somehow
to love to see your pretty face. I'm getting almost strong again; but
Sir Peter, who was here this afternoon, just calling as a friend, was
uncivil enough to say that I'm too much of an old woman to go out in
the east wind. I told him it didn't much matter for the sooner old
women made way for young ones, the better.

I am very desolate and solitary here. But I rather think that women who
don't get married are intended to be desolate; and perhaps it is better
for them, if they bestow their time and thoughts properly as I hope you
do, my dear. A woman with a family of children has almost too many of
the cares of this world, to give her mind as she ought to the other.
What shall we say then of those who have no such cares, and yet do not
walk uprightly? Dear Dorothy, be not such a one. For myself, I
acknowledge bitterly the extent of my shortcomings. Much has been given
to me; but if much be expected, how shall I answer the demand?

I hope I need not tell you that whenever it may suit you to pay a visit
to Exeter, your room will be ready for you, and there will be a warm
welcome. Mrs MacHugh always asks after you; and so has Mrs Clifford. I
won't tell you what Mrs Clifford said about your colour, because it
would make you vain. The Heavitree affair has all been put off of
course you have heard that. Dear, dear, dear! You know what I think, so
I need not repeat it.

Give my respects to your mamma and Priscilla and for yourself, accept
the affectionate love of

Your loving old aunt,

JEMIMA STANBURY.

P.S. If Martha should say anything to you, you may feel sure that she
knows my mind.'



Poor old soul. She felt an almost uncontrollable longing to have her
niece back again, and yet she told herself that she was bound not to
send a regular invitation, or to suggest an unconditional return.
Dorothy had herself decided to take her departure, and if she chose to
remain away so it must be. She, Miss Stanbury, could not demean herself
by renewing her invitation. She read her letter before she added to it
the postscript, and felt that it was too solemn in its tone to suggest
to Dorothy that which she wished to suggest. She had been thinking much
of her own past life when she wrote those words about the state of an
unmarried woman, and was vacillating between two minds whether it were
better for a young woman to look forward to the cares and affections,
and perhaps hard usage, of a married life; or to devote herself to the
easier and safer course of an old maid's career. But an old maid is
nothing if she be not kind and good. She acknowledged that, and,
acknowledging it, added the postscript to her letter. What though there
was a certain blow to her pride in the writing of it! She did tell
herself that in thus referring her niece to Martha for an expression of
her own mind after that conversation which she and Martha had had in
the parlour she was in truth eating her own words. But the postscript
was written, and though she took the letter up with her to her own room
in order that she might alter the words if she repented of them in the
night, the letter was sent as it was written postscript and all.

She spent the next day with very sober thoughts. When Mrs MacHugh
called upon her and told her that there were rumours afloat in Exeter
that the marriage between Camilla French and Mr Gibson would certainly
be broken off, in spite of all purchases that had been made, she merely
remarked that they were two poor, feckless things, who didn't know
their own minds. 'Camilla knows her's plain enough,' said Mrs MacHugh
sharply; but even this did not give Miss Stanbury any spirit. She
waited, and waited patiently, till Martha should return, thinking of
the sweet pink colour which used to come and go in Dorothy's cheeks
which she had been wont to observe so frequently, not knowing that she
had observed it and loved it.



CHAPTER LXVII - RIVER'S COTTAGE

Three days after Hugh Stanbury's visit to Manchester Street, he wrote a
note to Lady Rowley, telling her of the address at which might be found
both Trevelyan and his son. As Bozzle had acknowledged, facts are
things which may be found out. Hugh had gone to work somewhat after the
Bozzlian fashion, and had found out this fact. 'He lives at a place
called River's Cottage, at Willesden,' wrote Stanbury. 'If you turn off
the Harrow Road to the right, about a mile beyond the cemetery, you
will find the cottage on the left hand side of the lane, about a
quarter of a mile from the Harrow Road. I believe you can go to
Willesden by railway but you had better take a cab from London.' There
was much consultation respecting this letter between Lady Rowley and
Mrs Trevelyan, and it was decided that it should not be shown to Sir
Marmaduke. To see her child was at the present moment the most urgent
necessity of the poor mother, and both the ladies felt that Sir
Marmaduke in his wrath might probably impede rather than assist her in
this desire. If told where he might find Trevelyan, he would probably
insist on starting in quest of his son-in-law himself, and the distance
between the mother and her child might become greater in consequence,
instead of less. There were many consultations; and the upshot of these
was, that Lady Rowley and her daughter determined to start for
Willesden without saying anything to Sir Marmaduke of the purpose they
had in hand. When Emily expressed her conviction that if Trevelyan
should be away from home they would probably be able to make their way
into the house so as to see the child, Lady Rowley with some hesitation
acknowledged that such might be the case. But the child's mother said
nothing to her own mother of a scheme which she had half formed of so
clinging to her boy that no human power should separate them.

They started in a cab, as advised by Stanbury, and were driven to a
point on the road from which a lane led down to Willesden, passing by
River's Cottage. They asked as they came along, and met no difficulty
in finding their way. At the point on the road indicated, there was a
country inn for hay-waggoners, and here Lady Rowley proposed that they
should leave their cab, urging that it might be best to call at the
cottage in the quietest manner possible; but Mrs Trevelyan, with her
scheme in her head for the recapture of their child, begged that the
cab might go on and thus they were driven up to the door.

River's Cottage was not a prepossessing abode. It was a new building,
of light-coloured bricks, with a door in the middle and one window on
each side. Over the door was a stone tablet, bearing the name River's
Cottage. There was a little garden between the road and the house,
across which there was a straight path to the door. In front of one
window was a small shrub, generally called a puzzle-monkey, and in
front of the other was a variegated laurel. There were two small
morsels of green turf, and a distant view round the corner of the house
of a row of cabbage stumps. If Trevelyan were living there, he had
certainly come down in the world since the days in which he had
occupied the house in Curzon Street. The two ladies got out of the cab,
and slowly walked across the little garden. Mrs Trevelyan was dressed
in black, and she wore a thick veil.

She had altogether been unable to make up her mind as to what should be
her conduct to her husband should she see him. That must be governed by
circumstances as they might occur. Her visit was made not to him, but
to her boy.

The door was opened before they knocked, and Trevelyan himself was
standing in the narrow passage.

Lady Rowley was the first to speak. 'Louis,' she said, 'I have brought
your wife to see you.'

'Who told you that I was here?' he asked, still standing in the
passage.

'Of course a mother would find out where was her child,' said Lady
Rowley.

'You should not have come here without notice,' he said. 'I was careful
to let you know the conditions on which you should come.'

'You do not mean that I shall not see my child,' said the mother. 'Oh,
Louis, you will let me see him.'

Trevelyan hesitated a moment, still keeping his position firmly in the
doorway. By this time an old woman, decently dressed and of comfortable
appearance, had taken her place behind him, and behind her was a slip
of a girl about fifteen years of age. This was the owner of River's
Cottage and her daughter, and all the inhabitants of the cottage were
now there, standing in the passage. 'I ought not to let you see him,'
said Trevelyan; 'you have intruded upon me in coming here! I had not
wished to see you here till you had complied with the order I had given
you.' What a meeting between a husband and a wife who had not seen each
other now for many months between a husband and a 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 coming still
nearer to him, and embracing his arm.

Could she have condescended to ask him not to tell her of the past had
it occurred to her so to word her request she might perhaps have
prevailed. But who can say how long the tenderness of his heart would
have saved him from further outbreak and whether such prevailing on her
part would have been of permanent service? As it was, her words wounded
him in that spot of his inner self which was most sensitive on that
spot from whence had come all his fury. A black cloud came upon his
brow, and he made an effort to withdraw himself from her grasp. It was
necessary to him that she should in some fashion own that he had been
right, and now she was promising him that she would not tell him of his
fault! He could not thus swallow down all the convictions by which he
had fortified himself to bear the misfortunes which he had endured. Had
he not quarrelled with every friend he possessed on this score; and
should he now stultify himself in all those quarrels by admitting that
he had been cruel, unjust, and needlessly jealous? And did not truth
demand of him that he should cling to his old assurances? Had she not
been disobedient, ill-conditioned, and rebellious? Had she not received
the man, both him personally and his letters, after he had explained to
her that his honour demanded that it should not be so? How could he
come into such terms as those now proposed to him, simply because he
longed to enjoy the rich sweetness of her soft hand, to feel the
fragrance of her breath, and to quench the heat of his forehead in the
cool atmosphere of her beauty? 'Why have you driven me to this by your
intercourse with that man?' he said. 'Why, why, why did you do it?'

She was still clinging to him. 'Louis,' she said, 'I am your wife.'

'Yes; you are my wife.'

'And will you still believe such evil of me without any cause?'

'There has been cause horrible cause. You must repent repent repent.'

'Heaven help me,' said the woman, falling back from him, and returning
to the boy who was now seated in Lady Rowley's lap. 'Mamma, do you
speak to him. What can I say? Would he think better of me were I to own
myself to have been guilty, when there has been no guilt no slightest
fault? Does he wish me to purchase my child by saying that I am not fit
to be his mother?'

'Louis,' said Lady Rowley, 'if any man was ever wrong, mad, madly
mistaken, you are so now.'

'Have you come out here to accuse me again, as you did, before in
London?' he asked. 'Is that the way in which you and she intend to let
the past be, as she says, like a dream? She tells me that I am ill. It
is true. I am ill and she is killing me, killing me, by her obstinacy.'

'What would you have me do?' said the wife, again rising from her
child.

'Acknowledge your transgressions, and say that you will amend your
conduct for the future.'

'Mamma, mamma what shall I say to him?'

'Who can speak to a man that is beside himself?' replied Lady Rowley.

'I am not so beside myself as yet, Lady Rowley, but that I know how to
guard my own honour and to protect my own child. I have told you,
Emily, the terms on which you can come back to me. You had better now
return to your mother's house; and if you wish again to have a house of
your own, and your husband, and your boy, you know by what means you
may acquire them. For another week I shall remain here after that I
shall remove far from hence.'

'And where will you go, Louis?'

'As yet I know not. To Italy I think or perhaps to America. It matters
little where for me.'

'And will Louey be taken with you?'

'Certainly he will go with me. To strive to bring him up so that he may
be a happier man than his father is all that there is now left for me
in life.' Mrs Trevelyan had now got the boy in her arms, and her mother
was seated by her on the sofa. Trevelyan was standing away from them,
but so near the door that no sudden motion on their part would enable
them to escape with the boy without his interposition. It now again
occurred to the mother to carry off her prize in opposition to her
husband but she had no scheme to that effect laid with her mother, and
she could not reconcile herself to the idea of a contest with him in
which personal violence would be necessary. The woman of the house had,
indeed, seemed to sympathise with her, but she could not dare in such a
matter to trust to assistance from a stranger. 'I do not wish to be
uncourteous,' said Trevelyan, 'but if you have no assurance to give me,
you had better leave me.'

Then there came to be a bargaining about time, and the poor woman
begged almost on her knees that she might be allowed to take her child
upstairs and be with him alone for a few minutes. It seemed to her that
she had not seen her boy till she had had him to herself, in absolute
privacy, till she had kissed his limbs, and had her hand upon his
smooth back, and seen that he was white and clean and bright as he had
ever been. And the bargain was made. She was asked to pledge her word
that she would not take him out of the house and she pledged her word,
feeling that there was no strength in her for that action which she had
meditated. He, knowing that he might still guard the passage at the
bottom of the stairs, allowed her to go with the boy to his bedroom,
while he remained below with Lady Rowley. A quarter of an hour was
allowed to her, and she humbly promised that she would return when that
time was expired.

Trevelyan held the door open for her as she went, and kept it open
during her absence. There was hardly a word said between him and Lady
Rowley, but he paced from the passage into the room and from the room
into the passage with his hands behind his back. 'It is cruel,' he said
once. 'It is very cruel.'

'It is you that are cruel,' said Lady Rowley.

'Of course of course. That is natural from you. I expect that from
you.' To this she made no answer, and he did not open his lips again.

After a while Mrs Trevelyan called to her mother, and Lady Rowley was
allowed to go upstairs. The quarter of an hour was of course greatly
stretched, and all the time Trevelyan continued to pace in and out of
the room. He was patient, for he did not summon them; but went on
pacing backwards and forwards, looking now and again to see that the
cab was at its place that no deceit was being attempted, no second act
of kidnapping being perpetrated. At last the two ladies came down the
stairs, and the boy was with them and the woman of the house.

'Louis,' said the wife, going quickly up to her husband, 'I will do
anything, if you will give me my child.'

'What will you do?'

'Anything say what you want. He is all the world tome, and I cannot
live if he be taken from me.'

'Acknowledge that you have been wrong.'

'But how in what words how am I to speak it?'

'Say that you have sinned and that you will sin no more.'

'Sinned, Louis as the woman did in the Scripture?

'He cannot think that it is so,' said Lady Rowley.

But Trevelyan had not understood her. 'Lady Rowley, I should have
fancied that my thoughts at any rate were my own. But this is useless
now. The child cannot go with you to-day, nor can you remain here. Go
home and think of what I have said. If then you will do as I would have
you, you shall return.'

With many embraces, with promises of motherly love, and with prayers
for love in return, the poor woman did at last leave the house, and
return to the cab. As she went there was a doubt on her own mind
whether she should ask to kiss her husband; but he made no sign, and
she at last passed out without any mark of tenderness. He stood by the
cab as they entered it, and closed the door upon them, and then went
slowly back to his room. 'My poor bairn,' he said to the boy; 'my poor
bairn.'

'Why for mamma go?' sobbed the child.

'Mamma goes; oh, heaven and earth, why should she go? She goes because
her spirit is obstinate, and she will not bend. She is stiff-necked,
and will not submit herself. But Louey must love mamma always and mamma
some day will come back to him, and be good to him.'

'Mamma is good always,' said the child. Trevelyan had intended on this
very afternoon to have gone up to town to transact business with
Bozzle; for he still believed, though the aspect of the man was bitter
to him as wormwood, that Bozzle was necessary to him in all his
business. And he still made appointments with the man, sometimes at
Stony Walk, in the Borough, and sometimes at the tavern in Poulter's
Court, even though Bozzle not unfrequently neglected to attend the
summons of his employer. And he would go to his banker's and draw out
money, and then walk about the crowded lanes of the City, and
afterwards return to his desolate lodgings at Willesden, thinking that
he had been transacting business and that this business was exacted
from him by the unfortunate position of his affairs. But now he gave up
his journey. His retreat had been discovered; and there came upon him
at once a fear that if he left the house his child would be taken. His
landlady told him on this very day that the boy ought to be sent to his
mother, and had made him understand that it would not suit her to find
a home any longer for one who was so singular in his proceedings. He
believed that his child would be given up at once, if he were not there
to guard it. He stayed at home, therefore, turning in his mind many
schemes. He had told his wife that he should go either to Italy or to
America at once; but in doing so he had had no formed plan in his head.
He had simply imagined at the moment that such a threat would bring her
to submission. But now it became a question whether he would do better
than go to America. He suggested to himself that he should go to
Canada, and fix himself with his boy on some remote farm far away from
any city; and would then invite his wife to join him if she would. She
was too obstinate, as he told himself, ever to yield, unless she should
be absolutely softened and brought down to the ground by the loss of
her child. What would do this so effectually as the interposition of
the broad ocean between him and her? He sat thinking of this for the
rest of the day, and Louey was left to the charge of the mistress of
River's Cottage.

'Do you think he believes it, mamma?' Mrs Trevelyan said to her mother
when they had already made nearly half their journey home in the cab.
There had been nothing spoken hitherto between them, except some
half-formed words of affection intended for consolation to the young
mother in her great affliction.

'He does not know what he believes, dearest.'

'You heard what he said. I was to own that I had sinned.'

'Sinned yes; because you will not obey him like a slave. That is sin to
him.'

'But I asked him, mamma. Did you not hear me? I could not say the word
plainer but I asked him whether he meant that sin. He must have known,
and he would not answer me. And he spoke of my transgression. Mamma, if
he believed that, he would not let me come back at all.'

'He did not believe it, Emily.'

'Could he possibly then so accuse me the mother of his child! If his
heart be utterly hard and false towards me, if it is possible that he
should be cruel to me with such cruelty as that still he must love his
boy. Why did he not answer me, and say that he did not think it?'

'Simply because his reason has left him.'

'But if he be mad, mamma, ought we to leave him like that? And, then,
did you see his eyes, and his face, and his hands? Did you observe how
thin he is and his back, how bent? And his clothes how they were torn
and soiled. It cannot be right that he should be left like that.'

'We will tell papa when we get home,' said Lady Rowley, who was herself
beginning to be somewhat frightened by what she had seen. It is all
very well to declare that a friend is mad when one simply desires to
justify one's self in opposition to that friend but the matter becomes
much more serious when evidence of the friend's insanity becomes true
and circumstantial. 'I certainly think that a physician should see
him,' continued Lady Rowley. On their return home Sir Marmaduke was
told of what had occurred, and there was a long family discussion in
which it was decided that Lady Milborough should be consulted, as being
the oldest friend of Louis Trevelyan himself with whom they were
acquainted. Trevelyan had relatives of his own name living in Cornwall;
but Mrs Trevelyan herself had never even met one of that branch of the
family.

Sir Marmaduke, however, resolved that he himself would go out to see
his son-in-law. He too had called Trevelyan mad, but he did not believe
that the madness was of such a nature as to interfere with his own
duties in punishing the man who had ill used his daughter. He would at
any rate see Trevelyan himself but of this he said nothing either to
his wife or to his child.



CHAPTER LXVIII - MAJOR MAGRUDER'S COMMITTEE

Sir Marmaduke could not go out to Willesden on the morning after Lady
Rowley's return from River's Cottage, because on that day he was
summoned to attend at twelve o'clock before a Committee of the House of
Commons, to give his evidence and, the fruit of his experience as to
the government of British colonies generally; and as he went down to
the House in a cab from Manchester Street he thoroughly wished that his
friend Colonel Osborne had not been so efficacious in bringing him
home. The task before him was one which he thoroughly disliked, and of
which he was afraid. He dreaded the inquisitors before whom he was to
appear, and felt that though he was called there to speak as a master
of his art of governing, he would in truth be examined as a servant and
probably as a servant who did not know his business. Had his sojourn at
home been in other respects happy, he might have been able to balance
the advantage against the inquiry but there was no such balancing for
him now. And, moreover, the expense of his own house in Manchester
Street was so large that this journey, in a pecuniary point of view,
would be of but little service to him. So he went down to the House in
an unhappy mood; and when he shook hands in one of the passages with
his friend! Osborne who was on the Committee, there was very little
cordiality in his manner. 'This is the most ungrateful thing I ever
knew,' said the Colonel to himself; 'I have almost disgraced myself by
having this fellow brought home; and now he quarrels with me because
that idiot, his son-in-law, has quarrelled with his wife.' And Colonel
Osborne really did feel that he was a martyr to the ingratitude of his
friend.

The Committee had been convoked by the House in compliance with the
eager desires of a certain ancient pundit of the constitution, who had
been for many years a member, and who had been known as a stern critic
of our colonial modes of government. To him it certainly seemed that
everything that was, was bad as regarded our national dependencies. But
this is so usually the state of mind of all parliamentary critics, it
is so much a matter of course that the members who take up the army or
the navy, guns, India, our relations with Spain, or workhouse
management, should find everything to be bad, rotten, and dishonest,
that the wrath of the member for Killicrankie against colonial
peculation and idleness, was not thought much of in the open House. He
had been at the work for years, and the Colonial Office were so used to
it that they rather liked him. He had made himself free of the office,
and the clerks were always glad to see him. It was understood that he
said bitter things in the House that was Major Magruder's line of
business; but he could be quite pleasant when he was asking questions
of a private secretary, or telling the news of the day to a senior
clerk. As he was now between seventy and eighty, and had been at the
work for at least twenty years, most of those concerned had allowed
themselves to think that he would ride his hobby harmlessly to the day
of his parliamentary death. But the drop from a house corner will
hollow a stone by its constancy, and Major Magruder at last persuaded
the House to grant him a Committee of Inquiry. Then there came to be
serious faces at the Colonial Office, and all the little pleasantries
of a friendly opposition were at an end. It was felt that the battle
must now become a real fight, and Secretary and Under-Secretary girded
up their loins.

Major Magruder was chairman of his own committee, and being a man of a
laborious turn of mind, much given to blue-books, very patient,
thoroughly conversant with the House, and imbued with a strong belief
in the efficacy of parliamentary questionings to carry a point, if not
to elicit a fact, had a happy time of it during this session. He was a
man who always attended the House from 4 p.m. to the time of its
breaking up, and who never missed a division. The slight additional
task of sitting four hours in a committee-room three days a week, was
only a delight the more especially as during those four hours he could
occupy the post of Chairman. Those who knew Major Magruder well did not
doubt but that the Committee would sit for many weeks, and that the
whole theory of colonial government, or rather of imperial control
supervising such government, would be tested to the very utmost. Men
who had heard the old Major maunder on for years past on his pet
subject, hardly knew how much vitality would be found in him when his
maundering had succeeded in giving him a committee.

A Governor from one of the greater colonies had. already been under
question for nearly a week, and was generally thought to have come out
of the fire unscathed by the flames of the Major's criticism. This
Governor had been a picked man, and he had made it appear that the
control of Downing Street was never more harsh and seldom less
refreshing and beautifying than a spring shower in April. No other
lands under the sun were so blest, in the way of government, as were
the colonies with which he had been acquainted; and, as a natural
consequence, their devotion and loyalty to the mother country were
quite a passion with them. Now the Major had been long of a mind that
one or two colonies had better simply be given up to other nations,
which were more fully able to look after them than was England, and
that three or four more should be allowed to go clear costing England
nothing, and owing England nothing. But the well-chosen Governor who
had now been before the Committee, had rather staggered the Major and
things altogether were supposed to be looking up for the Colonial
Office.

And now had come the day of Sir Marmaduke's martyrdom. He was first
requested, with most urbane politeness, to explain the exact nature of
the government which he exercised in the Mandarins. Now it certainly
was the case that the manner in which the legislative and executive
authorities were intermingled in the affairs of these islands, did
create a complication which it was difficult for any man to understand,
and very difficult indeed for a man to explain to others. There was a
Court of Chancery, so called, which Sir Marmaduke described as a little
parliament. When he was asked whether the court exercised legislative
or executive functions, he said at first that it exercised both, and
then that it exercised neither. He knew that it consisted of nine men,
of whom five were appointed by the colony and four by the Crown. Yet he
declared that the Crown had the control of the court which, in fact,
was true enough no doubt, as the five open members were not perhaps,
all of them, immaculate patriots but on this matter poor Sir Marmaduke
was very obscure. When asked who exercised the patronage of the Crown
in nominating the four members, he declared that the four members
exercised it themselves. Did he appoint them? No he never appointed
anybody himself. He consulted the Court of Chancery for everything. At
last it came out that the chief justice of the islands, and three other
officers, always sat in the court but whether it was required by the
constitution of the islands that this should be so, Sir Marmaduke did
not know. It had worked well that is to say, everybody had complained
of it, but he, Sir Marmaduke, would not recommend any change. What he
thought best was that the Colonial Secretary should send out his
orders, and that the people in the colonies should mind their business
and grow coffee. When asked what would be the effect upon the islands,
under his scheme of government, if an incoming Colonial Secretary
should change the policy of his predecessor, he said that he didn't
think it would matter much if the people did not know anything about
it.

In this way the Major had a field day, and poor Sir Marmaduke was much
discomfited. There was present on the Committee a young Parliamentary
Under-Secretary, who with much attention had studied the subject of the
Court of Chancery in the Mandarins, and who had acknowledged to his
superiors in the office that it certainly was of all legislative
assemblies the most awkward and complicated. He did what he could, by
questions judiciously put, to pull Sir Marmaduke through his
difficulties; but the unfortunate Governor had more than once lost his
temper in answering the chairman; and in his heavy confusion was past
the power of any Under-Secretary, let him be ever so clever, to pull
him through. Colonel Osborne sat by the while and asked no questions.
He had been put on the Committee as a respectable dummy; but there was
not a member sitting there who did not know that Sir Marmaduke had been
brought home as his friend and some of them, no doubt, had whispered
that this bringing home of Sir Marmaduke was part of the payment made
by the Colonel for the smiles of the Governor's daughter. But no one
alluded openly to the inefficiency of the evidence given. No one asked
why a Governor so incompetent had been sent to them. No one suggested
that a job had been done. There are certain things of which opposition
members of Parliament complain loudly and there are certain other
things as to which they are silent. The line between these things is
well known; and should an ill-conditioned, a pig-headed, an underbred,
or an ignorant member not understand this line and transgress it, by
asking questions which should not be asked, he is soon put down from
the Treasury bench, to the great delight of the whole House.

Sir Marmaduke, after having been questioned for an entire afternoon,
left the House with extreme disgust. He was so convinced of his own
failure, that he felt that his career as a Colonial Governor must be
over. Surely they would never let him go back to his islands after such
an exposition as he had made of his own ignorance. He hurried off into
a cab, and was ashamed to be seen of men. But the members of the
Committee thought little or nothing about it. The Major, and those who
sided with him, had been anxious to entrap their witness into
contradictions and absurdities, for the furtherance of their own
object; and for the furtherance of theirs, the Under-Secretary from the
Office and the supporters of Government had endeavoured to defend their
man. But, when the affair was over, if no special admiration had been
elicited for Sir Marmaduke, neither was there expressed any special
reprobation. The Major carried on his Committee over six weeks, and
succeeded in having his blue-book printed; but, as a matter of course,
nothing further came of it; and the Court of Chancery in the Mandarin
Islands still continues to hold its own, and to do its work, in spite
of the absurdities displayed in its construction. Major Magruder has
had his day of success, and now feels that Othello's occupation is
gone. He goes no more to the Colonial Office, lives among his friends
on the memories of his Committee not always to their gratification and
is beginning to think that as his work is done he may as well resign
Killicrankie to some younger politician. Poor Sir Marmaduke remembered
his defeat with soreness long after it had been forgotten by all others
who had been present, and was astonished when he found that the
journals of the day, though they did in some curt fashion report the
proceedings of the Committee, never uttered a word of censure against
him, as they had not before uttered a word of praise for that pearl of
a Governor who had been examined before him.

On the following morning he went to the Colonial Office by appointment,
and then he saw the young Irish Under-Secretary whom he had so much
dreaded. Nothing could be more civil than was the young Irish
Under-Secretary, who told him that he had better of course stay in town
till the Committee was over, though it was not probable that he would
be wanted again. When the Committee had done its work he would be
allowed to remain six weeks on service to prepare for his journey back.
If he wanted more time after that he could ask for leave of absence. So
Sir Marmaduke left the Colonial Office with a great weight off his
mind, and blessed that young Irish Secretary as he went.



CHAPTER LXIX - SIR MARMADUKE AT WILLESDEN

On the next day Sir Marmaduke purposed going to Willesden. He was in
great doubt whether or no he would first consult that very eminent man
Dr Trite Turbury, as to the possibility, and if possible as to the
expediency, of placing Mr Trevelyan under some control. But Sir
Marmaduke, though he would repeatedly declare that his son-in-law was
mad, did not really believe in this madness. He did not, that is,
believe that Trevelyan was so mad as to be fairly exempt from the
penalties of responsibility; and he was therefore desirous of speaking
his own mind out fully to the man, and, as it were, of having his own
personal revenge, before he might be deterred by the interposition of
medical advice. He resolved therefore that he would not see Sir Trite
Turbury, at any rate till he had come back from Willesden. He also went
down in a cab, but he left the cab at the public-house at the corner of
the road, and walked to the cottage.

When he asked whether Mr Trevelyan was at home, the woman of the house
hesitated and then said that her lodger was out. 'I particularly wish
to see him,' said Sir Marmaduke, feeling that the woman was lying to
him. 'But he ain't to be seen, sir,' said the woman. 'I know he is at
home,' said Sir Marmaduke. But the argument was soon cut short by the
appearance of Trevelyan behind the woman's shoulder.

'I am here, Sir Marmaduke Rowley,' said Trevelyan. 'If you wish to see
me you may come in. I will not say that you are welcome, but you can
come in.' Then the woman retired, and Sir Marmaduke followed Trevelyan
into the room in which Lady Rowley and Emily had been received but the
child was not now in the chamber.

'What are these charges that I hear against my daughter?' said Sir
Marmaduke, rushing at once into the midst of his indignation.

'I do not know what charges you have heard.'

'You have put her away.'

'In strict accuracy that is not correct, Sir Marmaduke.'

'But she is put away. She is in my house now because you have no house
of your own for her. Is not that so? And when I came home she was
staying with her uncle, because you had put her away. And what was the
meaning of her being sent down into Devonshire? What has she done? I am
her father, and I expect to have an answer.'

'You shall have an answer, certainly.'

'And a true one. I will have no hocus-pocus, no humbug, no Jesuitry.'

'Have you come here to insult me, Sir Marmaduke? Because, if so, there
shall be an end to this interview at once.'

'There shall not be an end--by G--, no, not till I have heard what is the
meaning of all this. Do you know what people are saying of you that you
are mad, and that you must be locked up, and your child taken away from
you, and your property?'

'Who are the people that say so? Yourself and, perhaps, Lady Rowley?
Does my wife say so? Does she think that I am mad? She did not think so
on Thursday, when she prayed that she might be allowed to come back and
live with me.'

'And you would not let her come?'

'Pardon me,' said Trevelyan. 'I would wish that she should come but it
must be on certain conditions.'

'What I want to know is why she was turned out of your house?'

'She was not turned out.'

'What has she done that she should be punished?' urged Sir Marmaduke,
who was unable to arrange his questions with the happiness which had
distinguished Major Magruder. 'I insist upon knowing what it is that
you lay to her charge. I am her father, and I have a right to know. She
has been barbarously, shamefully ill-used, and by G I will know.'

'You have come here to bully me, Sir Marmaduke Rowley.'

'I have come here, sir, to do the duty of a parent to his child; to
protect my poor girl against the cruelty of a husband who in an
unfortunate hour was allowed to take her from her home. I will know the
reason why my daughter has been treated as though--as though--as though--'

'Listen to me for a minute,' said Trevelyan.

'I am listening.'

'I will tell you nothing; I will answer you not a word.'

'You will not answer me?'

'Not when you come to me in this fashion. My wife is my wife, and my
claim to her is nearer and closer than is yours, who are her father.
She is the mother of my child, and the only being in the world except
that child whom I love. Do you think that with such motives on my part
for tenderness towards her, for loving care, for the most anxious
solicitude, that I can be made more anxious, more tender, more loving
by coarse epithets from you? I am the most miserable being under the
sun because our happiness has been interrupted, and is it likely that
such misery should be cured by violent words and gestures? If your
heart is wrung for her, so is mine. If she be much to you, she is more
to me. She came here the other day, almost as a stranger, and I thought
that my heart would have burst beneath its weight of woe. What can you
do that can add an ounce to the burden that I bear? You may as well
leave me or at least be quiet.'

Sir Marmaduke had stood and listened to him, and he, too, was so struck
by the altered appearance of the man that the violence of his
indignation was lessened by the pity which he could not suppress. When
Trevelyan spoke of his wretchedness, it was impossible not to believe
him. He was as wretched a being to look at as it might have been
possible to find. His contracted cheeks, and lips always open, and eyes
glowing in their sunken caverns, told a tale which even Sir Marmaduke,
who was not of nature quick in deciphering such stories, could not fail
to read. And then the twitching action of the man's hands, and the
restless shuffling of his feet, produced a nervous feeling that if some
remedy were not applied quickly, some alleviation given to the misery
of the suffering wretch, human power would be strained too far, and the
man would break to pieces or else the mind of the man. Sir Marmaduke,
during his journey in the cab, had resolved that, old as he was, he
would, take this sinner by the throat, this brute who had striven to
stain his daughter's name--and would make him there and then
acknowledge his own brutality. But it was now very manifest to Sir
Marmaduke that there could be no taking by the throat in this case. He
could not have brought himself to touch the poor, weak, passionate
creature before him. Indeed, even the fury of his words was stayed, and
after that last appeal he stormed no more. 'But what is to be the end
of it?' he said.

'Who can tell? Who can say? She can tell. She can put an end to it all.
She has but to say a word, and I will devote my life to her. But that
word must be spoken.' As he said this, he dashed his hand upon the
table, and looked up with an air that would have been comic with its
assumed magnificence had it not been for the true tragedy of the
occasion.

'You had better, at any rate, let her have her child for the present.'

'No my boy shall go with me. She may go, too, if she pleases, but my
boy shall certainly go with me. If I had put her from me, as you said
just now, it might have been otherwise. But she shall be as welcome to
me as flowers in May as flowers in May! She shall be as welcome to me
as the music of heaven.'

Sir Marmaduke felt that he had nothing more to urge. He had altogether
abandoned that idea of having his revenge at the cost of the man's
throat, and was quite convinced that reason could have no power with
him. He was already thinking that he would go away, straight to his
lawyer, so that some step might be taken at once to stop, if possible,
the taking away of the boy to America, when the lock of the door was
gently turned, and the landlady entered the room.

'You will excuse me, sir,' said the woman, 'but if you be anything to
this gentleman--'

'Mrs Fuller, leave the room,' said Trevelyan. 'I and the gentleman are
engaged.'

'I see you be engaged, and I do beg pardon. I ain't one as would
intrude wilful, and, as for listening, or the likes of that, I scorn
it. But if this gentleman be anything to you, Mr Trevelyan--'

'I am his wife's father,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Like enough. I was thinking perhaps so. His lady was down here on
Thursday as sweet a lady as any gentleman need wish to stretch by his
side.'

'Mrs Fuller,' said Trevelyan, marching up towards her, 'I will not have
this, and I desire that you will retire from my room.'

But Mrs Fuller escaped round the table, and would not be banished. She
got round the table, and came closely opposite to Sir Marmaduke. 'I
don't want to. say nothing out of my place, sir,' said she, 'but
something ought to be done. He ain't fit to be left to hisself not
alone not as he is at present. He ain't, indeed, and I wouldn't be
doing my duty if I didn't say so. He has them sweats at night as'd be
enough to kill any man; and he eats nothing, and he don't do. nothing;
and as for that poor little boy as is now in my own bed upstairs, if it
wasn't that I and my Bessy is fond of children, I don't know what would
become of that boy.'

Trevelyan, finding it impossible to get rid of her, had stood quietly,
while he listened to her.'she has been good to my child,' he said. 'I
acknowledge it. As for myself, I have not been well. It is true. But I
am told that travel will set me on my feet again. Change of air will do
it.' Not long since he had been urging the wretchedness of his own
bodily health as a reason why his wife should yield to him; but now,
when his sickness was brought as a charge against him was adduced as a
reason why his friends should interfere, and look after him and concern
themselves in his affairs, he saw at once that it was necessary that he
should make little of his ailments.

'Would it not be best, Trevelyan, that you should come with me to a
doctor?' said Sir Marmaduke.

'No no. I have my own doctor. That is, know the course which I should
follow. This place, though it is good for the boy, has disagreed with
me, and my life has not been altogether pleasant--I may say, by no
means pleasant. Troubles have told upon me, but change of air will mend
it all.'

'I wish you would come with me, at once, to London. You shall come
back, you know. I will not detain you.'

'Thank you no. I will not trouble you'. That will do, Mrs Fuller. You
have intended to do your duty, no doubt, and now you can go.' Whereupon
Mrs Fuller did go. 'I am obliged for your care, Sir Marmaduke, but I
can really do very well without troubling you.'

'You cannot suppose, Trevelyan, that we can allow things to go on like
this.'

'And what do you mean to do?'

'Well I shall take advice. I shall go to a lawyer and to a doctor, and
perhaps to the Lord Chancellor, and all that kind of thing. We can't
let things go on like this.'

'You can do as you please,' said Trevelyan, 'but as you have threatened
me, I must ask you to leave me.'

Sir Marmaduke could do no more, and could say no more, and he took his
leave, shaking hands with the man, and speaking to him with a courtesy
which astonished himself. It was impossible to maintain the strength of
his indignation against a poor creature who was so manifestly unable to
guide himself. But when he was in London he drove at once to the house
of Dr Trite Turbury, and remained there till the doctor returned from
his round of visits. According to the great authority, there was much
still to be done before even the child could be rescued out of the
father's hands. 'I can't act without the lawyers,' said Dr Turbury. But
he explained to Sir Marmaduke what steps should be taken in such a
matter.

Trevelyan, in the mean time, clearly understanding that hostile
measures would now be taken against him, set his mind to work to think
how best he might escape at once to America with his boy.'



CHAPTER LXX - SHEWING WHAT NORA ROWLEY THOUGHT ABOUT CARRIAGES

Sir Marmaduke, on his return home from Dr Turbury's house, found that
he had other domestic troubles on hand over and above those arising
from his elder daughter's position. Mr Hugh Stanbury had been in
Manchester Street during his absence, and had asked for him, and,
finding that he was away from home, had told his story to Lady Rowley.
When he had been shown upstairs all the four daughters had been with
their mother; but he had said a word or two signifying his desire to
speak to Lady Rowley, and the three girls had left the room. In this
way it came to pass that he had to plead his cause before Nora's mother
and her elder sister. He had pleaded it well, and Lady Rowley's heart
had been well disposed towards him; but when she asked of his house and
his home, his answer had been hardy more satisfactory than that of
Alan-a-Dale. There was little that he could call his own beyond 'The
blue vault of heaven.' Had he saved any money? No not a shilling that
was to say as he himself expressed it nothing that could be called
money. He had a few pounds by him, just to go on with. What was his
income? Well last year he had made four hundred pounds, and this year
he hoped to make something more. He thought he could see his way
plainly to five hundred a year. Was it permanent; and if not, on what
did it depend? He believed it to be as permanent as most other
professional incomes, but was obliged to confess that, as regarded the
source from whence it was drawn at the present moment, it might be
brought to an abrupt end any day by a disagreement between himself and
the editor of the D. R. Did he think that this was fixed income? He did
think that if he and the editor of the D. R. were to fall out, he could
come across other editors who would gladly employ him. Would he himself
feel safe in giving his own sister to a man with such an income? In
answer to this question, he started some rather bold doctrines on the
subject of matrimony in general, asserting that safety was not
desirable, that energy, patience, and mutual confidence would be
increased by the excitement of risk, and that in his opinion it behoved
young men and young women to come together and get themselves married,
even though there might be some not remote danger of distress before
them. He admitted that starvation would be disagreeable especially for
children, in the eyes of their parents but alleged that children as a
rule were not, starved, and quoted the Scripture to prove that honest
laborious men were not to be seen begging their bread in the streets.
He was very eloquent, but his eloquence itself was against him. Both
Lady Rowley and Mrs Trevelyan were afraid of such advanced opinions;
and, although everything was of course to be left, nominally, to the
decision of Sir Marmaduke, they both declared that they could not
recommend Sir Marmaduke to consent. Lady Rowley said a word as to the
expediency of taking Nora back with her to the Mandarins, pointing out
what appeared to her then to be the necessity of taking Mrs Trevelyan
with them also; and in saying this she hinted that if Nora were
disposed to stand by her engagement, and Mr Stanbury equally so
disposed, there might be some possibility of a marriage at a future
period. Only, in such case, there must be no correspondence. In answer
to this Hugh declared that he regarded such a scheme as being
altogether bad. The Mandarins were so very far distant that he might as
well be engaged to an angel in heaven. Nora, if she were to go away
now, would perhaps never come back again; and if she did come back,
would be an old woman, with hollow cheeks. In replying to this
proposition, he let fall an opinion that Nora was old enough to judge
for herself. He said nothing about her actual age, and did not venture
to plead that the young lady had a legal right to do as she liked with
herself; but he made it manifest that such an idea was in his mind. In
answer to this, Lady Rowley asserted that Nora was a good girl, and
would do as her father told her; but she did not venture to assert that
Nora would give up her engagement. Lady Rowley at last undertook to
speak to Sir Rowley, and to speak also to her daughter. Hugh was asked
for his address, and gave that of the office of the D. R. He was always
to be found there between three and five; and after that, four times a
week, in the reporters' gallery of the House of Commons. Then he was at
some pains to explain to Lady Rowley that though he attended the
reporters' gallery, he did not report himself. It was, his duty to
write leading political articles, and, to enable him to do so, he
attended the debates.

Before he went Mrs Trevelyan thanked him most cordially for the trouble
he had taken in procuring for her the address at Willesden, and gave
him some account of the journey which she and her mother had made to
River's Cottage. He argued with both of them that the unfortunate man
must now be regarded as being altogether out of his mind, and something
was said as to the great wisdom and experience of Dr Trite Turbury.
Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave; and even Lady Rowley bade him adieu
with kind cordiality. 'I don't wonder, mamma, that Nora should like
him,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'That is all very well, my dear, and no doubt he is pleasant, and
manly, and all that but really it would be almost like marrying a
beggar.'

'For myself,' said Mrs Trevelyan, 'if I could begin life again, I do
not think that any temptation would induce me to place myself in a
man's power.'

Sir Marmaduke was told of all this on his return home, and he asked
many questions as to the nature of Stanbury's work. When it was
explained to him Lady Rowley repeating as nearly as he could all that
Hugh had himself said about it, he expressed his opinion that writing
for a penny newspaper was hardly more safe as a source of income than
betting on horse races. 'I don't see that it is wrong,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'I say nothing about wrong. I simply assert that it is uncertain. The
very existence of such a periodical must in itself be most insecure.'
Sir Marmaduke, amidst the cares of his government at the Mandarins,
had, perhaps, had no better opportunity of watching what was going on
in the world of letters than had fallen to the lot of Miss Stanbury at
Exeter.

'I think your papa is right,' said Lady Rowley.

'Of course I am right. It is out of the question; and so Nora must be
told.' He had as yet heard nothing about Mr Glascock. Had that
misfortune been communicated to him his cup would indeed have been
filled with sorrow to overflowing.

In the evening Nora was closeted with her father. 'Nora, my dear, you
must understand, once and for all, that this cannot be,' said Sir
Marmaduke. The Governor, when he was not disturbed by outward
circumstances, could assume a good deal of personal dignity, and could
speak, especially to his children, with an air of indisputable
authority.

'What can't be, papa?' said Nora.

Sir Marmaduke perceived at once that there was no indication of
obedience in his daughter's voice, and he prepared himself for battle.
He conceived himself to be very strong, and thought that his objections
were so well founded that no one would deny their truth and that his
daughter had not a leg to stand on. 'This, that your mamma tells me of
about Mr Stanbury. Do you know, my dear, that he has not a shilling in
the world?'

'I know that he has no fortune, papa if you mean that.'

'And no profession either nothing that can be called a profession. I do
not wish to argue it, my dear, because there is no room for argument.
The whole thing is preposterous. I cannot but think ill of him for
having proposed it to you; for he must have known must have known, that
a young man without an income cannot be accepted as a fitting suitor
for a gentleman's daughter. As for yourself, I can only hope that you
will get the little idea out of your head very quickly but mamma will
speak to you about that. What I want you to understand from me is this
that there must be an end to it.'

Nora listened to this speech in perfect silence, standing before her
father, and waiting patiently till the last word of it should be
pronounced. Even when he had finished she still paused before she
answered him. 'Papa,' she said at last and hesitated again before she
went on.

'Well, my dear.'

'I can not give it up.'

'But you must give it up.'

'No, papa. I would do anything I could for you and mamma, but that is
impossible.'

'Why is it impossible?'

'Because I love him so dearly.'

'That is nonsense. That is what all girls say when they choose to run
against their parents. I tell you that it shall be given up. I will not
have him here. I forbid you to see him. It is quite out of the question
that you should marry such a man. I do hope, Nora, that you are not
going to add to mamma's difficulties and mine by being obstinate and
disobedient.' He paused a moment, and then added, 'I do not think that
there is anything more to be said.'

'Papa.'

'My dear, I think you had better say nothing further about it. If you
cannot bring yourself at the present moment to promise that there shall
be an end of it, you had better hold your tongue. You have heard what I
say, and you have heard what mamma says. I do not for a moment suppose
that you dream of carrying on a communication with this gentleman in
opposition to our wishes.'

'But I do.'

'Do what?'

'Papa, you had better listen to me.' Sir Marmaduke, when he heard this,
assumed an air of increased authority, in which he intended that
paternal anger should be visible; but he seated himself, and prepared
to receive, at any rate, some of the arguments with which Nora intended
to bolster up her bad cause. 'I have promised Mr Stanbury that I will
be his wife.'

'That is all nonsense.'

'Do listen to me, papa. I have listened to you and you ought to listen
to me. I have promised him, and I must keep my promise. I shall, keep
my promise if he wishes it. There is a time when a girl must be
supposed to know what is best for herself just as there is for a man.'

'I never heard such stuff in all my life. Do you mean that you'll go
out and marry him like a beggar, with nothing but what you stand up in,
with no friend to be with you, an outcast, thrown off by your mother
with your father's curse?'

'Oh, papa, do not say that. You would not curse me. You could not.'

'If you do it at all, that will be the way.'

'That will not be the way, papa. You could not treat me like that.'

'And how are you proposing to treat me?'

'But, papa, in whatever way I do it, I must do it. I do not say today
or tomorrow; but it must be the intention and purpose of my life, and I
must declare that it is, everywhere. I have made up my mind about it. I
am engaged to him, and I shall always say so unless he breaks it. I
don't care a bit about fortune. I thought I did once, but I have
changed all that.'

'Because this scoundrel has talked sedition to you.'

'He is not a scoundrel, papa, and he has not talked sedition. I don't
know what sedition is. I thought it meant treason, and I'm sure he is
not a traitor. He. has made me love him, and I shall be true to him.'

Hereupon Sir Marmaduke began almost to weep. There came first a
half-smothered oath and then a sob, and he walked about the room, and
struck the table with his fist, and rubbed his bald head impatiently
with his hand. 'Nora,' he said, 'I thought you were so different from
this! If I had believed this of you, you never should have come to
England with Emily.'

'It is too late for that now, papa.'

'Your mamma always told me that you had such excellent ideas about
marriage.'

'So I have I think,' said she, smiling.

'She always believed that you would make a match that would be a credit
to the family.'

'I tried it, papa the sort of match that you mean. Indeed I was
mercenary enough in what I believed to be my views of life. I meant to
marry a rich man if I could, and did not think much whether I should
love him or not. But when the rich man came--'

'What rich man?'

'I suppose mamma has told you about Mr Glascock.'

'Who is Mr Glascock? I have not heard a word about Mr Glascock.' Then
Nora was forced to tell the story was called upon to tell it with all
its aggravating details. By degrees Sir Marmaduke learned that this Mr
Glascock, who had desired to be his son-in-law, was in very truth the
heir to the Peterborough title and estates would have been such a
son-in-law as almost to compensate, by the brilliance of the
connection, for that other unfortunate alliance. He could hardly
control his agony when he was made to understand that this embryo peer
had in truth been in earnest.

'Do you mean that he went down after you into Devonshire?'

'Yes, papa.'

'And you refused him then a second time?'

'Yes, papa.'

'Why why why? You say yourself that you liked him that you thought that
you would accept him.'

'When it came to speaking the word, papa, I found that I could not
pretend to love him when I did not love him. I did not care for him and
I liked somebody else so much better! I just told him the plain truth
and so he went away.'

The thought of all that he had lost, of all that might so easily have
been his, for a time overwhelmed Sir Marmaduke, and drove the very
memory of Hugh Stanbury almost out of his head; He could understand
that a girl should not marry a man whom she did not like; but he could
not understand how any girl should not love such a suitor as was Mr
Glascock. And had she accepted this pearl of men, with her position,
with her manners and beauty and appearance, such a connection would
have been as good as an assured marriage for every one of Sir
Marmaduke's numerous daughters. Nora was just the woman to look like a
great lady, a lady of high rank such a lady as could almost command men
to come and throw themselves at her unmarried sisters' feet. Sir
Marmaduke had believed in his daughter Nora, had looked forward to see
her do much for the family; and, when the crash had come upon the
Trevelyan household, had thought almost as much of her injured
prospects as he had of the misfortune of her sister. But now it seemed
that more than all the good things of what he had dreamed had been
proposed to this unruly girl, in spite of that great crash and had been
rejected! And he saw more than this as he thought. These good things
would have been accepted had it not been for this rascal of a
penny-a-liner, this friend of that other rascal Trevelyan, who had come
in the way of their family to destroy the happiness of them all! Sir
Marmaduke, in speaking of Stanbury after this, would constantly call
him a penny-a-liner, thinking that the contamination of the penny
communicated itself to all transactions of the Daily Record.

'You have made your bed for yourself, Nora, and you must lie upon it.'

'Just so, papa.'

'I mean that, as you have refused Mr Glascock's offer, you can never
again hope for such an opening in life.'

'Of course I cannot. I am not such a child as to suppose that there are
many Mr Glascocks to come and run after me. And if there were ever so
many, papa, it would be no good. As you say, I have chosen for myself,
and I must put up with it. When I see the carriages going about in the
streets, and remember how often shall have to go home in an omnibus, I
do think about it a good deal.'

'I'm afraid you will think when it is too late.'

'It isn't that I don't like carriages, papa. I do like them; and pretty
dresses, and brooches, and men and women who have nothing to do, and
balls, and the opera; but I love this man, and that is more to me than
all the rest. I cannot help myself if it were ever so. Papa, you
mustn't be angry with me. Pray, pray, pray do not say that horrid word
again.'

This was the end of the interview. Sir Marmaduke found that he had
nothing further to say. Nora, when she reached her last prayer to her
father, referring to that curse with which he had threatened her, was
herself in tears, and was leaning on him with her head against his
shoulder. Of course he did not say a word which could be understood as
sanctioning her engagement with Stanbury. He was as strongly determined
as ever that it was his duty to save her from the perils of such a
marriage as that. But, nevertheless, he was so far overcome by her as
to be softened in his manners towards her. He kissed her as he left
her, and told her to go to her mother. Then he went out and thought of
it all, and felt as though Paradise had been opened to his child and
she had refused to enter the gate.



CHAPTER LXXI - SHEWING WHAT HUGH STANBURY THOUGHT ABOUT THE DUTY OF MAN


In the conference which took place between Sir Marmaduke and his wife
after the interview between him and Nora, it was his idea that nothing
further should be done at all. 'I don't suppose. the man will come here
if he be told not,' said Sir Marmaduke, 'and if he does, Nora of course
will not see him.' He then suggested that Nora would of course go back
with them to the Mandarins, and that when once there she would not be
able to see Stanbury any more. 'There must be no correspondence or
anything of that sort, and so the thing will die away.' But Lady Rowley
declared that this would not quite suffice. Mr Stanbury had made his
offer in due form, and must be held to be entitled to an answer. Sir
Marmaduke, therefore, wrote the following letter to the
'penny-a-liner,' mitigating the asperity of his language in compliance
with his wife's counsels.



'Manchester Street, April 20th, 186-.

My Dear Sir,



Lady Rowley has told me of your proposal to my daughter Nora; and she
has told me also what she learned from you as to your circumstances in
life. I need hardly point out to you that no father would be justified
in giving his daughter to a gentleman upon so small an income, and upon
an income so very insecure.



I am obliged to refuse my consent, and I must therefore ask you to
abstain from visiting and from communicating with my daughter.

Yours faithfully,

MARMADUKE ROWLEY.

Hugh Stanbury, Esq.'



This letter was directed to Stanbury at the office of the D. R., and
Sir Marmaduke, as he wrote the pernicious address, felt himself injured
in at he was compelled to write about his daughter to a man so
circumstanced. Stanbury, when he got the letter, read it hastily and
then threw it aside. He knew what it would contain before he opened it.
He had heard enough from Lady Rowley to be aware that Sir Marmaduke
would not welcome him as a son-in-law; Indeed, he had never expected
such welcome. He was half-ashamed of his own suit because of the
lowliness of his position half-regretful that he should have induced
such a girl as Nora Rowley to give up for his sake her hopes of
magnificence and splendour. But Sir Marmaduke's letter did not add
anything to this feeling. He read it again, and smiled as he told
himself that the father would certainly be very weak in the hands of
his daughter. Then he went to work again at his article with a
persistent resolve that so small a trifle as such a note should have no
effect upon his daily work. 'Of course Sir Marmaduke would refuse his
consent. Of course it would be for him, Stanbury, to marry the girl he
loved in opposition to her father. Her father indeed! If Nora chose to
take him and as to that he was very doubtful as to Nora's wisdom but if
Nora would take him, what was any father's opposition to him. He wanted
nothing from Nora's father. He was not looking for money with his wife
nor for fashion, nor countenance. Such a Bohemian was he that he would
be quite satisfied if his girl would walk out to him, and become his
wife, with any morning-gown on and with any old hat that might come,
readiest to hand. He wanted neither cards, nor breakfast, nor
carriages, nor fine clothes. If his Nora should choose to come to him
as she was, he having had all previous necessary arrangements duly made
such as calling, of banns or procuring of licence if possible he
thought that a father's opposition would almost add something to the
pleasure of the occasion. So he pitched the letter on one side, and
went on with his article. And he finished his article; but it may be
doubted whether it was completed with the full strength and pith needed
for moving the pulses of the national mind as they should be moved by
leading articles in the D. R. As he was writing he was thinking of Nora
and thinking of the letter which Nora's father had sent to him. Trivial
as was the letter, he, could not keep himself from repeating the words
of it to himself. '"Need hardly point out," oh; needn't he? Then why
does he? Refusing his consent! I wonder what the old buffers think is
the meaning of their consent, when they are speaking of daughters old
enough to manage for themselves? Abstain from visiting or communicating
with her! But if she visits and communicates with me what then? I can't
force my way into the house, but she can force her way out. Does he
imagine that she can be locked up in the nursery or put into the
corner?' So he argued with himself, and by such arguments he brought
himself to the conviction that it would be well for him to answer Sir
Marmaduke's letter. This he did at once before leaving the office of
the D.R.

'250, Fleet Street,

20th April.

My Dear Sir Marmaduke Rowley

'I have just received your letter, and am indeed sorry that its
contents should be so little favourable to my hopes. I understand that
your objection to me is simply in regard to the smallness and
insecurity of my income. On the first point I may say that I have fair
hopes that it may be at once increased. As to the second, I believe I
may assert that it is as sure at least as the income of other
professional men, such as barristers, merchants, and doctors. I cannot
promise to say that I will not see your daughter. If she desires me to
do so of course I shall be guided by her views. I wish that might be
allowed an opportunity of seeing you, as think I could reverse or at
least mitigate some of the objections which you feel to our marriage.'

Yours most faithfully,

Hugh Stanbury.'



On the next day but one Sir Marmaduke came to him. He was sitting at
the office of the D. R., in a very small and dirty room at the back of
the house, and Sir Marmaduke found his way thither through a confused
crowd of compositors, pressmen, and printers' boys. He thought that he
had never before been in a place so foul, so dark, so crowded, and so
comfortless. He himself was accustomed to do his work, out in the
Islands, with many of the appanages of vice-royalty around him. He had
his secretary, and his, private secretary, and his inner-room, and his
waiting-room; and not unfrequently he had the honour of a dusky
sentinel walking before the door through which he was to be approached.
He had an idea that all gentlemen at their work had comfortable
appurtenances around them such as carpets, dispatch-boxes, unlimited
stationery, easy chairs for temporary leisure, big table-space, and a
small world of books around them to give at least a look of erudition
to their pursuits. There was nothing of the kind in the miserably dark
room occupied 'by Stanbury. He was sitting at a wretched little table
on which there was nothing but a morsel of blotting paper, a small
ink-bottle, and the paper on which he was scribbling. There was no
carpet there, and no dispatch box, and the only book in the room was a
little dog's-eared dictionary.'sir Marmaduke, I am so much obliged to
you for coming,' said Hugh. 'I fear you will find this place a little
rough, but we shall be all alone.'

'The place, Mr Stanbury, will not signify, I think'

'Not in the least--if you don't mind it. I got your letter, you know,
Sir Marmaduke.'

'And I have had your reply. I have come to you because you have
expressed a wish for an interview but I do not see that it will do any
good.'

'You are very kind for coming, indeed, Sir Marmaduke very kind. I
thought I might explain something to you about my income.'

'Can you tell me that you have any permanent income?'

'It goes on regularly from month to month;' Sir Marmaduke did not feel
the slightest respect for an income that was paid monthly. According to
his ideas, a gentleman's income should be paid quarterly, or perhaps
half-yearly. According to his view, a monthly salary was only one
degree better than weekly wages 'and I suppose that is permanence,'
said Hugh Stanbury.

'I cannot say that I so regard it.'

'A barrister gets his, you know, very irregularly. There is no saying
when he may have it.'

'But a barrister's profession is recognised as a profession among
gentlemen, Mr Stanbury.'

'And is not ours recognised? Which of us, barristers or men of
literature, have the most effect on the world at large? Who is most
thought of in London, Sir Marmaduke the Lord Chancellor or the Editor
of the "Jupiter"?'

'The Lord Chancellor a great deal,' said Sir Marmaduke, quite dismayed
by the audacity of the question.

'By no means, Sir Marmaduke,' said Stanbury, throwing out his hand
before him so as to give the energy of action to his words. 'He has the
higher rank. I will admit that.'

'I should think so,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'And the larger income.'

'Very much larger, I should say,' said Sir Marmaduke, with a smile.

'And he wears a wig.'

'Yes he wears a wig,' said Sir Marmaduke, hardly knowing in what spirit
to accept this assertion.

'And nobody cares one brass button for him or his opinions,' said
Stanbury, bringing down: his hand heavily on the little table for the
sake of emphasis.

'What, sir?'

'If you'll think of it, it is so.'

'Nobody cares for the Lord Chancellor!' It certainly is the fact that
gentlemen living in the Mandarin Islands do think more of the Lord
Chancellor, and the Lord Mayor, and the Lord-Lieutenant, and the Lord
Chamberlain, than they whose spheres of life bring them into closer
contact with those august functionaries. 'I presume, Mr Stanbury, that
a connection with a penny newspaper makes such opinions as these almost
a necessity.'

'Quite a necessity, Sir Marmaduke. No man can hold his own in print,
now-a-days, unless he can see the, difference between tinsel and gold.'

'And the Lord Chancellor, of course, is tinsel.'

'I do not say so. He may be a great lawyer and very useful. But his
lordship, and his wig, and his woolsack, are tinsel in comparison with
the real power possessed by the editor of a leading newspaper. If the
Lord Chancellor were to go to bed for a month, would he be much
missed?'

  'I don't know, sir. I'm not in the secrets of the Cabinet. I should
  think he would.'

'About as much as my grandmother but if the Editor of the Jupiter were
to be taken ill, it would work quite a commotion. For myself I should
be glad on public grounds because I don't like his mode of business.
But it would have an effect because he is a leading man.'

'I don't see what all this leads to, Mr Stanbury.'

'Only to this that we who write for the press thing that our calling is
recognised, and must be recognised as a profession. Talk of permanence,
Sir Marmaduke, are not the newspapers permanent? Do not they come out
regularly every day and more of them, and still more of them, are
always coming out? You do not expect a collapse among them.'

'There will be plenty of newspapers, I do not doubt more than plenty,
perhaps.'

'Somebody must write them and the writers will be paid.'

'Anybody could write the most of them, I should say.'

'I wish you would try, Sir Marmaduke. Just try your hand at a leading
article to-night, and read it yourself tomorrow morning.'

'I've a great deal too much to do, Mr Stanbury.'

'Just so. You have, no doubt, the affairs of your Government to look
to. We are all so apt to ignore the work of our neighbours! It seems to
me that I could go over and govern the Mandarins without the slightest
trouble in the world. But, no doubt, I am mistaken just as you are
about writing for the newspapers.'

'I do not know,' said Sir Marmaduke, rising from his chair with
dignity, 'that I called here to discuss such matters as these. As it
happens, you, Mr Stanbury, are not the Governor of the Mandarins, and I
have not the honour to write for the columns of the penny newspaper
with which you are associated. It is therefore useless to discuss what
either of us might do in the position held by the other.'

'Altogether useless, Sir Marmaduke except just for the fun of the
thing.'

'I do not see the fun, Mr Stanbury. I came here, at your request, to
hear what you might have to urge against the decision which I
expressed to you in reference to my daughter. As it seems that you have
nothing to urge, I will not take up your time further.'

'But I have a great deal to urge, and have urged a great deal.'

'Have you, indeed?'

'You have complained that my work is not permanent. I have shewn that
it is so permanent that there is no possibility of its coming to an
end. There must be newspapers, and the people trained to write them
must be employed. I have been at it now about two years. You know what
I earn. Could I have got so far in so short a time as a lawyer, a
doctor, a clergyman, a soldier, a sailor, a Government clerk, or in any
of those employments which you choose to call professions? I think that
is urging a great deal I think it is urging everything.'

'Very well, Mr Stanbury. I have listened to you, and in a certain
degree I admire your your your zeal and ingenuity, shall I say.'

'I didn't mean to call for admiration, Sir Marmaduke; but suppose you
say good sense and discrimination.'

'Let that pass. You must permit me to remark that your position is not
such as to justify me in trusting my daughter to your care. As my mind
on that matter is quite made up, as is that also of Lady Rowley, I must
ask you to give me your promise that your suit to my daughter shall be
discontinued.'

'What does she say about it, Sir Marmaduke?'

'What she has said to me has been for my ears, and not for yours.'

'What I say is for her ears and for yours, and for her mother's ears,
and for the ears of any who may choose to hear it. I will never give up
my suit to your daughter till I am forced to do so, by a full
conviction given me up. It is best to be plain, Sir Marmaduke, of
course.'

'I do not understand this, Mr Stanbury.'

'I mean to be quite clear.'

'I have always thought that when a gentleman was told by the head of a
family that he could not be made welcome in that family, it was
considered to be the duty of that gentleman as a gentleman to abandon
his vain pursuit. I have been brought up with that idea.'

'And I, Sir Marmaduke, have been brought up in the idea that when a man
has won the affections of a woman, it is the duty of that man as a man
to stick to her through thick and thin; and I mean to do my duty,
according to my idea.'

'Then, sir, I have nothing further to say, but to take my leave. I must
only caution you not to enter my doors.' As the passages were dark and
intricate, it was necessary that Stanbury should shew Sir Marmaduke
out, and this he did in silence. When they parted each of them lifted
his hat, and not a word more was said.

That same night there was a note put into Nora's hands as she was
following her mother out of one of the theatres. In the confusion she
did not even see the messenger who had handed it to her. Her sister
Lucy saw that she had taken the note, and questioned her about it
afterwards with discretion, however, and in privacy. This was the note:


'Dearest Love,

I have seen your father, who is stern after the manner of fathers. What
granite equals a parent's flinty bosom! For myself, I do not prefer
clandestine arrangements and rope-ladders; and you, dear, have nothing
of the Lydia about you. But I do like my own way, and like it
especially when you are at the end of the path. It is quite out of the
question that you should go back to those islands. I think I am
justified in already assuming enough of the husband to declare that
such going back must not be held for a moment in question. My
proposition is that you should authorise me to make such arrangements
as may be needed, in regard to licence, banns, or whatever else, and
that you should then simply walk from the house to the church and marry
me. You are of age, and can do as you please. Neither your father nor
mother can have any right to stop you. I do not doubt but that your
mother would accompany you, if she were fully satisfied of your
purpose. Write to me to the D. R.

Your own, ever and ever, and always,

H. S.

I shall try and get this given to you as you leave the theatre. If it
should fall into other hands, I don't much care. I'm not in the least
ashamed of what I am doing; and I hope that you are not.'



CHAPTER LXXII - THE DELIVERY OF THE LAMB

It is hoped that a certain quarter of lamb will not have been forgotten
a quarter of lamb that was sent as a peace-offering from Exeter to
Nuncombe Putney by the hands of Miss Stanbury's Martha, not with
purposes of corruption, not intended to buy back the allegiance of
Dorothy folded delicately and temptingly in one of the best table
napkins, with no idea of bribery, but sent as presents used to be sent
of old in the trains of great ambassadors as signs of friendship and
marks of true respect. Miss Stanbury was, no doubt, most anxious that
her niece should return to her, but was not, herself, low spirited
enough to conceive that a quarter of lamb could be efficacious in
procuring such return. If it might be that Dorothy's heart could be
touched by mention of the weariness of her aunt's solitary life; and
if, therefore, she would return, it would be very well; but it could
not be well to, unless the offer should come from Dorothy herself. All
of which Martha had been made to understand by her mistress,
considerable ingenuity having been exercised in the matter on each
side.

On her arrival at Lessboro', Martha had hired a fly, and been driven
out to Nuncombe Putney; but she felt, she knew not why, a dislike to be
taken in her carriage to the door of the cottage; and was put down in
the middle of the village, from whence she walked out to Mrs Stanbury's
abode, with the basket upon her arm. It was a good half mile, and the
lamb was heavy, for Miss Stanbury had suggested that a bottle of sherry
should be put in under the napkin and Martha was becoming tired of her
burden, when whom should she see on the road before her but Brooke
Burgess! As she said herself afterwards, it immediately occurred to
her, 'that all the fat was in the fire.' Here had this young man come
down, passing through Exeter without even a visit to Miss Stanbury, and
had clandestinely sought out the young woman whom he wasn't to marry;
and here was the young woman herself flying in her aunt's face, when
one scratch of a pen might ruin them both! Martha entertained a sacred,
awful, overcoming feeling about her mistress's will. That she was to
have something herself she supposed, and her anxiety was not on that
score; but she had heard so much about it, had realised so fully the
great power which Miss Stanbury possessed, and had had her own feelings
so rudely invaded by alterations in Miss Stanbury's plans, that she had
come to entertain an idea that all persons around her should
continually bear that will in their memory. Hugh had undoubtedly been
her favourite, and, could Martha have dictated the will herself, she
would still have made Hugh the heir; but she had realised the
resolution of her mistress so far as to confess that the bulk of the
property was to go back to a Burgess. But there were very many
Burgesses; and here was the one who had been selected flying in the
very face of the testatrix! What was to be done? Were she to go back
and not tell her mistress that she had seen Brooke Burgess at Nuncombe
then should the fact be found out would the devoted anger of Miss
Stanbury fall upon her own head? It would be absolutely necessary that
she should tell the story, let the consequences be what they might but
the consequences, probably, would be very dreadful. 'Mr Brooke, that is
not you?' she said, as she came up to him, putting her basket down in
the middle of the dusty road.

'Then who can it be?' said Brooke, giving her his hand to shake.

'But what do bring you here, Mr Brooke? Goodness me, what will missus
say?'

'I shall make that all straight. I'm going back to Exeter tomorrow.'
Then there were many questions and many answers. He was sojourning at
Mrs Crocket's, and had been there for the last two days. 'Dear, dear,
dear,' she said over and over again. 'Deary me, deary me!' and then she
asked him whether it was 'all along of Miss Dorothy' that he had come.
Of course, it was all along of Miss Dorothy. Brooke made no secret
about it. He had come down to see Dorothy's mother and sister, and to
say a bit of his own mind about future affairs and to see the beauties
of the country. When he talked about the beauties of the country,
Martha looked at him as the people of Lessboro' and Nuncombe Putney
should have looked at Colonel Osborne, when he talked of the church
porch at Cockchaffington. 'Beauties of the countries, Mr Brooke you
ought to be ashamed of yourself!' said Martha.

'But I ain't the least in the world,' said Brooke.

Then Martha took up her basket, and went on to the cottage, which had
been close in sight during their conversation in the road. She felt
angry with Dorothy. In such matters a woman is always angry with the
woman who has probably been quite passive, and rarely with the man, who
is ever the real transgressor. Having a man down after her at Nuncombe
Putney! It had never struck Martha as very horrible that Brooke Burgess
should fall in love with Dorothy in the city but this meeting, in the
remoteness of the country, out of sight even of the village, was almost
indecent; and all, too, with Miss Stanbury's will just, as one might
say, on the balance! Dorothy ought to have buried herself rather than
have allowed Brooke to see her at Nuncombe Putney; and Dorothy's mother
and Priscilla must be worse. She trudged on, however, with her lamb,
and soon found herself in the presence of the three ladies.

'What Martha!' said Dorothy.

'Yes, miss here I am. I'd have been here half-an-hour ago amost, if I
hadn't been stopped on the road.'

'And who stopped you?' asked Priscilla.

'Why Mr Brooke, of course.'

'And what did Mr Brooke say to you?' asked Dorothy.

Martha perceived at once that Dorothy was quite radiant. She told her
mistress that she had never seen Miss Dorothy look half so comely
before. 'Laws, ma'am, she brightened up and speckled about, till it did
your heart good to see her in spite of all.' But this was some time
afterwards.

'He didn't say very much,' replied Martha, gravely. 'But I've got very
much to tell you,' continued Dorothy. 'I'm engaged to be married to Mr
Brooke, and you must congratulate me. It is settled now, and mamma and
my sister know all about it.'

Martha, when she was thus asked directly for congratulation, hardly
knew at once how to express herself. Being fully aware of Miss
Stanbury's objection to the marriage, she could not venture to express
her approbation of it. It was very improper, in Martha's mind, that any
young woman should have a follower, when the 'missus' didn't approve of
it. She understood well enough that, in that matter of followers,
privileges are allowed to young ladies which are not accorded to maid
servants. A young lady may do things have young men to walk and talk
with them, to dance with them and embrace them, and perhaps even more
than this when for half so much a young woman would be turned into the
streets without a character. Martha knew all this, and knew also that
Miss Dorothy, though her mother lived in a very little cottage, was not
altogether debarred, in the matter of followers, from the privileges of
a lady. But yet Miss Dorothy's position was so very peculiar!

Look at that will or, rather, at that embryo will, which might be made
any day, which now probably would be made, and which might affect them
both so terribly! People who have not got money should not fly in the
face of those who have. Such at least was Martha's opinion very
strongly. How could she congratulate Miss Dorothy under the existing
circumstances. 'I do hope you will be happy, miss that you knows,' said
Martha, in her difficulty. 'And now, ma'am miss, I mean,' she added,
correcting herself, in obedience to Miss Stanbury's direct orders about
the present 'missus has just sent me over with a bit of lamb, and a
letter as is here in the basket, and to ask how you is and the other
ladies.'

'We are very much obliged,' said Mrs Stanbury, who had not understood
the point of Martha's speech.

'My sister is, I'm sure,' said Priscilla, who had understood it.

Dorothy had taken the letter, and had gone aside with it, and was
reading it very carefully. It touched her nearly, and there had come
tears into both her eyes, as she dwelt upon it. There was something in
her aunt's allusion to the condition of unmarried women which came home
to her especially. She knew her aunt's past history, and now she knew,
or hoped that she knew, something of her own future destiny. Her aunt
was desolate, whereas upon her the world smiled, most benignly. Brooke
had just informed her that he intended to make her his wife as speedily
as possible with her aunt's consent if possible, but if not, then
without it. He had ridiculed the idea of his being stopped by Miss
Stanbury's threats, and had said all this in such fashion that even
Priscilla herself had only listened and obeyed. He had spoken not a
word of his own income, and none of them had dreamed even of asking him
a question. He had been as a god in the little cottage, and all of them
had been ready to fall down and worship him. Mrs Stanbury had not known
how to treat him with sufficient deference, and, at the same time, with
sufficient affection. He had kissed them all round, and Priscilla had
felt an elation which was hardly intelligible to herself. Dorothy, who
was so much honoured, had come to enjoy a status in her mother's
estimation very different from that which she had previously possessed,
and had grown to be quite beautiful in her mother's eyes.

There was once a family of three ancient maiden ladies, much respected
and loved in the town in which they lived. Their manners of life were
well known among their friends, and excited no surprise; but a stranger
to the locality once asked of the elder why Miss Matilda, the younger,
always went first out of the room? 'Matilda once had an offer of
marriage,' said the dear simple old lady, who had never been so graced,
and who felt that such an episode in life was quite sufficient to
bestow brevet rank. It was believed by Mrs Stanbury that Dorothy's
honours would be carried further than those of Miss Matilda, but there
was much of the same feeling in the bosom of the mother towards the
fortunate daughter, who, in the eyes of a man, had seemed goodly enough
to be his wife.

With this swelling happiness round her heart, Dorothy read her aunt's
letter, and was infinitely softened. 'I had gotten somehow to love to
see your pretty face.' Dorothy had thought little enough of her own
beauty, but she liked being told by her aunt that her face had been
found to be pretty. 'I am very desolate and solitary here,' her aunt
said; and then had come those words about the state of maiden women and
then those other words, about women's duties, and her aunt's prayer on
her behalf. 'Dear Dorothy, be not such a one.' She held the letter to
her lips and to her bosom, and could hardly continue its perusal
because of her tears. Such prayers from the aged addressed to the young
are generally held in light esteem, but this adjuration was valued by
the girl to whom it was addressed. She put together the invitation or
rather the permission accorded to her, to make a visit to Exeter and
the intimation in the postscript that Martha knew her mistress's mind;
and then she returned to the sitting-room, in which Martha was still
seated with her mother, and took the old servant apart. 'Martha,' she
said, 'is my aunt happy now?'

'Well, miss.'

'She is strong again; is she not?'

'Sir Peter says she is getting well; and Mr Martin but Mr Martin isn't
much account.'

'She eats and drinks again?'

'Pretty well not as it used to be, you know, miss. I tell her she ought
to go somewheres but she don't like moving nohow. She never did. I tell
her if she'd go to Dawlish just for a week. But she don't think there's
a bed fit to sleep on, nowhere, except just her own.'

'She would go if Sir Peter told her.'

'She says that these movings are newfangled fashions, and that the air
didn't use to want changing for folk when she was young. I heard her
tell Sir Peter herself, that if she couldn't live at Exeter, she would
die there. She won't go nowheres, Miss Dorothy. She ain't careful to
live.'

'Tell me something, Martha; will you?'

'What is it, Miss Dorothy?'

'Be a dear good woman now, and tell me true. Would she be better if I
were with her?'

'She don't like being alone, miss. I don't know nobody as does.'

'But now, about Mr Brooke, you know.'

'Yes; Mr Brooke! That's it.'

'Of course, Martha, I love him better than anything in all the world. I
can't tell you how it was, but I think I loved him the very first
moment I saw him.'

'Dear, dear, dear!'

'I couldn't help it, Martha but it's no good talking about it, for of
course I shan't try to help it now. Only this that I would do anything
in the world for my aunt except that.'

'But she don't like it, Miss Dorothy. That is the truth, you know.'

'It can't be helped now, Martha; and of course she'll be told at once.
Shall I go and tell her? I'd go today if you think she would like it.'

'And Mr Brooke?'

'He is to go tomorrow.'

'And will you leave him here?'

'Why not? Nobody will hurt him. I don't mind a bit about having him
with me now. But I can tell you this. When he went away from us once it
made me very unhappy. Would Aunt Stanbury be glad to see me, Martha?'

Martha's reserve was at last broken down, and she expressed herself in
strong language. There was nothing on earth her mistress wanted so much
as to have her favourite niece back again. Martha acknowledged that
there were great difficulties about Brooke Burgess, and she did not see
her way clearly through them. Dorothy declared her purpose of telling
her aunt boldly at once. Martha shook her head, admiring the honesty
and courage, but doubting the result. She understood better than did
any one else the peculiarity of mind which made her mistress specially
anxious that none of the Stanbury family should enjoy any portion of
the Burgess money, beyond that which she herself had saved out of the
income. There had been moments in which Martha had hoped that this
prejudice might be overcome in favour of Hugh; but it had become
stronger as the old woman grew to be older and more feeble and it was
believed now to be settled as Fate.'she'd sooner give it all to old
Barty over the way,' Martha had once said, 'than let it go to her own
kith and kin. And if she do hate any human creature, she do hate Barty
Burgess.' She assented, however, to Dorothy's proposal; and, though Mrs
Stanbury and Priscilla were astounded by the precipitancy of the
measure they did not attempt to oppose it.

'And what am I to do?' said Brooke, when he was told.

'You'll come tomorrow, of course,' said Dorothy.

'But it may be that the two of us together will be too many for the
dear old lunatic.'

'You shan't call her a lunatic, Brooke. She isn't so much a lunatic as
you are, to run counter to her, and disobey her, and all that kind of
thing.'

'And how about yourself?'

'How can I help it, Brooke? It is you that say it must be so.'

'Of course it must. Who is to be stayed from doing what is reasonable
because an old woman has a bee on her bonnet. I don't believe in
people's wills.'

'She can do what she likes about it, Brooke.'

'Of course she can, and of course she will. What I mean is that it
never pays to do this or that because somebody may alter his will, or
may make a will, or may not make a will. You become a slave for life,
and then your dead tyrant leaves you a mourning-ring, and grins at you
out of his grave. All the same she'll kick up a row, I fancy, and
you'll have to bear the worst of it.'

'I'll tell her the truth; and if she be very angry, I'll just come home
again. But I think I'll come home tomorrow any way, so that I'll pass
you on the road. That will be best. She won't want us both together.
Only then, Brooke, I shan't see you again.'

'Not till June.'

'And is it to be really in June?'

'You say you don't like May.'

'You are such a goose, Brooke. It will be May almost tomorrow. I shall
be such a poor wife for you, Brooke. As for getting my things ready, I
shall not bring hardly any things at all. Have you thought what it is
to take a body so very poor?'

'I own I haven't thought as much about it, Dolly as I ought to have
done, perhaps.'

'It is too late now, Brooke.'

'I suppose it is.'

'Quite too late. A week ago I could have borne it. I had almost got
myself to think that it would be better that I should bear it. But you
have come, and banished all the virtue out of my head. I am ashamed of
myself, because I am so unworthy; but I would put up with that shame
rather than lose you now. Brooke, Brooke, I will so try to be good to
you!'

In the afternoon Martha and Dorothy started together for Exeter, Brooke
and Priscilla accompanying them as far as Mrs Crocket's, where the
Lessboro' fly was awaiting them. Dorothy said little or nothing during
the walk, nor, indeed, was she very communicative during the journey
into Exeter. She was going to her aunt, instigated simply by the
affection of her full heart; but she was going with a tale in her mouth
which she knew would be very unwelcome. She could not save herself from
feeling that, in having accepted Brooke, and in having not only
accepted him but even fixed the day for her marriage, she had been
ungrateful to her aunt. Had it not been for her aunt's kindness and
hospitality, she would never have seen Brooke Burgess. And as she had
been under her aunt's care at Exeter, she doubted whether she had not
been guilty of some great fault in falling in love with this man, in
opposition as it were to express orders. Should her aunt still declare
that she would in no way countenance the marriage, that she would still
Oppose it and use her influence with Brooke to break it off, then would
Dorothy return on the morrow to her mother's cottage at Nuncombe
Putney, so that her lover might be free to act with her aunt as he
might think fit. And should he yield, she would endeavour she would
struggle hard, to think that he was still acting for the best. 'I must
tell her myself, Martha,' said Dorothy, as they came near to Exeter.

'Certainly, miss only you'll do it tonight.'

'Yes at once. As soon after I get there as possible.'



CHAPTER LXXIII - DOROTHY RETURNS TO EXETER

Miss Stanbury perfectly understood that Martha was to come back by the
train reaching Exeter at 7 p.m., and that she might be expected in the
Close about a quarter-of-an-hour after that time. She had been nervous
and anxious all day so much so that Mr Martin had told her that she
must be very careful. 'That's all very well,' the old woman had said,
'but you haven't got any medicine for my complaint, Mr Martin.' The
apothecary had assured her that the worst of her complaint was in the
east wind, and had gone away begging her to be very careful. 'It is not
God's breezes that are hard to any one,' the old lady had said to
herself 'but our own hearts.' After her lonely dinner she had fidgeted
about the room, and had rung twice for the girl, not knowing what order
to give when the servant came to her. She was very anxious about her
tea, but would not have it brought to her till after Martha should have
arrived. She was half-minded to order that a second cup and saucer
should be placed there, but she had not the courage to face the
disappointment which would fall upon her, should the cup and saucer
stand there for no purpose. And yet, should she come, how nice it would
be to shew her girl that her old aunt had been ready for her. Thrice
she went to the window after the cathedral clock had struck seven, to
see whether her ambassador was returning. From her window there was
only one very short space of pathway on which she could have seen her
and, as it happened, there came the ring at the door, and no ambassador
had as yet been viewed. Miss Stanbury was immediately off her seat, and
out upon the landing. 'Here we are again, Miss Dorothy,' said Martha.
Then Miss Stanbury could not restrain herself but descended the stairs,
moving as she had never moved since she had first been ill. 'My bairn,'
she said; 'my dearest bairn! I thought that perhaps it might be so.
Jane, another tea-cup and saucer up-stairs.' What a pity that she had
not ordered it before! 'And get a hot cake, Jane. You will be ever so
hungry, my darling, after your journey.'

'Are you glad to see me, Aunt Stanbury?' said Dorothy.

'Glad, my pretty one!' Then she put up her hands, and smoothed down the
girl's cheeks, and kissed her, and patted Martha on the back, and
scolded her at the same time for not bringing Miss Dorothy from the
station in a cab. 'And what is the meaning of that little bag?' she
said. 'You shall go back for the rest yourself, Martha, because it is
your own fault.' Martha knew that all this was pleasant enough but then
her mistress's moods would sometimes be changed so suddenly! How would
it be when Miss Stanbury knew that Brooke Burgess had been left behind
at Nuncombe Putney?

'You see I didn't stay to eat any of the lamb,' said Dorothy, smiling.

'You shall have a calf instead, my dear,' said Miss Stanbury, 'because
you are a returned prodigal.'

All this was very pleasant, and Miss Stanbury was so happy dispensing
her tea, and the hot cake, and the clotted cream, and was so intent
upon her little methods of caressing and petting her niece, that
Dorothy had no heart to tell her story while the plates and cups were
still upon the table. She had not, perhaps, cared much for the hot
cake, having such a weight upon her mind, but she had seemed to care,
understanding well that she might so best conduce to her aunt's
comfort. Miss Stanbury was a woman who could not bear that the good
things which she had provided for a guest should not be enjoyed. She
could taste with a friend's palate, and drink with a friend's throat.
But when debarred these vicarious pleasures by what seemed to her to be
the caprice of her guests, she would be offended. It had been one of
the original sins of Camilla and Arabella French that they would
declare at her tea-table that they had dined late and could not eat
tea-cake. Dorothy knew all this and did her duty but with a heavy
heart. There was the story to be told, and she had promised Martha that
it should be told tonight. She was quite aware, too, independently of
her promise, that it was necessary that it should be told tonight. It
was very sad very grievous that the dear old lady's happiness should be
disturbed so soon; but it must be done. When the tea-things were being
taken away her aunt was still purring round her, and saying gentle,
loving words. Dorothy bore it as well as she could bore it well,
smiling and kissing her aunt's hand, and uttering now and then some
word of affection. But the thing had to be done; and as soon as the
room was quiet for a moment, she jumped up from her chair and began.
'Aunt Stanbury, I must tell you something at once. Who, do you think,
is at Nuncombe Putney?'

'Not Brooke Burgess?'

'Yes, he is. He is there now, and is to be here with you tomorrow.'

The whole colour and character of Miss Stanbury's face was changed in a
moment. She had been still purring up to the moment in which this
communication had been made to her. Her gratification had come to her
from the idea that her pet had come back to her from love of her as in
very truth had been the case; but now it seemed that Dorothy had
returned to ask for a great favour for herself. And she reflected at
once that Brooke had passed through Exeter without seeing her. If he
was determined to marry without reference to her, he might at any rate
have had the grace to come to her and say so. She, in the fulness of
her heart, had written words of affection to Dorothy and both Dorothy
and Brooke had at once taken advantage of her expressions for their own
purposes. Such was her reading of the story of the day. 'He need not
trouble himself to come here now,' she said.

'Dear aunt, do not say that.'

'I do say it. He need not trouble himself to come now. When I said that
I should be glad to see you, I did not intend that you should meet Mr
Burgess under my roof. I did not wish to have you both together.'

'How could I help coming, when you wrote to me like that?'

'It is very well but he need not come. He knows the way from Nuncombe
to London without stopping at Exeter.'

'Aunt Stanbury, you must let me tell it you all.'

'There is no more to tell, I should think.'

'But there is more. You knew what he thought about me, and what he
wished.'

'He is his own master, my dear and you are your own mistress.'

'If you speak to me like that you will kill me, Aunt Stanbury. I did
not think of coming only when Martha brought your dear letter I could
not help it. But he was coming. He meant to come tomorrow, and he will.
Of course he must defend himself, if you are angry with him.'

'He need not defend himself at all.'

'I told them, and I told him, that I would only stay one night if you
did not wish that we should be here together. You must see him, Aunt
Stanbury. You would not refuse to see him.'

'If you please, my dear, you must allow me to judge whom I will see.'

After that the discussion ceased between them for awhile, and Miss
Stanbury left the room that she might hold a consultation with Martha.
Dorothy went up to her chamber, and saw that everything had been
prepared for her with most scrupulous care. Nothing could be whiter,
neater, cleaner, nicer than was everything that surrounded her. She had
perceived while living under her aunt's roof, how, gradually, small
delicate feminine comforts had been increased for her. Martha had been
told that Miss Dorothy ought to have this, and that Miss Dorothy ought
to have that; till at last she, who had hitherto known nothing of the
small luxuries that come from an easy income, had felt ashamed of the
prettinesses that had been added to her. Now she could see at once that
infinite care had been used to make her room bright and smiling only in
the hope that she would return. As soon as she saw it all, she Sat down
on her bed and burst out into tears. Was it not hard upon her that she
should be forced into such ingratitude! Every comfort prepared for her
was a coal of hot fire upon her head. And yet what had she done that
she ought not to have done? Was it unreasonable that she should have
loved this man, when they two were brought together? And had she even
dared to think of him otherwise than as an acquaintance till he had
compelled her to confess her love? And after that had she not tried to
separate herself from him, so that they two her aunt and her lover
might be divided by no quarrel? Had not Priscilla told her that she was
right in all that she was doing? Nevertheless, in spite of all this,
she could not refrain from accusing herself of ingratitude towards her
aunt. And she began to think it would have been better for her now to
have remained at home, and have allowed Brooke to come alone to Exeter
than to have obeyed the impulse which had arisen from the receipt of
her aunt's letter. When she went down again she found herself alone in
the room, and she was beginning to think that it was intended that she
should go to bed without again seeing her aunt; but at last Miss
Stanbury came to her, with a sad countenance, but without that look of
wrath which Dorothy knew so well. 'My dear,' she said, 'it will be
better that Mr Burgess should go up to London tomorrow. I will see him,
of course, if he chooses to come, and Martha shall meet him at the
station and explain it. If you do not mind, I would prefer that you
should not meet him here.'

'I meant only to stay one night, aunt.'

'That is nonsense. If I am to part with either of you, I will part with
him. You are dearer to me than he is. Dorothy, you do not know how dear
to me you are.'

Dorothy immediately fell on her knees at her aunt's feet, and hid her
face in her aunt's lap. Miss Stanbury twined round her fingers the soft
hair which she loved so well because it was a grace given by God and
not bought out of a shop and caressed the girl's head, and muttered
something that was intended for a prayer. 'If he will let me, aunt, I
will give him up,' said Dorothy, looking up into her aunt's face. 'If
he will say that I may, though I shall love him always, he may go.'

'He is his own master,' said Miss Stanbury. 'Of course he is his own
master.'

'Will you let me return tomorrow just for a few days and then you can
talk to him as you please. I did not mean to come to stay. I wished him
good-bye because I knew that I should not meet him here.'

'You always talk of going away, Dorothy, as soon as ever you are in the
house. You are always threatening me.'

'I will come again, the moment you tell me. If he goes in the morning,
I will be here the same evening And I will write to him, Aunt Stanbury,
and tell him that he is quite free quite free quite free.'

Miss Stanbury made no reply to this, but sat, still playing with her
niece's hair. 'I think I will go to bed,' she said at last. 'It is past
ten. You need not go to Nuncombe, Dorothy. Martha shall meet him, and
he can see me here. But I do not wish him to stay in the house. You can
go over and call on Mrs MacHugh. Mrs MacHugh will take it well of you
that you should call on her.' Dorothy made no further opposition to
this arrangement, but kissed her aunt, and went to her chamber.

How was it all to be for her? For the last two days she had been
radiant with new happiness. Everything had seemed to be settled. Her
lover, in his high-handed way, had declared that in no important crisis
of life would he allow himself to be driven out of his way by the fear
of what an old woman might do in her will. When Dorothy assured him
that not for worlds would she, though she loved him dearly, injure his
material prospects, he had thrown it all aside, after a grand fashion,
that had really made the girl think that all Miss Stanbury's money was
as nothing to his love for her. She and Priscilla and her mother had
been carried away so entirely by Brooke's oratory as to feel for the
time that the difficulties were entirely conquered. But now the aspect
of things was so different! Whatever Brooke might owe to Miss Stanbury,
she, Dorothy, owed her aunt everything. She would immolate herself if
Brooke would only let her. She did not quite understand her aunt's
stubborn opposition; but she knew that there was some great cause for
her aunt's feeling on the matter. There had been a promise made, or an
oath sworn, that the property of the Burgess family should not go into
the hands of any Stanbury. Dorothy told herself that, were she married,
she would be a Stanbury no longer that her aunt would still comply with
the obligation she had fixed for herself; but, nevertheless, she was
ready to believe that her aunt might be right. Her aunt had always
declared that it should be so; and Dorothy, knowing this, confessed to
herself that she should have kept her heart under better control.
Thinking of these things, she went to the table where paper and ink and
pens had all been prepared for her so prettily, and began her letter to
Brooke. 'Dearest, dearest Brooke.' But then she thought that this was
not a fair keeping of her promise, and she began again. 'My dear
Brooke.' The letter, however, did not get itself written that night. It
was almost impossible for her to write it. 'I think it will be better
for you,' she had tried to say, 'to be guided by my aunt.' But how
could she say this when she did not believe it? It was her wish to make
him understand that she would never think ill of him, for a moment, if
he would make up his mind to abandon her--but she could not find the
words to express herself and she went, at last, to bed, leaving the
half-covered paper upon the table.

She went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. It had been so sweet to
have a lover a man of her own, to whom she could say what she pleased,
from whom she had a right to ask for counsel and protection, a man who
delighted to be near her, and to make much of her. In comparison with
her old mode of living, her old ideas of life, her life with such a
lover was passed in an elysium. She had entered from barren lands into
so rich a paradise! But there is no paradise, as she now found, without
apples which must be eaten, and which lead to sorrow. She regretted in
this hour that she had ever seen Brooke Burgess. After all, with her
aunt's love and care for her, with her mother and sister near her, with
the respect of those who knew her, why should the lands have been
barren, even had there been no entrance for her into that elysium? And
did it not all result in this that the elysium to be desired should not
be here; that the paradise, without the apples, must be waited for till
beyond the grave? It is when things go badly with us here, and for most
of us only then, that we think that we can see through the dark clouds
into the joys of heaven. But at last she slept, and in her dreams
Brooke was sitting with her in Niddon Park with his arm tight clasped
round her waist.

She slept so soundly, that when a step crept silently into her room,
and when a light was held for awhile over her face, neither the step
nor the light awakened her. She was lying with her head back upon the
pillow, and her arm hung by the bedside, and her lips were open, and
her loose hair was spread upon the pillow. The person who stood there
with the light thought that there never had been a fairer sight.
Everything there was so pure, so sweet, so good! She was one whose only
selfish happiness could come to her from the belief that others loved
her. The step had been very soft, and even the breath of the intruder
was not allowed to pass heavily into the air, but the light of the
candle shone upon the eyelids of the sleeper, and she moved her head
restlessly on the pillow. 'Dorothy, are you awake? Can you speak to
me?'

Then the disturbed girl gradually opened her eyes and gazed upwards,
and raised herself in her bed, and sat wondering. 'Is anything the
matter, aunt?' she said.

'Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet of an old woman who cannot
sleep in her bed.'

'But what is it, aunt?'

'Kiss me, dearest.' Then, with something of slumber still about her,
Dorothy raised herself in her bed, and placed her arm on her aunt's
shoulder and embraced her. 'And now for my news,' said Miss Stanbury.

'What news, aunt? It isn't morning yet; is it?'

'No it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I have thought
of it, and you shall be Brooke's wife, and I will have it here, and we
will all be friends.'

'What!'

'You will like that will you not?'

'And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I to do?'
She was, in truth, awake now, and, not knowing what she did, she jumped
out of bed, and stood holding her aunt by the arm.

'It is not a dream,' said Miss Stanbury.

'Are you sure that it is not a dream? And may he come here tomorrow?'

'Of course he will come tomorrow.'

'And may I see him, Aunt Stanbury?'

'Not if you go home, my dear.'

'But I won't go home. And will you tell him? Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt
Stanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet.'

'You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believe it.
You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You will have
time to think of it before the morning.' Then Miss Stanbury went back
to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realise her bliss.

She thought of all her life for the last twelve months of the first
invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as to its
acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to the possibility
of her remaining, of Mr Gibson's courtship and her aunt's
disappointment, of Brooke's coming, of her love and of his and then of
her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had come the triumph of
Brooke's visit, and then the terrible sadness of her aunt's
displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. She did not care
for money herself. She thought that she never could care much for being
rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marrying him, that must always
have been to her matter of regret, if not of remorse. But now it was
all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradise was to be opened to her,
with no apples which she might not eat no apples which might not, but
still must, be eaten. She thought that it would be impossible that she
should sleep again that night; but she did sleep, and dreamed that
Brooke was holding her in Niddon Park, tighter than ever.

When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into the parlour.
Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? or what if her
aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the first moment of her
aunt's presence told her that there was nothing to fear. 'How did you
sleep, Dorothy?' said the old lady.

'Dear aunt, I do not know. Was it all sleep?'

'What shall we say to Brooke when he comes?'

'You shall tell him.'

'No, dearest, you must tell him. And you must say to him that if he is
not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling to her,
and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, I will hold
him to be the most ungrateful of human beings.' And before Brooke came,
she spoke again. 'I wonder whether he thinks you as pretty as I do,
Dolly?'

'He never said that he thought me pretty at all.'

'Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It was
your looks won me first, Dolly like an old fool as I am. It is so
pleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice.' In
which latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury was
alluding to her enemies at Heavitree.



CHAPTER LXXIV - THE LIONESS AROUSED

Brooke Burgess had been to Exeter and had gone for he only remained
there one night and everything was apparently settled. It was not
exactly told through Exeter that Miss Stanbury's heir was to be allowed
to marry Miss Stanbury's niece; but Martha knew it, and Giles Hickbody
guessed it, and Dorothy was allowed to tell her mother and sister, and
Brooke himself, in his own careless way, had mentioned the matter to
his uncle Barty. As Miss Stanbury had also told the secret in
confidence to Mrs MacHugh, it cannot be said that it was altogether
well kept. Four days after Brooke's departure the news reached the
Frenches at Heavitree. It was whispered to Camilla by one of the
shopmen with whom she was still arranging her marriage trousseau, and
was repeated by her to her mother and sister with some additions which
were not intended to be good-natured. 'He gets her and the money
together as a bargain of course,' said Camilla. 'I only hope the money
won't be found too dear.'

'Perhaps he won't get it after all,' said Arabella.

'That would be cruel,' replied Camilla. 'I don't think that even Miss
Stanbury is so false as that.'

Things were going very badly at Heavitree. There was war there, almost
everlastingly, though such little playful conversations as the above
shewed that there might be an occasional lull in the battle. Mr Gibson
was not doing his duty. That was clear enough. Even Mrs French, when
she was appealed to with almost frantic energy by her younger daughter,
could not but acknowledge that he was very remiss as a lover. And
Camilla, in her fury, was very imprudent. That very frantic energy
which induced her to appeal to her mother was, in itself, proof of her
imprudence. She knew that she was foolish, but she could not control
her passion. Twice had she detected Arabella in receiving notes from Mr
Gibson, which she did not see, and of which it had been intended that
she should know nothing. And once, when she spent a night away at
Ottery St. Mary with a friend a visit which was specially prefatory to
marriage, and made in reference to bridesmaids' dresses Arabella had
had so at least Camilla was made to believe a secret meeting with Mr
Gibson in some of the lanes which lead down from Heavitree to the
Topsham road.

'I happened to meet him, and spoke two words to him,' said Arabella.
'Would you have me cut him?'

'I'll tell you what it is, Bella if there is any underhand game going
on that I don't understand, all Exeter shall be on fire before you
shall carry it out.'

Bella made no answer to this, but shrugged her shoulders. Camilla was
almost at a loss to guess what might be the truth. Would not any
sister, so accused on such an occasion, rebut the accusation with awful
wrath? But Arabella simply shrugged her shoulders, and went her way. It
was now the 16th of April, and there wanted but one short fortnight to
their marriage. The man had not the courage to jilt her! She felt sure
that he had not heart enough to do a deed of such audacity. And her
sister, too, was weak and a coward, and would lack the power to stand
on her legs and declare herself to be the perpetrator of such villany.
Her mother, as she knew well, would always have preferred that her
elder daughter should be the bride; but her mother was not the woman to
have the hardihood, now, in the eleventh hour, to favour such an
intrigue. Let her wish be what it might, she would not be strong enough
to carry through the accomplishment of it. They would all know that
that threat of hers of setting Exeter on fire would be carried out
after some fashion that would not be inadequate to the occasion. A
sister, a mother, a promised lover, all false all so damnably, cruelly
false! It was impossible. No history, no novel of most sensational
interest no wonderful villany that had ever been wrought into prose or
poetry, would have been equal to this. It was impossible. She told
herself so a score of times a day. And yet the circumstances were so
terribly suspicious! Mr Gibson's conduct as a lover was simply
disgraceful to him as a man and a clergyman. He was full of excuses,
which she knew to be false. He would never come near her if he could
help it. When he was with her, he was as cold as an archbishop both in
word and in action. Nothing would tempt him to any outward
manifestation of affection. He would talk of nothing but the poor women
of St. Peter-cum-Pumpkin in the city, and the fraudulent idleness of a
certain colleague in the cathedral services, who was always shirking
his work. He made her no presents. He never walked with her. He was
always gloomy and he had indeed so behaved himself in public that
people were beginning to talk of 'poor Mr Gibson.' And yet he could
meet Arabella on the sly in the lanes, and send notes to her by the
green-grocer's boy! Poor Mr Gibson indeed! Let her once get him well
over the 29th of April, and the people of Exeter might talk about poor
Mr Gibson if they pleased. And Bella's conduct was more wonderful
almost than that of Mr Gibson. With all her cowardice, she still held
up her head held it perhaps a little higher than was usual with her.
And. when that grievous accusation was made against her made and
repeated an accusation the very thought and sound of which would almost
have annihilated her had there been a decent feeling in her bosom, she
would simply shrug her shoulders and walk away. 'Camilla,' she had once
said, 'you will drive that man mad before you have done.' 'What is it
to you how I drive him?' Camilla had answered in her fury. Then
Arabella had again shrugged her shoulders and walked away. Between
Camilla and her mother, too, there had come to be an almost internecine
quarrel on a collateral point. Camilla was still carrying on a vast
arrangement which she called the preparation of her trousseau, but
which both Mrs French and Bella regarded as a spoliation of the
domestic nest, for the proud purposes of one of the younger birds. And
this had grown so fearfully that in two different places Mrs French had
found herself compelled to request that no further articles might be
supplied to Miss Camilla. The bride elect had rebelled, alleging that
as no fortune was to be provided for her, she had a right to take with
her such things as she could carry away in her trunks and boxes. Money
could be had at the bank, she said; and, after all, what were fifty
pounds more or less on such an occasion as this? And then she went into
a calculation to prove that her mother and sister would be made so much
richer by her absence, and that she was doing so much for them by her
marriage, that nothing could be more mean in them than that they should
hesitate to supply her with such things as she desired to make her
entrance into Mr Gibson's house respectable. But Mrs French was
obdurate, and Mr Gibson was desired to speak to her. Mr Gibson, in fear
and trembling, told her that she ought to repress her spirit of
extravagance. and Camilla at once foresaw that he would avail himself
of this plea against her should he find it possible at any time to
avail himself of any plea. She became ferocious, and, turning upon him,
told him to mind his own business. Was it not all for him that she was
doing it?'she was not,' she said, 'disposed to submit to any control in
such matters from him till he had assumed his legal right to it by
standing with her before the altar.' It came, however, to be known all
over Exeter that Miss Camilla's expenditure had been checked, and that,
in spite of the joys naturally incidental to a wedding, things were not
going well with the ladies at Heavitree.

At last the blow came. Camilla was aware that on a certain morning her
mother had been to Mr Gibson's house, and had held a long conference
with him. She could learn nothing of what took place there, for at that
moment she had taken upon herself to place herself on non-speaking
terms with her mother in consequence of those disgraceful orders which
had been given to the tradesmen. But Bella had not been at Mr Gibson's
house at the time, and Camilla, though she presumed that her own
conduct had been discussed in a manner very injurious to herself, did
not believe that any step was being then arranged which would be
positively antagonistic to her own views. The day fixed was now so
very, near, that there could, she felt, be no escape for the victim.
But she was wrong.

Mr Gibson had been found by Mrs French in a very excited state on that
occasion. He had wept, and pulled his hair, and torn open his
waistcoat, had spoken of himself as a wretch pleading, however, at the
same time, that he was more sinned against than sinning, had paced
about the room with his hands dashing against his brows, and at last
had flung himself prostrate on the ground. The meaning of it all was,
that he had tried very hard, and had found at last that 'he couldn't do
it.' 'I am ready to submit,' said he, 'to any verdict that you may
pronounce against me, but I should deceive you and deceive her if I
didn't say at once that I can't do it.' He went on to explain that
since he had unfortunately entered into his present engagement with
Camilla of whose position he spoke in quite a touching manner and since
he had found what was the condition of his own heart and feelings he
had consulted a friend who, if any merely human being was capable of
advising, might be implicitly trusted for advice in such a matter and
that this friend had told him that he was bound to give up the marriage
let the consequences to himself or to others be what they might.
'Although the skies should fall on me, I cannot stand at the hymeneal
altar with a lie in my mouth,' said Mr Gibson immediately upon his
rising from his prostrate condition on the floor. In such a position as
this a mother's fury would surely be very great! But Mrs French was
hardly furious. She cried, and begged him to think better of it, and
assured him that Camilla, when she should be calmed down by matrimony,
would not be so bad as she seemed but she was not furious. 'The truth
is, Mr Gibson,' she said through her tears, 'that, after all, you like
Bella best.' Mr Gibson owned that he did like Bella best, and although
no bargain was made between them then and there and such making of a
bargain then and there would hardly have been practicable it was
understood that Mrs French would not proceed to extremities if Mr
Gibson would still make himself forthcoming as a husband for the
advantage of one of the daughters of the family.

So far Mr Gibson had progressed towards a partial liberation from his
thraldom with a considerable amount of courage; but he was well aware
that the great act of daring still remained to be done. He had
suggested to Mrs French that she should settle the matter with Camilla
but this Mrs French had altogether declined to do. It must, she said,
come from himself. If she were to do it, she must sympathise with her
child; and such sympathy would be obstructive of the future
arrangements which were still to be made.'she always knew that I liked
Bella best,' said Mr Gibson still sobbing, still tearing his hair,
still pacing the room with his waistcoat torn open. 'I would not advise
you to tell her that,' said. Mrs French. Then Mrs French went home, and
early on the following morning it was thought good by Arabella that she
also should pay a visit at Ottery St. Mary's. 'Good-bye, Cammy,' said
Arabella as she went. 'Bella,' said Camilla, 'I wonder whether you are
a serpent. I do not think you can be so base a serpent as that.' 'I
declare, Cammy, you do say such odd things that no one can understand
what you mean.' And so she went.

On that morning Mr Gibson was walking at an early hour along the road
from Exeter to Cowley, contemplating his position and striving to
arrange his plans. What was he to do, and how was he to do it? He was
prepared to throw up his living, to abandon the cathedral, to leave the
diocese to make any sacrifice rather than take Camilla to his bosom.
Within the last six weeks he had learned to regard her with almost a
holy horror. He could not understand by what miracle of self-neglect he
had fallen into so perilous an abyss. He had long known Camilla's
temper. But in those days in which he had been beaten like a
shuttlecock between the Stanburys and the Frenches, he had lost his
head and had done he knew not what. 'Those whom the God chooses to
destroy, he first maddens,' said Mr Gibson to himself of himself,
throwing himself back upon early erudition and pagan philosophy. Then
he looked across to the river Exe, and thought that there was hardly
water enough there to cover the multiplicity of his sorrows.

But something must be done. He had proceeded so far in forming a
resolution, as he reached St. David's Church on his return homewards.
His sagacious friend had told him that as soon as he had altered his
mind, he was bound to let the lady know of it without delay. 'You must
remember,' said the sagacious friend, 'that you will owe her much very
much.' Mr Gibson was perplexed in his mind when he reflected how much
he might possibly be made to owe her if she should decide on appealing
to a jury of her countrymen for justice. But anything would be better
than his home at St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla sitting opposite
to him as his wife. Were there not distant lands in which a clergyman,
unfortunate but still energetic, might find work to do? Was there not
all America? and were there not Australia, New Zealand, Natal, all open
to him? Would not a missionary career among the Chinese be better for
him than St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla French for his wife? By
the time he had reached home his mind was made up. He would write a
letter to Camilla at once; and he would marry Arabella at once on any
day that might be fixed on condition that Camilla would submit to her
defeat without legal redress. If legal redress should be demanded, he
would put in evidence the fact that her own mother had been compelled
to caution the tradesmen of the city in regard to her extravagance.

He did write his letter in an agony of spirit. 'I sit down, Camilla,
with a sad heart and a reluctant hand,' he said, 'to communicate to you
a fatal truth. But truth should be made to prevail, and there is
nothing in man so cowardly, so detrimental, and so unmanly as its
concealment. I have looked into myself, and have inquired of myself,
and have assured myself, that were I to become your husband, I should
not make you happy. It would be of no use for me now to dilate on the
reasons which have convinced me but I am convinced, and I consider it
my duty to inform you so at once. I have been closeted with your
mother, and have made her understand that it is so.

I have not a word to say in my own justification but this that I am
sure I am acting honestly in telling you the truth. I would not wish to
say a word animadverting on yourself. If there must be blame in this
matter, I am willing to take it all on my own shoulders. But things
have been done of late, and words have been spoken, and habits have
displayed themselves, which would not, I am sure, conduce to our mutual
comfort in this world, or to our assistance to each other in our
struggles to reach the happiness of the world to come.

I think that you will agree with me, Camilla, that when a man or a
woman has fallen into such a mistake as that which I have now made, it
is best that it should be acknowledged. I know well that such a change
of arrangements as that which I now propose will be regarded most
unfavourably. But will not anything be better than the binding of a
matrimonial knot which cannot be again unloosed, and which we should
both regret?

I do not know that I need add anything further. What can I add further?
Only this that I am inflexible. Having resolved to take this step and
to bear the evil things that may be said of me for your happiness and
for my own tranquillity I shall not now relinquish my resolution. I do
not ask you to forgive me. I doubt much whether I shall ever be quite
able to forgive myself. The mistake which I have made is one which
should not have been committed. I do not ask you to forgive me; but I
do ask you to pray that I may be forgiven.

Yours, with feelings of the truest friendship,

THOMAS GIBSON.'



The letter had been very difficult, but he was rather proud of it than
otherwise when it was completed. He had felt that he was writing a
letter which not improbably might become public property. It was
necessary that he should be firm, that he should accuse himself a
little in order that he might excuse himself much, and that he should
hint at causes which might justify the rupture, though he should so
veil them as not to appear to defend his own delinquency by ungenerous
counter-accusation. When he had completed the letter, he thought that
he had done all this rather well, and he sent the despatch off to
Heavitree by the clerk of St. Peter's Church, with something of that
feeling of expressible relief which attends the final conquest over
some fatal and all but insuperable misfortune. He thought that he was
sure now that he would not have to marry Camilla on the 29th of the
month and there would probably be a period of some hours before he
would be called upon to hear or read Camilla's reply.

Camilla was alone when she received the letter, but she rushed at once
to her mother. 'There,' said she; 'there I knew that it was coming!'
Mrs French took the paper into her hands and gasped, and gazed at her
daughter without speaking. 'You knew of it, mother.'

'Yesterday when he told me, I knew of it.'

'And Bella knows it.'

'Not a word of it.'

'She does. I am sure she does. But it is all nothing. I will not accept
it. He cannot treat me so. I will drag him there but he shall come.'

'You can't make him, my dear.'

'I will make him. And you would help me, mamma, if you had any spirit.
What a fortnight before the time, when the things are all bought! Look
at the presents that have been sent! Mamma, he doesn't know me. And he
never would have done it, if it had not been for Bella never. She had
better take care, or there shall be such a tragedy that nobody ever
heard the like. If she thinks that she is going to be that man's wife
she is mistaken.' Then there was a pause for a moment.

'Mamma,' she said, 'I shall go to him at once. I do not care in the
least what anybody may say. I shall go to him at once.' Mrs French felt
that at this moment it was best that she should be silent.



CHAPTER LXXV - THE ROWLEYS GO OVER THE ALPS

By the thirteenth of May the Rowley family had established itself in
Florence, purposing to remain either there or at the baths of Lucca
till the end of June, at which time it was thought that Sir Marmaduke
should begin to make preparations for his journey back to the Islands.
Their future prospects were not altogether settled. It was not decided
whether Lady Rowley should at once return with him, whether Mrs
Trevelyan should return with him nor was it settled among them what
should be the fate of Nora Rowley. Nora Rowley was quite resolved
herself that she would not go back to the Islands, and had said as much
to her mother. Lady Rowley had not repeated this to Sir Marmaduke, and
was herself in doubt as to what might best be done. Girls are
understood by their mothers better than they are by their fathers. Lady
Rowley was beginning to be aware that Nora's obstinacy was too strong
to be overcome by mere words, and that other steps must be taken if she
were to be weaned from her pernicious passion for Hugh Stanbury. Mr
Glascock was still in Florence. Might she not be cured by further
overtures from Mr Glascock? The chance of securing such a son-in-law
was so important, so valuable, that no trouble was too great to be
incurred, even though the probability of success might not be great.

It must not, however, be supposed that Lady Rowley carried off all the
family to Italy, including Sir Marmaduke, simply in chase of Mr
Glascock. Anxious as she was on the subject, she was too proud, and
also too well-conditioned, to have suggested to herself such a journey
with such an object. Trevelyan had escaped from Willesden with the
child, and they had heard again through Stanbury that he had returned
to Italy. They had all agreed that it would be well that they should
leave London for awhile, and see something of the continent; and when
it was told to them that little Louis was probably in Florence, that
alone was reason enough for them to go thither. They would go to the
city till the heat was too great and the mosquitoes too powerful, and
then they would visit the baths of Lucca for a month. This was their
plan of action, and the cause for their plan; but Lady Rowley found
herself able to weave into it another little plan of her own of which
she said nothing to anybody. She was not running after Mr Glascock; but
if Mr Glascock should choose to run after them or her, who could say
that any harm had been done?

Nora had answered that proposition of her lover's to walk out of the
house in Manchester Street, and get married at the next church, in a
most discreet manner. She had declared that she would be true and firm,
but that she did not wish to draw upon herself the displeasure of her
father and mother. She did not, she said, look upon a clandestine
marriage as a happy resource. But this she added at the end of a long
and very sensible letter she intended to abide by her engagement, and
she did not intend to go back to the Mandarins. She did not say what
alternative she would choose in the event of her being unable to obtain
her father's consent before his return. She did not suggest what was to
become of her when Sir Marmaduke's leave of absence should be expired.
But her statement that she would not go back to the islands was
certainly made with more substantial vigour, though, perhaps, with less
of reasoning, than any other of the propositions made in her letter.
Then, in her postscript, she told him that they were all going to
Italy. 'Papa and mamma think that we ought to follow poor Mr Trevelyan.
The lawyer says that nothing can be done while he is away with the boy.
We are therefore all going to start to Florence. The journey is
delightful. I will not say whose presence will be wanting to make it
perfect.'

Before they started there came a letter to Nora from Dorothy, which
shall be given entire, because it will tell the reader more of
Dorothy's happiness than would be learned from any other mode of
narrative.



'The Close, Thursday.

Dearest Nora,

I have just had a letter from Hugh, and that makes me feel that I
should like to write to you. Dear Hugh has told me all about it, and I
do so hope that things may come right and that we may be sisters. He is
so good that I do not wonder that you should love him. He has been the
best son and the best brother in the world, and everybody speaks well
of him except my dear aunt, who is prejudiced because she does not like
newspapers. I need not praise him to you, for I dare say you think
quite as well of him as I do. I cannot tell you all the beautiful
things he says about you, but I dare say he has told them to you
himself.

I seem to know you so well because Priscilla has talked about you so
often. She says that she knew that you and my brother were fond of each
other because you growled at each other when you were together at the
Clock House, and never had any civil words to say before people. I
don't know whether growling is a sign of love, but Hugh does growl
sometimes when he is most affectionate. He growls at me, and I
understand him, and I like to be growled at. I wonder whether you like
him to growl at you.

And now I must tell you something about myself because if you are to be
my sister you ought to know it all. I also am going to be married to a
man whom I love oh, so dearly! His name is Mr Brooke Burgess, and he is
a great friend of my aunt's. At first she did not like our being
engaged, because of some family reason--but she has got over that, and
nothing can be kinder and nicer than she is. We are to be married here,
some day in June the 11th I think it will be. How I do wish you could
have been here to be my bridesmaid. It would have been so nice to have
had Hugh's sweetheart with me. He is a friend of Hugh's, and no doubt
you will hear all about him. The worst of it is that we must live in
London, because my husband as will be you see I call him mine already
is in an office there. And so poor Aunt Stanbury will be left all
alone. It will be very sad, and she is so wedded to Exeter that I fear
we shall not get her up to London.

I would describe Mr Burgess to you, only I do not suppose you would
care to hear about him. He is not so tall as Hugh, but he is a great
deal better looking. With you two the good looks are to be with the
wife; hut, with us, with the husband. Perhaps you think Hugh is
handsome. We used to declare that he was the ugliest boy in the
country. I don't suppose it makes very much difference. Brooke is
handsome, but I don't think I should like him the less if he were ever
so ugly.

Do you remember hearing about the Miss Frenches when you were in
Devonshire? There has come up such a terrible affair about them. A Mr
Gibson, a clergyman, was going to marry the younger; but has changed
his mind and wants to take the elder. I think he was in love with her
first.' Dorothy did not say a word about the little intermediate stage
of attachment to herself. 'All this is making a great noise in the
city, and some people think he should be punished severely. It seems to
me that a gentleman ought not to make such a mistake; but if he does,
he ought to own it. I hope they will let him marry the eider one. Aunt
Stanbury says it all comes from their wearing chignons. I wish you knew
Aunt Stanbury, because she is so good. Perhaps you wear a chignon. I
think Priscilla said that you did. It must not be large, if you come to
see Aunt Stanbury.

Pray write to me and believe that I hope to be your most affectionate
sister,

Dorothy Stanbury.

P.S. I am so happy, and I do so hope that you will be the same.'



This was received only a day before the departure of the Rowleys for
Italy, and was answered by a short note promising that Nora would write
to her correspondent from Florence.

There could be no doubt that Trevelyan had started with his boy,
fearing the result of the medical or legal interference with his
affairs which was about to be made at Sir Marmaduke's instance. He had
written a few words to his wife, neither commencing nor ending his note
after any usual fashion, telling her that he thought it expedient to
travel, that he had secured the services of a nurse for the little boy,
and that during his absence a certain income would, as heretofore, be
paid to her. He said nothing as to his probable return, or as to her
future life; nor was there anything to indicate whither he was going.
Stanbury, however, had learned from the faithless and frightened Bozzle
that Trevelyan's letters were to be sent after him to Florence. Mr
Bozzle, in giving this information, had acknowledged that his employer
was 'becoming no longer quite himself under his troubles,' and had
expressed his opinion that he ought to be 'looked after.' Bozzle had
made his money; and now, with a grain of humanity mixed with many
grains of faithlessness, reconciled it to himself to tell his master's
secrets to his master's enemies. What would a counsel be able to say
about his conduct in a court of law? That was the question which Bozzle
was always asking himself as to his own business. That he should be
abused by a barrister to a jury, and exposed as a spy and a fiend, was,
he thought, a matter of course. To be so abused was a part of his
profession. But it was expedient for him in all cases to secure some
loop-hole of apparent duty by which he might in part escape from such
censures. He was untrue to his employer now, because he thought that
his employer ought to be 'looked after.' He did, no doubt, take a
five-pound note from Hugh Stanbury; but then it was necessary that he
should live. He must be paid for his time. In this way Trevelyan
started for Florence, and within a week afterwards the Rowleys were
upon his track.

Nothing had been said by Sir Marmaduke to Nora as to her lover since
that stormy interview in which both father and daughter had expressed
their opinions very strongly, and very little had been said by Lady
Rowley. Lady Rowley had spoken more than once of Nora's return to the
Mandarins, and had once alluded to it as a certainty. 'But I do not
know that I shall go back,' Nora had said. 'My dear,' the mother had
replied, 'unless you are married, I suppose your home must be with your
parents.' Nora, having made her protest, did not think it necessary to
persevere, and so the matter was dropped. It was known, however, that
they must all come back to London before they started for their seat of
government, and therefore the subject did not at present assume its
difficult aspect. There was a tacit understanding among them that
everything should be done to make the journey pleasant to the young
mother who was in search of her son; and, in addition to this, Lady
Rowley had her own little understanding, which was very tacit indeed,
that in Mr Glascock might be found an escape from one of their great
family difficulties.

'You had better take this, papa,' Mrs Trevelyan had said, when she
received from the office of Mr Bideawhile a cheque payable to her order
for the money sent to her by her husband's direction.

'I do not want the man's money,' said Sir Marmaduke. 'But you are going
to this place for my sake, papa and it is right that he should bear the
expense for his own wife. And, papa, you must remember always that
though his mind is distracted on this horrible business, he is not a
bad man. No one is more liberal or more just about money.' Sir
Marmaduke's feelings on the matter were very much the same as those
which had troubled Mr Outhouse, and he, personally, refused to touch
the money; but his daughter paid her own share of the expenses of the
journey.

They travelled at their ease, stopping at Paris, and at Geneva, and at
Milan. Lady Rowley thought that she was taken very fast, because she
was allowed to sleep only two nights at each of these places, and Sir
Rowley himself thought that he had achieved something of a Hannibalian
enterprise in taking five ladies and two maids over the Simplon and
down into the plains of Lombardy, with nobody to protect him but a
single courier. He had been a little nervous about it, being
unaccustomed to European travelling, and had not at first realised the
fact that the journey is to be made with less trouble than one from the
Marble Arch to Mile End. 'My dears,' he said to his younger daughters,
as they were rattling round the steep downward twists and turns of the
great road, 'you must sit quite still on these descents, or you do not
know where you may go. The least thing would overset us.' But Lucy and
Sophy soon knew better, and became so intimate with the mountain, under
the friendly guidance of their courier, that before the plains were
reached, they were in and out, and here and there, and up and down, as
though they had been bred among the valleys of the pass. There would
come a ringing laugh from some rock above their head. and Lady Rowley
looking up would see their dresses fluttering on a pinnacle which
appeared to her to be fit only for a bird; and there would be the
courier behind them, with two parasols, and a shawl, and a cloak, and
an eye-glass, and a fine pair of grizzled whiskers. They made an Alpine
club of their own, refusing to admit their father because he would not
climb up a rock, and Nora thought of the letters about it which she
would write to her lover only that she had determined that she would
not write to him at all without telling her mother and Mrs Trevelyan
would for moments almost forget that she had been robbed of her child.

From Milan they went on to Florence, and though they were by that time
quite at home in Italy, and had become critical judges of Italian inns
and Italian railways, they did not find that journey to be quite so
pleasant. There is a romance to us still in the name of Italy which a
near view of many details in the country fails to realise. Shall we say
that a journey through Lombardy is about as interesting as one through
the flats of Cambridgeshire and the fens of Norfolk? And the station of
Bologna is not an interesting spot in which to spend an hour or two,
although it may be conceded that provisions may be had there much
better than any that can be procured at our own railway stations. From
thence they went, still by rail, over the Apennines, and unfortunately
slept during the whole time. The courier had assured them that if they
would only look out they would see the castles of which they had read
in novels; but the day had been very hot, and Sir Marmaduke had been
cross, and Lady Rowley had been weary, and so not a castle was seen.
'Pistoia, me lady, this,' said the courier opening the door 'to stop
half an hour.' 'Oh, why was it not Florence?' Another hour and a half!
So they all went to sleep again, and were very tired when they reached
the beautiful city.

During the next day they rested at their inn, and sauntered through the
Duomo, and broke their necks looking up at the inimitable glories of
the campanile. Such a one as Sir Marmaduke had of course not come to
Florence without introductions. The Foreign Office is always very civil
to its next-door neighbours of the colonies civil and cordial, though
perhaps a little patronising. A minister is a bigger man than a
governor; and the smallest of the diplomatic fry are greater swells
than even secretaries in quite important dependencies. The attache,
though he be unpaid, dwells in a capital, and flirts with a countess.
The governor's right-hand man is confined to an island, and dances with
a planter's daughter. The distinction is quite understood, but is not
incompatible with much excellent good feeling on the part of the
superior department. Sir Marmaduke had come to Florence fairly provided
with passports to Florentine society, and had been mentioned in more
than one letter as the distinguished Governor of the Mandarins, who had
been called home from his seat of government on a special mission of
great importance. On the second day he went out to call at the embassy
and to leave his cards. 'Have you been able to learn whether he is
here?' asked Lady Rowley of her husband in a whisper, as soon as they
were alone.

'Who Trevelyan?'

I did not suppose you could learn about him, because he would be hiding
himself. But is Mr Glascock here?'

'I forgot to ask,' said Sir Marmaduke.

Lady Rowley did not reproach him. It is impossible that any father
should altogether share a mother's anxiety in regard to the marriage of
their daughters. But what a thing it would be! Lady Rowley thought that
she could compound for all misfortunes in other respects, if she could
have a daughter married to the future Lord Peterborough. She had been
told in England that he was faultless not very clever, not very active,
not likely to be very famous; but, as a husband, simply faultless. He
was very rich, very good-natured, easily managed, more likely to be
proud of his wife than of himself, addicted to no jealousies, afflicted
by no vices, so respectable in every way that he was sure to become
great as an English nobleman by the very weight of his virtues. And it
had been represented also to Lady Rowley that this paragon among men
had been passionately attached to her daughter! Perhaps she magnified a
little the romance of the story; but it seemed to her that this greatly
endowed lover had rushed away from his country in despair, because her
daughter Nora would not smile upon him. Now they were, as she hoped, in
the same city with him. But it was indispensable to her success that
she should not seem to be running after him. To Nora, not a word had
been said of the prospect of meeting Mr Glascock at Florence. Hardly
more than a word had been said to her sister Emily, and that under
injunction of strictest secrecy. It must be made to appear to all the
world that other motives had brought them to Florence as, indeed, other
motives had brought them. Not for worlds would Lady Rowley have run
after a man for her daughter; but still, still--still, seeing that the
man was himself so unutterably in love with her girl, seeing that he
was so fully justified by his position to be in love with any girl,
seeing that such a maximum of happiness would be the result of such a
marriage, she did feel that, even for his sake, she must be doing a
good thing to bring them together! Something, though not much of all
this, she had been obliged to explain to Sir Marmaduke and yet he had
not taken the trouble to inquire whether Mr Glascock was in Florence!

On the third day after their arrival, the wife of the British minister
came to call upon Lady Rowley, and the wife of the British minister was
good-natured, easy-mannered, and very much given to conversation. She
preferred talking to listening, and in the course of a quarter of an
hour had told Lady Rowley a good deal about Florence; but she had not
mentioned Mr Glascock's name. It would have been so pleasant if the
requisite information could have been obtained without the asking of
any direct question on the subject! But Lady Rowley, who from many
years' practice of similar, though perhaps less distinguished,
courtesies on her part, knew well the first symptom of the coming end
of her guest's visit, found that the minister's wife was about to take
her departure without an allusion to Mr Glascock. And yet the names had
been mentioned of so many English residents in Florence, who neither in
wealth, rank, or virtue, were competent to hold a candle to that
phoenix! She was forced, therefore, to pluck up courage, and to ask the
question. 'Have you had a Mr Glascock here this spring?' said Lady
Rowley.

'What Lord Peterborough's son? Oh, dear, yes. Such a singular being!'

Lady Rowley thought that she could perceive that her phoenix had not
made himself agreeable at the embassy. It might perhaps be that he had
buried himself away from society because of his love. 'And is here
now?' asked Lady Rowley.

'I cannot say at all. He is sometimes here and sometimes with his
father at Naples. But when here, he lives chiefly with the Americans.
They say he is going to marry an American girl their minister's niece.
There are three of-them, I think, and he is to take the eldest.' Lady
Rowley asked no more questions, and let her august visitor go, almost
without another word.



CHAPTER LXXVI - 'WE SHALL BE SO POOR'

Mr Glascock at that moment was not only in Florence, but was occupying
rooms in the very hotel in which the Rowleys were staying. Lady Rowley,
when she heard that he was engaged to marry an American lady, became
suddenly very sick at heart sick with a sickness that almost went
beyond her heart. She felt ill, and was glad to be alone. The rumour
might be untrue. Such rumours generally are untrue. But then, as Lady
Rowley knew very well, they generally have some foundation in truth. Mr
Glascock, if he were not actually engaged to the American girl, had
probably been flirting with her and, if so, where was that picture
which Lady Rowley had been painting for herself of a love-lorn swain to
be brought back to the pleasures and occupations of the world only by
the girl of whom he was enamoured? But still she would not quite give
up the project. Mr Glascock, if he was in Italy, would no doubt see by
the newspapers that Sir Marmaduke and his family were in Florence and
would probably come to them. Then, if Nora would only behave herself,
the American girl might still be conquered.

During two or three days after this nothing was seen or heard of Mr
Glascock. Had Lady Rowley thought of mentioning the name to the waiter
at the hotel, she would have learned that he was living in the next
passage; but it did not occur to her to seek information in that
fashion. Nor did she ask direct questions in other quarters about Mr
Glascock himself. She did, however, make inquiry about Americans living
in Florence especially about the American Minister and, before a week
had passed overhead, had been introduced to the Spaldings. Mrs Spalding
was very civil, and invited Lady Rowley and all the girls and Sir
Marmaduke to come to her on her 'Fridays.' She received her friends
every Friday, and would continue to do so till the middle of June. She
had nieces who would, she said, be so happy to make the acquaintance of
the Miss Rowleys.

By this time the picture galleries, the churches, and the palaces in
Florence had nearly all been visited. Poor Lady Rowley had dragged
herself wearily from sight to sight, hoping always to meet with Mr
Glascock, ignorant of the fact that residents in a town do not pass
their mornings habitually in looking after pictures. During this time
inquiries were being made, through the police, respecting Trevelyan;
and Sir Marmaduke had obtained information that an English gentleman,
with a little boy, had gone on to Siena, and had located himself there.
There seemed to be but little doubt that this was Trevelyan though
nothing had been learned with certainty as to the gentleman's name. It
had been decided that Sir Marmaduke, with his courier and Mrs
Trevelyan, should go on to Siena, and endeavour to come upon the
fugitive, and they had taken their departure on a certain morning. On
that same day Lady Rowley was walking with Nora and one of the other
girls through the hall of the hotel, when they were met in full face by
Mr Glascock! Lady Rowley and Lucy were in front, and they, of course,
did not know the man. Nora had seen him at once, and in her confusion
hardly knew how to bear herself. Mr Glascock was passing by her without
recognising her had passed her mother and sister, and had so far gone
on, that Nora had determined to make no sign, when he chanced to look
up and see who it was that was so close to him. 'Miss Rowley,' he said,
'who thought of meeting you in Florence!' Lady Rowley, of course,
turned round, and there was an introduction. Poor Nora, though she knew
nothing of her mother's schemes, was confused and ill at ease. Mr
Glascock was very civil, but at the same time rather cold. Lady Rowley
was all smiles and courtesy. She had, she said, heard his name from her
daughters, and was very happy to make his acquaintance. Lucy looked on
somewhat astonished to find that the lover whom her sister had been
blamed for rejecting, and who was spoken of with so many encomiums, was
so old a man. Mr Glascock asked after Mrs Trevelyan; and Lady Rowley,
in a low, melancholy whisper, told him that they were now all in
Florence, in the hope of meeting Mr Trevelyan. 'You have heard the sad
story, I know, Mr Glascock and therefore I do not mind telling you.' Mr
Glascock acknowledged that he did know the story, and informed her that
he had seen Mr Trevelyan in Florence within the last ten days. This was
so interesting, that, at Lady Rowley's request, he went with them up to
their rooms, and in this way the acquaintance was made. It turned out
that Mr Glascock had spoken to Mr Trevelyan, and that Trevelyan had
told him that he meant for the present to take up his residence in some
small Italian town. 'And how was he looking, Mr Glascock?'

'Very ill, Lady Rowley very ill, indeed.'

'Do not tell her so, Mr Glascock. She has gone now with her father to
Siena. We think that he is there, with the boy or, at least, that he
may be heard of there. And you you are living here?' Mr Glascock said
that he was living between Naples and Florence going occasionally to
Naples, a place that he hated, to see his father, and coming back at
intervals to the capital. Nora sat by, and hardly spoke a word. She was
nicely dressed, with an exquisite little bonnet, which had been bought
as they came through Paris; and Lady Rowley, with natural pride, felt
that if he was ever in love with her child, that love must come back
upon him now. American girls, she had been told, were hard, and dry,
and sharp, and angular. She had seen some at the Mandarins, with whom
she thought it must be impossible that any Englishman should be in
love. There never, surely, had been an American girl like her Nora.
'Are you fond of pictures, Mr Glascock?' she asked. Mr Glascock was not
very fond of pictures, and thought that he was rather tired of them.
What was he fond of? Of sitting at home and doing nothing. That was his
reply, at least; and a very unsatisfactory reply it was, as Lady Rowley
could hardly propose that they should come and sit and do nothing with
him. Could he have been lured into churches or galleries, Nora might
have been once more thrown into his company. Then Lady Rowley took
courage, and asked him whether he knew the Spaldings. They were going
to Mrs Spalding's that very evening she and her daughters. Mr Glascock
replied that he did know the Spaldings, and that he also should be at
their house. Lady Rowley thought that she discovered something like a
blush about his cheekbones and brow, as he made his answer. Then he
left them, giving his hand to Nora as he went but there was nothing in
his manner to justify the slightest hope.

'I don't think he is nice at all,' said Lucy.

'Don't be so foolish, Lucy,' said Lady Rowley angrily.

'I think he is very nice,' said Nora. 'He was only talking nonsense
when he said that he liked to sit still and do nothing. He is not at
all an idle man at least I am told so.'

'But he is as old as Methuselah,' said Lucy.

'He is between thirty and forty,' said Lady Rowley.

'Of course we know that from the peerage.' Lady Rowley, however, was
wrong. Had she consulted the peerage, she would have seen that Mr
Glascock was over forty.

Nora, as soon as she was alone and could think about it all, felt quite
sure that Mr Glascock would never make her another offer. This ought
not to have caused her any sorrow, as she was very well aware that she
would not accept him, should he do so. Yet, perhaps, there was a moment
of some feeling akin to disappointment. Of course she would not have
accepted him. How could she? Her faith was so plighted to Hugh Stanbury
that she would be a by-word among women for ever, were she to be so
false. And, as she told herself, she had not the slightest feeling of
affection for Mr Glascock. It was quite out of the question, and a
matter simply for speculation. Nevertheless it would have been a very
grand thing to be Lady Peterborough, and she almost regretted that she
had a heart in her bosom.

She had become fully aware during that interview that her mother still
entertained hopes, and almost suspected that Lady Rowley had known
something of Mr Glascock's residence in Florence. She had seen that her
mother had met Mr Glascock almost as though some such meeting had been
expected, and had spoken to him almost as though she had expected to
have to speak to him. Would it not be better that she should at once
make her mother understand that all this could be of no avail? If she
were to declare plainly that nothing could bring about such a marriage,
would not her mother desist? She almost made up her mind to do so; but
as her mother said nothing to her before they started for Mr Spalding's
house, neither did she say anything to her mother. She did not wish to
have angry words if they could be avoided, and she felt that there
might be anger and unpleasant words were she to insist upon her
devotion to Hugh Stanbury while this rich prize was in sight. If her
mother should speak to her, then, indeed, she would declare her own
settled purpose; but she would do nothing to accelerate the evil hour.

There were but few people in Mrs Spalding's drawing-room when they were
announced, and Mr Glascock was not among them. Miss Wallachia Petrie
was there, and in the confusion of the introduction was presumed by
Lady Rowley to be one of the nieces introduced. She had been distinctly
told that Mr Glascock was to marry the eldest, and this lady was
certainly older than the other two. In this way Lady Rowley decided
that Miss Wallachia Petrie was her daughter's hated rival, and she
certainly was much surprised at the gentleman's taste. But there is
nothing nothing in the way of an absurd matrimonial engagement into
which a man will not allow himself to be entrapped by pique. Nora would
have a great deal to answer for, Lady Rowley thought, if the
unfortunate man should be driven by her cruelty to marry such a woman
as this one now before her.

It happened that Lady Rowley soon found herself seated by Miss Petrie,
and she at once commenced her questionings. She intended to be very
discreet, but the subject was too near her heart to allow her to be
altogether silent. 'I believe you know Mr Glascock?' she said.

'Yes,' said Wallachia, 'I do know him.' Now the peculiar nasal twang
which our cousins over the water have learned to use, and which has
grown out of a certain national instinct which coerces them to express
themselves with self-assertion let the reader go into his closet and
talk through his nose for awhile with steady attention to the effect
which his own voice will have, and he will find that this theory is
correct this intonation, which is so peculiar among intelligent
Americans, had been adopted con amore, and, as it were, taken to her
bosom by Miss Petrie. Her ears had taught themselves to feel that there
could be no vitality in speech without it, and that all utterance
unsustained by such tone was effeminate, vapid, useless, unpersuasive,
unmusical and English. It was a complaint frequently made by her
against her friends Caroline and Olivia that they debased their voices,
and taught themselves the puling British mode of speech. 'I do know the
gentleman,' said Wallachia and Lady Rowley shuddered. Could it be that
such a woman as this was to reign over Monkhams, and become the future
Lady Peterborough?

'He told me that he is acquainted with the family,' said Lady Rowley.
'He is staying at our hotel, and my daughter knew him very well when he
was living in London.'

'I dare say. I believe that in London the titled aristocrats do hang
pretty much together.' It had never occurred to poor Lady Rowley, since
the day in which her husband had been made a knight, at the advice of
the Colonial Minister, in order that the inhabitants of some island
might be gratified by the opportunity of using the title, that she and
her children had thereby become aristocrats. Were her daughter Nora to
marry Mr Glascock, Nora would become an aristocrat or would, rather, be
ennobled all which Lady Rowley understood perfectly.

'I don't know that London society is very exclusive in that respect,'
said Lady Rowley.

'I guess you are pretty particular,' said Miss Petrie, 'and it seems to
me you don't have much regard to intellect or erudition but fix things
up straight according to birth and money.'

'I hope we are not quite so bad as that,' said Lady Rowley. 'I do not
know London well myself, as I have passed my life in very distant
places.'

'The distant places are, in my estimation, the best. The further the
mind is removed from the contamination incidental to the centres of
long-established luxury, the more chance it has of developing itself
according to the intention of the Creator, when he bestowed his gifts
of intellect upon us.' Lady Rowley, when she heard this eloquence,
could hardly believe that such a man as Mr Glascock should really be
intent upon marrying such a lady as this who was sitting next to her.

In the meantime, Nora and the real rival were together, and they also
were talking of Mr Glascock. Caroline Spalding had said that Mr
Glascock had spoken to her of Nora Rowley, and Nora acknowledged that
there had been some acquaintance between them in London. 'Almost more
than that, I should have thought,' said Miss Spalding, 'if one might
judge by his manner of speaking of you.'

'He is a little given to be enthusiastic,' said Nora, laughing.

'The least so of all mankind, I should have said. You must know he is
very intimate in this house. It begun in this way Olivia and I were
travelling together, and there was a difficulty, as we say in our
country when three or four gentlemen shoot each other. Then there came
up Mr Glascock and another gentleman. By-the-bye, the other gentleman
was your brother-in-law.'

'Poor Mr Trevelyan!'

'He is very ill is he not?'

'We think so. My sister is with us, you know. That is to say, she is at
Siena today.'

'I have heard about him, and it is so sad. Mr Glascock knows him. As I
said, they were travelling together, when Mr Glascock came to our
assistance. Since that, we have seen him very frequently. I don't think
he is enthusiastic except when he talks of you.'

'I ought to be very proud,' said Nora.

'I think you ought as Mr Glascock is a man whose good opinion is
certainly worth having. Here he is. Mr Glascock, I hope your ears are
tingling. They ought to do so, because we are saying all manner of fine
things about you.'

'I could not be well spoken of by two on whose good word I should set a
higher value,' said he.

'And whose do you value the most?' said Caroline.

'I must first know whose eulogium will run the highest.'

Then Nora answered him. 'Mr Glascock, other people may praise you
louder than I can do, but no one will ever do so with more sincerity.'
There was a pretty earnestness about her as she spoke, which Lady
Rowley ought to have heard. Mr Glascock bowed, and Miss Spalding
smiled, and Nora blushed.

'If you are not overwhelmed now,' said Miss Spalding, 'you must be so
used to flattery, that it has no longer any effect upon you. You must
be like a drunkard, to whom wine is as water, and who thinks that
brandy is not strong enough.'

'I think I had better go away,' said Mr Glascock, 'for fear the brandy
should be watered by degrees.' And so he left them.

Nora had become quite aware, without much process of thinking about it,
that her former lover and this American young lady were very intimate
with each other. The tone of the conversation had shewn that it was so
and, then, how had it come to pass that Mr Glascock had spoken to this
American girl about her Nora Rowley? It was evident that he had spoken
of her with warmth, and had done so in a manner to impress his hearer.
For a minute or two they sat together in silence after Mr Glascock had
left them, but neither of them stirred. Then Caroline Spalding turned
suddenly upon Nora, and took her by the hand. 'I must tell you
something,' said she, 'only it must be a secret for awhile.'

'I will not repeat it.'

'Thank you, dear. I am engaged to him as his wife. He asked me this
very afternoon, and nobody knows it but my aunt. When I had accepted
him, he told me all the story about you. He had very often spoken of
you before, and I had guessed how it must have been. He wears his heart
so open for those whom he loves, that there is nothing concealed. He
had seen you just before he came to me. But perhaps I am wrong to tell
you that now. He ought to have been thinking of you again at such a
time.'

'I did not want him to think of me again.'

'Of course you did not. Of course I am joking. You might have been his
wife if you wished it. He has told me all that. And he especially wants
us to be friends. Is there anything to prevent it?'

'On my part? Oh, dear, no except that you will be such grand folk, and
we shall be so poor.'

'We!' said Caroline, laughing. 'I am so glad that there is a "we."'



CHAPTER LXXVII - THE FUTURE LADY PETERBOROUGH

'If you have not sold yourself for British gold, and for British acres,
and for British rank, I have nothing to say against it,' said Miss
Wallachia Petrie that same evening to her friend Caroline Spalding.

'You know that I have not sold myself, as you call it,' said Caroline.
There had been a long friendship between these two ladies, and the
younger one knew that it behoved her to bear a good deal from the
elder. Miss Petrie was honest, clever, and in earnest. We in England
are not usually favourably disposed to women who take a pride in a
certain antagonism to men in general, and who are anxious to shew the
world that they can get on very well without male assistance; but there
are many such in America who have noble aspirations, good intellects,
much energy, and who are by no means unworthy of friendship. The hope
in regard to all such women the hope entertained not by themselves, but
by those who are solicitous for them is that they will be cured at last
by a husband and half-a-dozen children. In regard to Wallachia Petrie
there was not, perhaps, much ground for such hope. She was so
positively wedded to women's rights in general, and to her own rights
in particular, that it was improbable that she should ever succumb to
any man and where would be the man brave enough to make the effort?
From circumstances Caroline Spalding had been the beloved of her heart
since Caroline Spalding was a very little girl; and she had hoped that
Caroline would through life have borne arms along with her in that
contest which she was determined to wage against man, and which she
always waged with the greatest animosity against men of the British
race. She hated rank; she hated riches; she hated monarchy and with a
true woman's instinct in battle, felt that she had a specially strong
point against Englishmen, in that they submitted themselves to dominion
from a woman monarch.

And now the chosen friend of her youth the friend who had copied out
all her poetry, who had learned by heart all her sonnets, who had, as
she thought, reciprocated all her ideas, was going to be married and to
be married to an English lord! She had seen that it was coming for some
time, and had spoken out very plainly, hoping that she might still save
the brand from the burning. Now the evil was done; and Caroline
Spalding, when she told her news, knew well that she would have to bear
some heavy reproaches.

'How many of us are there who never know whether we sell ourselves or
not?' said Wallachia. 'The senator who longs for office, and who votes
this way instead of that in order that he may get it, thinks that he is
voting honestly. The minister who calls himself a teacher of God's
word, thinks that it is God's word that he preaches when he strains his
lungs to fill his church. The question is this, Caroline would you have
loved the same man had he come to you with a woodman's axe in his hand
or a clerk's quill behind his ear? I guess not.'

'As to the woodman's axe, Wally, it is very well in theory; but--'

'Things good in theory, Caroline, will be good also when practised. You
may be sure of that. We dislike theory simply because our intelligences
are higher than our wills. But we will let that pass.'

'Pray let it pass, Wally. Do not preach me sermons tonight. I am so
happy, and you ought to wish me joy.'

'If wishing you joy would get you joy, I would wish it you while I
lived. I cannot be happy that you should be taken from us whither I
shall never see you again.'

'But you are to come to us. I have told him so, and it is settled.'

'No, dear; I shall not do that. What should I be in the glittering
halls of an English baron? Could there be any visiting less fitting,
any admixture less appropriate? Could I who have held up my voice in
the Music Hall of Lacedaemon amidst the glories of the West, in the
great and free State of Illinois, against the corruption of an English
aristocracy could I, who have been listened to by two thousand of my
countrywomen and men while I spurned the unmanly, inhuman errors of
primogeniture could I, think you, hold my tongue beneath the roof of a
feudal lord!' Caroline Spalding knew that her friend could not hold her
tongue, and hesitated to answer. There had been that fatal triumph of a
lecture on the joint rights of men and women, and it had rendered poor
Wallachia Petrie unfit for ordinary society.

'You might come there without talking politics, Wally,' said Caroline.

'No, Caroline; no. I will go into the house of no man in which the free
expression of my opinion is debarred me. I will not sit even at your
table with a muzzled tongue. When you are gone, Caroline, I shall
devote myself to what, after all, must be the work of my life, and I
shall finish the biographical history of our great hero in verse which
I hope may at least be not ephemeral. From month to month I shall send
you what I do, and you will not refuse me your friendly criticism and,
perhaps, some slight meed of approbation because you are dwelling
beneath the shade of a throne. Oh, Caroline, let it not be a upas
tree!'

The Miss Petries of the world have this advantage an advantage which
rarely if ever falls to the lot of a man that they are never convinced
of error. Men, let them be ever so much devoted to their closets, let
them keep their work ever so closely veiled from public scrutiny, still
find themselves subjected to criticism, and under the necessity of
either defending themselves or of succumbing. If, indeed, a man neither
speaks, nor writes if he be dumb as regards opinion he passes simply as
one of the crowd, and is in the way neither of convincing nor of being
convinced; but a woman may speak, and almost write, as she likes,
without danger of being wounded by sustained conflict. Who would have
the courage to begin with such a one as Miss Petrie, and endeavour to
prove to her that she is wrong from the beginning. A little word of
half-dissent, a smile, a shrug, and an ambiguous compliment which is
misunderstood, are all the forms of argument which can be used against
her. Wallachia Petrie, in her heart of hearts, conceived that she had
fairly discussed her great projects from year to year with indomitable
eloquence and unanswerable truth and that none of her opponents had had
a leg to stand upon. And this she believed because the chivalry of men
had given to her sex that protection against which her life was one
continued protest.

'Here he is,' said Caroline, as Mr Glascock came up to them. 'Try and
say a civil word to him, if he speaks about it. Though he is to be a
lord, still he is a man and a brother.'

'Caroline,' said the stern monitress, 'you are already learning to
laugh at principles which have been dear to you since you left your
mother's breast. Alas, how true it is, "You cannot touch pitch and not
be defiled."'

The further progress of these friendly and feminine amenities was
stopped by the presence of the gentleman who had occasioned them. 'Miss
Petrie,' said the hero of the hour, 'Caroline was to tell you of my
good fortune, and no doubt she has done so.'

'I cannot wait to hear the pretty things he has to say,' said Caroline,
'and I must look after my aunt's guests. There is poor Signor
Buonarosci without a soul to say a syllable to him, and I must go and
use my ten Italian words.'

'You are about to take with you to your old country, Mr Glascock,' said
Miss Petrie, 'one of the brightest stars in our young American
firmament.' There could be no doubt, from the tone of Miss Petrie's
voice, that she now regarded this star, however bright, as one of a
sort which is subjected to falling.

'I am going to take a very nice young woman,' said Mr Glascock.

'I hate that word woman, sir, uttered with the halfhidden sneer which
always accompanies its expression from the mouth of a man.'

'Sneer, Miss Petrie!'

'I quite allow that it is involuntary, and not analysed or understood
by yourselves. If you speak of a dog, you intend to do so with
affection, but there is always contempt mixed with it. The so-called
chivalry of man to woman is all begotten in the same spirit. I want no
favour, but I claim to be your equal.'

'I thought that American ladies were generally somewhat exacting as to
those privileges which chivalry gives them.'

'It is true, sir, that the only rank we know in our country is in that
precedence which man gives to woman. Whether we maintain that, or
whether we abandon it, we do not intend to purchase it at the price of
an acknowledgment of intellectual inferiority. For myself, I hate
chivalry what you call chivalry. I can carry my own chair, and I claim
the right to carry it whithersoever I may please.'

Mr Glascock remained with her for some time, but made no opportunity
for giving that invitation to Monkhams of which Caroline had spoken. As
he said afterwards, he found it impossible to expect her to attend to
any subject so trivial; and when, afterwards, Caroline told him, with
some slight mirth the capability of which on such a subject was coming
to her with her new ideas of life that, though he was partly saved as a
man and a brother, still he was partly the reverse as a feudal lord, he
began to reflect that Wallachia Petrie would be a guest with whom he
would find it very difficult to make things go pleasantly at Monkhams.

'Does she not bully you horribly?' he asked.

'Of course she bullies me,' Caroline answered; 'and I cannot expect you
to understand as yet how it is that I love her and like her; but I do.
If I were in distress tomorrow, she would give everything she has in
the world to put me right.'

'So would I,' said he.

'Ah, you that is a matter of course. That is your business now. And she
would give everything she has in the world to set the world right.
Would you do that?'

'It would depend on the amount of my faith. If I could believe in the
result, I suppose I should do it.'

'She would do it on the slightest hope that such giving would have any
tendency that way. Her philanthropy is all real. Of course she is a
bore to you.'

'I am very patient.'

'I hope I shall find you so always. And, of course, she is ridiculous
in your eyes. I have learned to see it, and to regret it; but I shall
never cease to love her.'

'I have not the slightest objection. Her lessons will come from over
the water, and mine will come from where shall I say? over the table.
If I can't talk her down with so much advantage on my side, I ought to
be made a woman's-right man myself.'

Poor Lady Rowley had watched Miss Petrie and Mr Glascock during those
moments that they had been together, and had half believed the rumour,
and had half doubted, thinking in the moments of her belief that Mr
Glascock must be mad, and in the moments of unbelief that the rumours
had been set afloat by the English Minister's wife with the express
intention of turning Mr Glascock into ridicule. It had never occurred
to her to doubt that Wallachia was the eldest of that family of nieces.
Could it be possible that a man who had known her Nora, who had
undoubtedly loved her Nora who had travelled all the way from London to
Nuncombe Putney to ask Nora to be his wife should within twelve months
of that time have resolved to marry a woman whom he must have selected
simply as being the most opposite to Nora of any female human being
that he could find? It was not credible to her; and if it were not
true, there might still be a hope. Nora had met him, and had spoken to
him, and it had seemed that for a moment or two they had spoken as
friends. Lady Rowley, when talking to Mrs Spalding, had watched them
closely; and she had seen that Nora's eyes had been bright, and that
there had been something between them which was pleasant. Suddenly she
found herself close to Wallachia, and thought that she would trust
herself to a word.

'Have you been long in Florence?' asked Lady Rowley in her softest
voice.

'A pretty considerable time, ma'am that is, since the fall began.'

What a voice what an accent and what words! Was there a man living with
sufficient courage to take this woman to England, and shew her to the
world as Lady Peterborough?

'Are you going to remain in Italy for the summer?' continued Lady
Rowley.

'I guess I shall or, perhaps, locate myself in the purer atmosphere of
the Swiss mountains.'

'Switzerland in summer must certainly be much pleasanter.'

'I was thinking at the moment of the political atmosphere,' said Miss
Petrie; 'for although, certainly, much has been done in this country in
the way of striking off shackles and treading sceptres under foot,
still, Lady Rowley, there remains here that pernicious thing a king.
The feeling of the dominion of a single man and that of a single woman
is, for aught I know, worse with me so clouds the air, that the breath
I breathe fails to fill my lungs.' Wallachia, as she said this, put
forth her hand, and raised her chin, and extended her arm. She paused,
feeling that justice demanded that Lady Rowley should have a right of
reply. But Lady Rowley had not a word to say, and Wallachia Petrie went
on. 'I cannot adapt my body to the sweet savours and the soft luxuries
of the outer world with any comfort to my inner self, while the
circumstances of the society around me are oppressive to my spirit.
When our war was raging all around me I was light-spirited as the lark
that mounts through the morning sky.'

'I should have thought it was very dreadful,' said Lady Rowley.

'Full of dread, of awe, and of horror, were those fiery days of
indiscriminate slaughter; but they were not days of desolation, because
hope was always there by our side. There was a hope in which the soul
could trust, and the trusting soul is ever light and buoyant.'

'I dare say it is,' said Lady Rowley.

'But apathy, and serfdom, and kinghood, and dominion, drain the
fountain of its living springs, and the soul becomes like the plummet
of lead, whose only tendency is to hide itself in subaqueous mud and
unsavoury slush.'

Subaqueous mud and unsavoury slush! Lady Rowley repeated the words to
herself as she made good her escape, and again expressed to herself her
conviction that it could not possibly be so. The 'subaqueous mud and
unsavoury slush,' with all that had gone before it about the soul, was
altogether unintelligible to her; but she knew that it was American
buncom of a high order of eloquence, and she told herself again and
again that it could not be so. She continued to keep her eyes upon Mr
Glascock, and soon saw him again talking to Nora. It was hardly
possible, she thought, that Nora should speak to him with so much
animation, or he to her, unless there was some feeling between them
which, if properly handled, might lead to a renewal of the old
tenderness. She went up to Nora, having collected the other girls, and
said that the carriage was then waiting for them. Mr Glascock
immediately offered Lady Rowley his arm, and took her down to the hall.
Could it be that she was leaning upon a future son-in-law? There was
something in the thought which made her lay her weight upon him with a
freedom which she would not otherwise have used. Oh! that her Nora
should live to be Lady Peterborough! We are apt to abuse mothers for
wanting high husbands for their daughters but can there be any point in
which the true maternal instinct can shew itself with more affectionate
enthusiasm? This poor mother wanted nothing for herself from Mr
Glascock. She knew very well that it was her fate to go back to the
Mandarins, and probably to die there. She knew also that such men as Mr
Glascock, when they marry beneath themselves in rank and fortune, will
not ordinarily trouble themselves much with their mothers-in-law. There
was nothing desired for herself. Were such a match accomplished, she
might, perhaps, indulge herself in talking among the planters' wives of
her daughter's coronet; but at the present moment there was no idea
even of this in her mind. It was of Nora herself, and of Nora's
sisters, that she was thinking for them that she was plotting that the
one might be rich and splendid, and the others have some path opened
for them to riches and splendour. Husband-hunting mothers may be
injudicious; but surely they are maternal and unselfish. Mr Glascock
put her into the carriage, and squeezed her hand and then he squeezed
Nora's hand. She saw it, and was sure of it. 'I am so glad you are
going to be happy,' Nora had said to him before this. 'As far as I have
seen her, I like her so much.' 'If you do not come and visit her in her
own house, I shall think you have no spirit of friendship,' he said. 'I
will,' Nora had replied 'I will.' This had been said just as Lady
Rowley was coming to them, and on this understanding, on this footing,
Mr Glascock had pressed her hand.

As she went home, Lady Rowley's mind was full of doubt as to the course
which it was best that she should follow with her daughter. She was not
unaware how great was the difficulty before her. Hugh Stanbury's name
had not been mentioned since they left London, but at that time Nora
was obstinately bent on throwing herself away upon the 'penny-a-liner.'
She had never been brought to acknowledge that such a marriage would be
even inappropriate, and had withstood gallantly the expression of her
father's displeasure. But with such a spirit as Nora's, it might be
easier to prevail by silence than by many words. Lady Rowley was quite
sure of this that it would be far better to say nothing further of Hugh
Stanbury. Let the cure come, if it might be possible, from absence and
from her daughter's good sense. The only question was whether it would
be wise to say any word about Mr Glascock. In the carriage she was not
only forbearing but flattering in her manner to Nora. She caressed her
girl's hand and spoke to her as mothers know how to speak when they
want to make much of their girls, and to have it understood that those
girls are behaving as girls should behave. There was to be nobody to
meet them tonight, as it had been arranged that Sir Marmaduke and Mrs
Trevelyan should sleep at Siena. Hardly a word had been spoken in the
carriage; but upstairs, in their drawing-room, there came a moment in
which Lucy and Sophie had left them, and Nora was alone with her
mother. Lady Rowley almost knew that it would be most prudent to be
silent but a word spoken in season how good it is! And the thing was so
near to her that she could not hold her peace. 'I must say, Nora,' she
began, 'that I do like your Mr Glascock.'

'He is not my Mr Glascock, mamma,' said Nora, smiling.

'You know what I mean, dear.' Lady Rowley had not intended to utter a
word that should appear like pressure on her daughter at this moment.
She had felt how imprudent it would be to do so. But now Nora seemed to
be leading the way herself to such discourse. 'Of course, he is not
your Mr Glascock. You cannot eat your cake and have it, nor can you
throw it away and have it.'

'I have thrown my cake away altogether, and certainly I cannot have
it.' She was still smiling as she spoke, and seemed to be quite merry
at the idea of regarding Mr Glascock as the cake which she had declined
to eat.

'I can see one thing quite plainly, dear.'

'What is that, mamma?'

'That in spite of what you have done, you can still have your cake
whenever you choose to take it.'

'Why, mamma, he is engaged to be married!'

'Mr Glascock?'

'Yes, Mr Glascock. It's quite settled. Is it not sad?'

'To whom is he engaged?' Lady Rowley's solemnity as she asked this
question was piteous to behold.

'To Miss Spalding Caroline Spalding.'

'The eldest of those nieces?'

'Yes the eldest.'

'I cannot believe it.'

'Mamma, they both told me so. I have sworn an eternal friendship with
her already.'

'I did not see you speaking to her.'

'But I did talk to her a great deal.'

'And he is really going to marry that dreadful woman?'

'Dreadful, mamma!'

'Perfectly awful! She talked to me in a way that I have read about in
books, but which I did not before believe to be possible. Do you mean
that he is going to be married to that hideous old maid that
bell-clapper?'

'Oh, mamma, what slander! I think her so pretty.'

'Pretty!'

'Very pretty. And, mamma, ought I not to be happy that he should have
been able to make himself so happy? It was quite, quite, quite
impossible that I should have been his wife. I have thought about it
ever so much, and I am so glad of it! I think she is just the girl that
is. fit for him.'

Lady Rowley took her candle and went to bed, professing to herself that
she could not understand it. But what did it signify? It was, at any
rate, certain now that the man had put himself out of Nora's reach, and
if he chose to marry a republican virago, with a red nose, it could now
make no difference to Nora. Lady Rowley almost felt a touch of
satisfaction in reflecting on the future misery of his married life.



CHAPTER LXXVIII - CASALUNGA

Sir Marmaduke had been told at the Florence post-office that he would
no doubt be able to hear tidings of Trevelyan, and to learn his
address, from the officials in the post-office at Siena. At Florence he
had been introduced to some gentleman who was certainly of importance a
superintendent who had clerks under him and who was a big man. This
person had been very courteous to him, and he had gone to Siena
thinking that he would find it easy to obtain Trevelyan's address or to
learn that there was no such person there. But at Siena he and his
courier together could obtain no information. They rambled about the
huge cathedral and the picturesque market-place of that quaint old city
for the whole day, and on the next morning after breakfast they
returned to Florence. They had learned nothing. The young man at the
post-office had simply protested that he knew nothing of the name of
Trevelyan. If letters should come addressed to such a name, he would
keep them till they were called for; but, to the best of his knowledge,
he had never seen or heard the name. At the guard-house of the
gendarmerie they could not, or would not, give him any information, and
Sir Marmaduke came back with an impression that everybody at Siena was
ignorant, idiotic, and brutal. Mrs Trevelyan was so dispirited as to be
ill, and both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were disposed to think that
the world was all against them. 'You have no conception of the sort of
woman that man is going to marry,' said Lady Rowley.

'What man?'

'Mr Glascock! A horrid American female, as old almost as I am, who
talks through her nose, and preaches sermons about the rights of women.
It is incredible! And Nora might have had him just for lifting up her
hand.' But Sir Marmaduke could not interest himself much about Mr
Glascock. When he had been told that his daughter had refused the heir
to a great estate and a peerage, it had been matter of regret; but he
had looked upon the affair as done, and cared nothing now though Mr
Glascock should marry a transatlantic Xantippe. He was angry with Nora
because by her obstinacy she was adding to the general perplexities of
the family, but he could not make comparisons on Mr Glascock's behalf
between her and Miss Spalding as his wife was doing, either mentally or
aloud, from hour to hour. 'I suppose it 'is too late now,' said Lady
Rowley, shaking her head.

'Of course it is too late. The man must marry whom he pleases. I am
beginning to wonder that anybody should ever want to get married. I am
indeed.'

'But what are the girls to do?'

'I don't know what anybody is to do. Here is a man as mad as a March
hare, and yet nobody can touch him. If it was not for the child, I
should advise Emily to put him out of her head altogether.'

But though Sir Marmaduke could not bring himself to take any interest
in Mr Glascock's affairs, and would not ask a single question
respecting the fearful American female whom this unfortunate man was
about to translate to the position of an English peeress, yet
circumstances so fell out that before three days were over he and Mr
Glascock were thrown together in very intimate relations. Sir Marmaduke
had learned that Mr Glascock was the only Englishman in Florence to
whom Trevelyan had been known, and that he was the only person with
whom Trevelyan had been seen to speak while passing through the city.
In his despair, therefore, Sir Marmaduke had gone to Mr Glascock, and
it was soon arranged that the two gentlemen should renew the search at
Siena together, without having with them either Mrs Trevelyan or the
courier. Mr Glascock knew the ways of the people better than did Sir
Marmaduke, and could speak the language. He obtained a passport to the
good offices of the police at Siena, and went prepared to demand rather
than to ask for assistance. They started very early, before breakfast,
and on arriving at Siena at about noon, first employed themselves in
recruiting exhausted nature. By the time that they had both declared
that the hotel at Siena was the very worst in all Italy, and that a
breakfast without eatable butter was not to be considered a breakfast
at all, they had become so intimate that Mr Glascock spoke of his own
intended marriage. He must have done this with the conviction on his
mind that Nora Rowley would have told her mother of his former
intention, and that Lady Rowley would have told Sir Marmaduke; but he
did not feel it to be incumbent on himself to say anything on that
subject. He had nothing to excuse. He had behaved fairly and
honourably. It was not to be expected that he should remain unmarried
for ever for the sake of a girl who had twice refused him. 'Of course
there are very many in England,' he said, 'who will think me foolish to
marry a girl from another country.'

'It is done every day,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'No doubt it is. I admit, however, that I ought to be more careful than
some other persons. There is a title and an estate to be perpetuated,
and I cannot, perhaps, be justified in taking quite so much liberty as
some other men may do; but I think I have chosen a woman born to have a
high position, and who will make her own way in any society in which
she may be placed.'

'I have no doubt she will,' said Sir Marmaduke, who had still sounding
in his ears the alarming description which his wife had given him of
this infatuated man's proposed bride. But he would have been bound to
say as much had Mr Glascock intended to marry as lowly as did King
Cophetua.

'She is highly educated, gentle-mannered, as sweetly soft as any
English girl I ever met, and very pretty. You have met her, I think.'

'I do not remember that I have observed her.'

'She is too young for me, perhaps,' said Mr Glascock; 'but that is a
fault on the right side.' Sir Marmaduke, as he wiped his beard after
his breakfast, remembered what his wife had told him about the lady's
age. But it was nothing to him.'she is four-and-twenty, I think,' said
Mr Glascock. If Mr Glascock chose to believe that his intended wife was
four-and-twenty instead of something over forty, that was nothing to
Sir Marmaduke.

'The very best age in the world,' said he.

They had sent for an officer of the police, and before they had been
three hours in Siena they had been told that Trevelyan lived about
seven miles from the town, in a small and very remote country house,
which he had hired for twelve months from one of the city hospitals. He
had hired it furnished, and had purchased a horse and small carriage
from a man in the town. To this man they went, and it soon became
evident to them that he of whom they were in search was living at this
house, which was called Casalunga, and was not, as the police officer
told them, on the way to any place. They must leave Siena by the road
for Rome, take a turn to the left about a mile beyond the city gate,
and continue on along the country lane till they saw a certain round
hill to the right. On the top of that round hill was Casalunga. As the
country about Siena all lies in round hills, this was no adequate
description but it was suggested that the country people would know all
about it. They got a small open carriage in the market-place, and were
driven out. Their driver knew nothing of Casalunga, and simply went
whither he was told. But by the aid of the country people they got
along over the unmade lanes, and in little more than an hour were told,
at the bottom of the hill, that they must now walk up to Casalunga.
Though the hill was round-topped, and no more than a hill, still the
ascent at last was very steep, and was paved with stones set edgeway in
a manner that could hardly have been intended to accommodate wheels.
When Mr Glascock asserted that the signor who lived there had a
carriage of his own, the driver suggested that he must keep it at the
bottom of the hill. It was clearly not his intention to attempt to
drive up the ascent, and Sir Marmaduke and Mr Glascock were therefore
obliged to walk. It was now in the latter half of May, and there was a
blazing Italian sky over their heads. Mr Glascock was acclimated to
Italian skies, and did not much mind the work; but Sir Marmaduke, who
never did much in walking, declared that Italy was infinitely hotter
than the Mandarins, and could hardly make his way as far as the house
door.

It seemed to both of them to be a most singular abode for such a man as
Trevelyan. At the top of the hill there was a huge entrance through a
wooden gateway, which seemed to have been constructed with the
intention of defying any intruders not provided with warlike
ammunition. The gates were, indeed, open at the period of their visit,
but it must be supposed that they were intended to be closed at any
rate at night. Immediately on the right, as they entered through the
gates, there was a large barn, in which two men were coopering wine
vats. From thence a path led slanting to the house, of which the door
was shut, and all the front windows blocked with shutters. The house
was very long, and only of one story for a portion of its length. Over
that end at which the door was placed there were upper rooms, and there
must have been space enough for a large family with many domestics.
There was nothing round or near the residence which could be called a
garden, so that its look of desolation was extreme. There were various
large barns and outhouses, as though it had been intended by the
builder that corn and hay and cattle should be kept there; but it
seemed now that there was nothing there except the empty vats at which
the two men were coopering. Had the Englishmen gone farther into the
granary, they would have seen that there were wine-presses stored away
in the dark corners.

They stopped and looked at the men, and the men halted for a moment
from their work and looked at them; but the men spoke never a word. Mr
Glascock then asked after Mr Trevelyan, and one of the coopers pointed
to the house. Then they crossed over to the door, and Mr Glascock
finding there neither knocker nor bell, first tapped with his knuckles,
and then struck with his stick. But no one came. There was not a sound
in the house, and no shutter was removed. 'I don't believe that there
is a soul here,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'We'll not give it up till we've seen it all at any rate,' said Mr
Glascock. And so they went round to the other front.

On this side of the house the tilled ground, either ploughed or dug
with the spade, came up to the very windows. There was hardly even a
particle of grass to be seen. A short way down the hill there were rows
of olive trees, standing in prim order and at regular distances, from
which hung the vines that made the coopering of the vats necessary.
Olives and vines have pretty names, and call up associations of
landscape beauty. But here they were in no way beautiful. The ground
beneath them was turned up, and brown, and arid, so that there was not
a blade of grass to be seen. On some furrows the maize or Indian corn
was sprouting, and there were patches of growth of other kinds each
patch closely marked by its own straight lines; and there were narrow
paths, so constructed as to take as little room as possible. But all
that had been done had been done for economy, and nothing for beauty.
The occupiers of Casalunga had thought more of the produce of their
land than of picturesque or attractive appearance.

The sun was blazing fiercely hot, hotter on this side, Sir Marmaduke
thought, even than on the other; and there was not a wavelet of a cloud
in the sky. A balcony ran the whole length of the house, and under this
Sir Marmaduke took shelter at once, leaning with his back against the
wall. 'There is not a soul here at all,' said he.

'The men in the barn told us that there was,' said Mr Glascock; 'and,
at any rate, we will try the windows.' So saying, he walked along the
front of the house, Sir Marmaduke following him slowly, till they came
to a door, the upper half of which was glazed, and through which they
looked into one of the rooms. Two or three of the other windows in this
frontage of the house came down to the ground, and were made for egress
and ingress; but they had all been closed with shutters, as though the
house was deserted. But they now looked into a room which contained
some signs of habitation. There was a small table with a marble top, on
which lay two or three books, and there were two arm-chairs in the
room, with gilded arms and legs, and a morsel of carpet, and a clock
on, a shelf over a stove, and a rocking-horse. 'The boy is here, you
may be sure,' said Mr Glascock. 'The rocking-horse makes that certain.
But how are we to get at any one!'

'I never saw such a place for an Englishman to come and live in
before,' said Sir Marmaduke. 'What on earth can he do here all day!' As
he spoke the door of the room was opened, and there was Trevelyan
standing before them, looking at them through the window. He wore an
old red English dressing-gown, which came down to his feet, and a small
braided Italian cap on his head. His beard had been allowed to grow,
and he had neither collar nor cravat. His trousers were unbraced, and
he shuffled in with a pair of slippers, which would hardly cling to his
feet. He was paler and still thinner than when he had been visited at
Willesden, and his eyes seemed to be larger, and shone almost with a
brighter brilliancy.

Mr Glascock tried to open the door, but found that it was closed.'sir
Marmaduke and I have come to visit you,' said Mr Glascock, aloud. 'Is
there any means by which we can get into the house?' Trevelyan stood
still and stared at them. 'We knocked at the front door, but nobody
came,' continued Mr Glascock. 'I suppose this is the way you usually go
in and out.'

'He does not mean to let us in,' whispered Sir Marmaduke.

'Can you open this door,' said Mr Glascock, 'or shall we go round
again?' Trevelyan had stood still contemplating them, but at last came
forward and put back the bolt. 'That is all right,' said Mr Glascock,
entering. 'I am sure you will be glad to see Sir Marmaduke.'

'I should be glad to see him or you, if I could entertain you,' said
Trevelyan. His voice was harsh and hard, and his words were uttered
with a certain amount of intended grandeur. 'Any of the family would be
welcome were it not--'

'Were it not what?' asked Mr Glascock.

'It can be nothing to you, sir, what troubles I have here. This is my
own abode, in which I had flattered myself that I could be free from
intruders. I do not want visitors. I am sorry that you should have had
trouble in coming here, but I do not want visitors. I am very sorry
that I have nothing that I can offer you, Mr Glascock.'

'Emily is in Florence,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Who brought her? Did I tell her to come? Let her go back to her home.
I have come here to be free from her, and I mean to be free. If she
wants my money, let her take it.'

'She wants her child,' said Mr Glascock.

'He is my child,' said Trevelyan, 'and my right to him is better than
hers. Let her try it in a court of law, and she shall see. Why did she
deceive me with that man? Why has she driven me to this? Look here, Mr
Glascock my whole life is spent in this seclusion, and it is her
fault.'

'Your wife is innocent of all fault, Trevelyan,' said Mr Glascock.

'Any woman can say as much as that and all women do say it. Yet what
are they worth?'

'Do you mean, sir, to take away your wife's character?' said Sir
Marmaduke, coming up in wrath. 'Remember that she is my daughter, and
that there are things which flesh and blood cannot stand.'

'She is my wife, sir, and that is ten times more. Do you think that you
would do more for her than I would do drink more of Esill? You had
better go away, Sir Marmaduke. You can do no good by coming here and
talking of your daughter. I would have given the world to save her but
she would not be saved.'

'You are a slanderer!' said Sir Marmaduke, in his wrath.

Mr Glascock turned round to the father, and tried to quiet him. It was
so manifest to him that the balance of the poor man's mind was gone,
that it seemed to him to be ridiculous to upbraid the sufferer. He was
such a piteous sight to behold, that it was almost impossible to feel
indignation against him. 'You cannot wonder,' said Mr Glascock,
advancing close to the master of the house, 'that the mother should
want to see her only child. You do not wish that your wife should be
the most wretched woman in the world.'

'Am not I the most wretched of men? Can anything be more wretched than
this? Is her life worse than mine? And whose fault was it? Had I any
friend to whom she objected? Was I untrue to her in a single thought?'

'If you say that she was untrue, it is a falsehood,' said Sir
Marmaduke.

'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 circumstances.'

'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 Glascock. 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 Glascock, on my honour as a man,
I never wronged her in a thought or a word.'

Mr Glascock 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 Glascock'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 Glascock 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 some one 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 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 assented 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 Glascock 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
circumstances of the house from Mr Glascock, 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 Glascock 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 assured 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 his 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
circumstances 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.

'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 pass. 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 assuring 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?'

'"Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,"' he said, beginning to
quote from a poem which had formerly been frequent in his hands.

'Cannot there be real forgiveness between you and me between husband
and wife who, in truth, love each other? Do you think that I would tell
you of it again?' He felt that in all that she said there was an
assumption that she had been right, and that he had been wrong. She was
promising to forgive. She was undertaking to forget. She was willing to
take him back to the warmth of her love, and the comfort of her
kindness but was not asking to be taken back. This was what he could
not and would not endure. He had determined that if she behaved well to
him, he would not be harsh to her, and he was struggling to keep up to
his resolve. He would accuse her of nothing if he could help it. But he
could not say a word that would even imply that she need forget that
she should forgive. It was for him to forgive and he was willing to do
it, if she would accept forgiveness: 'I will never speak a word,
Louis,' she said, laying her head upon his shoulder.

'Your heart is still hardened,' he replied slowly.

'Hard to you?'

'And your mind is dark. You do not see what you have done. In our
religion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but with
repentance.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms with
joy, I cannot do so, till you have confessed your fault.'

'What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grieve
that it has been so.'

'It is of no use,' said he. 'I cannot talk about it. Do you suppose
that it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?'

'What is it that you think, Louis?' As she had been travelling thither,
she had determined that she would say anything that he wished her to
say make any admission that might satisfy him. That she could be happy
again as other women are happy, she did not expect; but if it could be
conceded between them that bygones should be bygones, she might live
with him and do her duty, and, at least, have her child with her.

Her father had told her that her husband was mad; but she was willing
to put up with his madness on such terms as these. What could her
husband do to her in his madness that he could not do also to the
child? 'Tell me what you want me to say, and I will say it,' she said.

'You have sinned against me,' he said, raising her head gently from his
shoulder.

'Never!' she exclaimed. 'As God is my judge, I never have!' As she said
this, she retreated and took the sobbing boy again into her arms.

He was at once placed upon his guard, telling himself that he saw the
necessity of holding by his child. How could he tell? Might there not
be policemen down from Florence, ready round the house, to seize the
boy and carry him away. Though all his remaining life should be a
torment to him, though infinite plagues should be poured upon his head,
though he should die like a dog, alone, unfriended, and in despair,
while he was fighting this battle of his, he would not give way. 'That
is sufficient,' he said. 'Louey must return now to his own chamber.'

'I may go with him?'

'No, Emily. You cannot go with him now. I will thank you to release
him, that I may take him.' She still held the little fellow closely
pressed in her arms. 'Do not reward me for my courtesy by further
disobedience,' he said.

'You will let me come again?' To this he made no reply. 'Tell me that I
may come again.'

'I do not think that I shall remain here long.'

'And I may not stay now?'

'That would be impossible. There is no accommodation for you.'

'I could sleep on the boards beside his cot,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'That is my place,' he replied. 'You may know that he is not
disregarded. With my own hands I tend him every morning. I take him out
myself. I feed him myself. He says his prayers to me. He learns from
me, and can say his letters nicely. You need not fear for him. No
mother was ever more tender with her child than I am with him.' Then he
gently withdrew the boy from her arms, and she let her child go, lest
he should learn to know that there was a quarrel between his father and
his mother. 'If you will excuse me,' he said, 'I will not come down to
you again today. My servant will see you to your carriage.'

So he left her; and she, with an Italian girl at her heels, got into
her vehicle, and was taken back to Siena. There she passed the night
alone at the inn, and on the next morning returned to Florence by the
railway.



CHAPTER LXXX - 'WILL THEY DESPISE HIM?'

Gradually the news of the intended marriage between Mr Glascock and
Miss Spalding spread itself over Florence, and people talked about it
with that energy which subjects of such moment certainly deserve. That
Caroline Spalding had achieved a very great triumph, was, of course,
the verdict of all men and of all women; and I fear that there was a
corresponding feeling that poor Mr Glascock had been triumphed over,
and, as it were, subjugated. In some respects he had been remiss in his
duties as a bachelor visitor to Florence as a visitor to Florence who
had manifestly been much in want of a wife. He had not given other
girls a fair chance, but had thrown himself down at the feet of this
American female in the weakest possible manner. And then it got about
the town that he had been refused over and over again by Nora Rowley.
It is too probable that Lady Rowley in her despair and dismay had been
indiscreet, and had told secrets which should never have been mentioned
by her. And the wife of the English minister, who had some grudges of
her own, lifted her eyebrows and shook her head and declared that all
the Glascocks at home would be outraged to the last degree. 'My dear
Lady Rowley,' she said, 'I don't know whether it won't become a
question with them whether they should issue a commission de lunatico.'
Lady Rowley did not know what a commission de lunatico meant, but was
quite willing to regard poor Mr Glascock as a lunatic. 'And there is
poor Lord Peterborough at Naples just at death's door,' continued the
British Ministers wife. In this she was perhaps nearly correct; but as
Lord Peterborough had now been in the same condition for many months,
as his mind had altogether gone, and as the doctor declared that he
might live in his present condition for a year, or for years, it could
not fairly be said that Mr Glascock was acting without due filial
feeling in engaging himself to marry a young lady. 'And she such a
creature!' said Lady Rowley, with emphasis. This the British Minister's
wife noticed simply by shaking her head. Caroline Spalding was
undoubtedly a pretty girl; but, as the British Minister's wife said
afterwards, it was not surprising that poor Lady Rowley should be
nearly out of her mind.

This had occurred a full week after the evening spent at Mr Spalding's
house; and even yet Lady Rowley had never been put right as to that
mistake of hers about Wallachia Petrie. That other trouble of hers, and
her eldest daughter's journey to Siena, had prevented them from going
out; and though the matter had often been discussed between Lady Rowley
and Nora, there had not as yet come between them any proper
explanation. Nora would declare that the future bride was very pretty
and very delightful; and Lady Rowley would throw up her hands in
despair and protest that her daughter was insane. 'Why should he not
marry whom he likes, mamma?' Nora once said, almost with indignation.

'Because he will disgrace his family.'

'I cannot understand what you mean, mamma. They are, at any rate, as
good as we are. Mr Spalding stands quite as high as papa does.'

'She is an American,' said Lady Rowley.

'And her family might say that he is an Englishman,' said Nora.

'My dear, if you do not understand the incongruity between an English
peer and a Yankee female, I cannot help you. I suppose it is because
you have been brought up within the limited society of a small colony.
If so, it is not your fault. But I had hoped you had been in Europe
long enough to have learned what was what. Do you think, my dear, that
she will look well when she is presented to her Majesty as Lord
Peterborough's wife?'

'Splendid,' said Nora.'she has just the brow for a coronet.'

'Heavens and earth!' said Lady Rowley, throwing up her hands. 'And you
believe that he will be proud of her in England?'

'I am sure he will.'

'My belief is that he will leave her behind him, or that they will
settle somewhere in the wilds of America out in Mexico, or
Massachusetts, or the Rocky Mountains. I do not think that he will have
the courage to shew her in London.'

The marriage was to take place in the Protestant church at Florence
early in June, and then the bride and bridegroom were to go over the
Alps, and to remain there subject to tidings as to the health of the
old man at Naples. Mr Glascock had thrown up his seat in Parliament,
some month or two ago, knowing that he could not get back to his duties
during the present session, and feeling that he would shortly be called
upon to sit in the other House. He was thus free to use his time and to
fix his days as he pleased; and it was certainly clear to those who
knew him, that he was not ashamed of his American bride. He spent much
of his time at the Spaldings' house, and was always to be seen with
them in the Casino and at the Opera. Mrs Spalding, the aunt, was, of
course, in great glory. A triumphant, happy, or even simply a splendid
marriage, for the rising girl of a family is a great glory to the
maternal mind. Mrs Spalding could not but be aware that the very air
around her seemed to breathe congratulations into her ears. Her friends
spoke to her, even on indifferent subjects, as though everything was
going well with her better with her than with anybody else; and there
came upon her in these days a dangerous feeling, that in spite of all
the preachings of the preachers, the next world might perhaps be not
so. very much better than this. She was, in fact, the reverse of the
medal of which poor Lady Rowley filled the obverse. And the American
Minister was certainly an inch taller than before, and made longer
speeches, being much more regardless of interruption. Olivia was
delighted at her sister's success, and heard with rapture the
description of Monkhams, which came to her second-hand through her
sister. It was already settled that she was to spend her next Christmas
at Monkhams, and perhaps there might be an idea in her mind that there
were other eldest sons of old lords who would like American brides.
Everything around Caroline Spalding was pleasant except the words of
Wallachia Petrie.

Everything around her was pleasant till there came to her a touch of a
suspicion that the marriage which Mr Glascock was going to make would
be detrimental to her intended husband in his own country. There were
many in Florence who were saying this besides the wife of the English
Minister and Lady Rowley. Of course Caroline Spalding herself was the
last to hear it, and to her the idea was brought by Wallachia Petrie.
'I wish I could think you would make yourself happy or him,' Wallachia
had said, croaking.

'Why should I fail to make him happy?'

'Because you are not of the same blood, or race, or manners as himself.
They say that he is very wealthy in his own country, and that those who
live around him will look coldly on you.'

'So that he does not look coldly, I do not care how others may look,'
said Caroline proudly.

'But when he finds that he has injured himself by such a marriage in
the estimation of all his friends how will it be then?'

This set Caroline Spalding thinking of what she was doing. She began to
realise the feeling that perhaps she might not be a fit bride for an
English lord's son, and in her agony she came to Nora Rowley for
counsel. After all, how little was it that she knew of the home and the
country to which she was to be carried! She might not, perhaps, get
adequate advice from Nora, but she would probably learn something on
which she could act. There was no one else among the English at
Florence to whom she could speak with freedom. When she mentioned her
fears to her aunt, her aunt of course laughed at her. Mrs Spalding told
her that Mr Glascock might be presumed to know his own business best,
and that she, as an American lady of high standing the niece of a
minister! was a fitting match for any Englishman, let him be ever so
much a lord. But Caroline was not comforted by this, and in her
suspense she went to Nora Rowley. She wrote a line to Nora, and when
she called at the hotel, was taken up to her friend's bedroom. She
found great difficulty in telling her story, but she did tell it. 'Miss
Rowley,' she said, 'if this is a silly thing that he is going to do, I
am bound to save him from his own folly. You know your own country
better than I do. Will they think that he has disgraced himself?'

'Certainly not that,' said Nora.

'Shall I be a load round his neck? Miss Rowley, for my own sake I would
not endure such a position as that, not even though I love him. But for
his sake! Think of that. If I find that people think ill of him because
of me!'

'No one will think ill of him.'

'Is it esteemed needful that such a one as he should marry a woman of
his own rank. I can bear to end it all now; but I shall not be able to
bear his humiliation, and my own despair, if I find that I have injured
him. Tell me plainly is it a marriage that he should not make?' Nora
paused for a while before she answered, and as she sat silent the other
girl watched her face carefully. Nora on being thus consulted, was very
careful that her tongue should utter nothing that was not her true
opinion as best she knew how to express it. Her sympathy would have
prompted her to give such an answer as would at once have made Caroline
happy in her mind. She would have been delighted to have been able to
declare that these doubts were utterly groundless, and this hesitation
needless. But she conceived that she owed it as a duty from one woman
to another to speak the truth as she conceived it on so momentous an
occasion, and she was not sure but that Mr Glascock would be considered
by his friends in England to be doing badly in marrying an American
girl. What she did not remember was this that her very hesitation was
in fact an answer, and such an answer as she was most unwilling to
give. 'I see that it would be so,' said Caroline Spalding.

'No not that.'

'What then? Will they despise him and me?'

'No one who knows you can despise you. No one who sees you can fail to
admire you.' Nora, as she said this, thought of her mother, but told
herself at once that in this matter her mother's judgment had been
altogether destroyed by her disappointment. 'What I think will take
place will be this. His family, when first they hear of it, will be
sorry.'

'Then,' said Caroline, 'I will put an end to it.'

'You can't do that, dear. You are engaged, and you haven't a right. I
am engaged to a man, and all my friends object to it. But I shan't put
an end to it. I don't think I have a right. I shall not do it any way,
however.'

'But if it were for his good?'

'It couldn't be for his good. He and I have got to go along together
somehow.'

'You wouldn't hurt him,' said Caroline.

'I won't if I can help it, but he has got to take me along with him any
how; and Mr Glascock has got to take you. If I were you, I shouldn't
ask any more questions.'

'It isn't the same. You said that you were to be poor, but he is very
rich. And I am beginning to understand that these titles of yours are
something like kings' crowns. The man who has to wear them can't do
just as he pleases with them. Noblesse oblige. I can see the meaning of
that, even when the obligation itself is trumpery in its nature. If it
is a man's duty to marry a Talbot because he's a Howard, I suppose he
ought to do his duty.' After a pause she went on again. 'I do believe
that I have made a mistake. It seemed to be absurd at the first to
think of it, but I do believe it now. Even what you say to me makes me
think it.'

'At any rate you can't go back,' said Nora enthusiastically.

'I will try.'

'Go to himself and ask him. You must leave him to decide it at last. I
don't see how a girl when she is engaged, is to throw a man over unless
he consents. Of course you can throw yourself into the Arno.'

'And get the water into my shoes for it wouldn't do much more at
present.'

'And you can jilt him,' said Nora.

'It would not be jilting him.'

'He must decide that. If he so regards it, it will be so. I advise you
to think no more about it; but if you speak to anybody it should be to
him.' This was at last the result of Nora's wisdom, and then the two
girls descended together to the room in which Lady Rowley was sitting
with her other daughters. Lady Rowley was very careful in asking after
Miss Spalding's sister, and Miss Spalding assured her that Olivia was
quite well. Then Lady Rowley made some inquiry about Olivia and Mr
Glascock, and Miss Spalding assured her that no two persons were ever
such allies, and that she believed that they were together at this
moment investigating some old church. Lady Rowley simpered, and
declared that nothing could be more proper, and expressed a hope that
Olivia would like England. Caroline Spalding, having still in her mind
the trouble that had brought her to Nora, had not much to say about
this. 'If she goes again to England I am sure she will like it,'
replied Miss Spalding.

'But of course she is going,' said Lady Rowley.

'Of course she will some day, and of course she'll like it,' said Miss
Spalding. 'We both of us have been there already.'

'But I mean Monkhams,' said Lady Rowley, still simpering.

'I declare I believe mamma thinks that your sister is to be married to
Mr Glascock!' said Lucy.

'And so she is isn't she?' said Lady Rowley.

'Oh, mamma!' said Nora, jumping up. 'It is Caroline this one, this one,
this one,' and Nora took her friend by the arm as she spoke 'it is this
one that is to be Mrs Glascock.'

'It is a most natural mistake to make,' said Caroline. Lady Rowley
became very red in the face, and was unhappy. 'I declare,' she said,
'that they told me it was your elder sister.'

'But I have no elder sister,' said Caroline, laughing. 'Of course she
is oldest,' said Nora 'and looks to be so, ever so much. Don't you,
Miss Spalding?'

'I have always supposed so.'

'I don't understand it at all,' said Lady Rowley, who had no image
before her mind's eye but that of Wallachia Petrie, and who was
beginning to feel that she had disgraced her own judgment by the
criticisms she had expressed everywhere as to Mr Glascock's bride. 'I
don't understand it at all. Do you mean that both your sisters are
younger than you, Miss Spalding?'

'I have only got one, Lady Rowley.'

'Mamma, you are thinking of Miss Petrie,' said Nora, clapping both her
hands together.

'I mean the lady that wears the black bugles.'

'Of course you do Miss Petrie. Mamma has all along thought that Mr
Glascock was going to carry away with him the republican Browning!'

'Oh, mamma, how can you have made such a blunder!' said Sophie Rowley.
'Mamma does make such delicious blunders.'

'Sophie, my dear, that is not a proper way of speaking.'

'But, dear mamma, don't you?'

'If somebody has told me wrong, that has not been my fault,' said Lady
Rowley.

The poor woman was so evidently disconcerted that Caroline Spalding was
quite unhappy.

'My dear Lady Rowley, there has been no fault. And why shouldn't it
have been so. Wallachia is so clever, that it is the most natural thing
in the world to have thought.'

'I cannot say that I agree with you there,' said Lady Rowley, somewhat
recovering herself.

'You must know the whole truth now,' said Nora, turning to her friend,
'and you must not be angry with us if we laugh a little at your
poetess. Mamma has been frantic with Mr Glascock because he has been
going to marry whom shall I say her edition of you. She has sworn that
he must be insane. When we have sworn how beautiful you were, and how
nice, and how jolly, and all the rest of it she has sworn that you were
at least a hundred and that you had a red nose. You must admit that
Miss Petrie has a red nose.'

'Is that a sin?'

'Not at all in the woman who has it; but in the man who is going to
marry it yes. Can't you see how we have all been at cross-purposes, and
what mamma has been thinking and saying of poor Mr Glascock? You
mustn't repeat it, of course; but we have had such a battle here about
it. We thought that mamma had lost her eyes and her ears and her
knowledge of things in general. And now it has all come out! You won't
be angry?'

'Why should I be angry?'

'Miss Spalding,' said Lady Rowley, 'I am really unhappy at what has
occurred, and I hope that there may be nothing more said about it. I am
quite sure that somebody told me wrong, or I should not have fallen
into such an error. I beg your pardon and Mr Glascock's!'

'Beg Mr Glascock's pardon, certainly,' said Lucy.

Miss Spalding looked very pretty, smiled very gracefully, and coming up
to Lady Rowley to say good-bye, kissed her on her cheeks. This overcame
the spirit of the disappointed mother, and Lady Rowley never said
another word against Caroline Spalding or her marriage. 'Now, mamma,
what do you think of her?' said Nora, as soon as Caroline was gone.

'Was it odd, my dear, that I should be astonished at his wanting to
marry that other woman?'

'But, mamma, when we told you that she was young and pretty and
bright!'

'I thought that you were all demented. I did indeed. I still think it a
pity that he should take an American. I think that Miss Spalding is
very nice, but there are English girls quite as nice-looking as her.'
After that there was not another word said by Lady Rowley against
Caroline Spalding.

Nora, when she thought of it all that night, felt that she had hardly
spoken to Miss Spalding as she should have spoken as to the treatment
in England which would be accorded to Mr Glascock's wife. She became
aware of the effect which her own hesitation must have had, and thought
that it was her duty to endeavour to remove it. Perhaps, too, the
conversion of her mother had some effect in making her feel that she
had been wrong in supposing that there would be any difficulty in
Caroline's position in England. She had heard so much adverse criticism
from her mother that she had doubted in spite of her own convictions
but now it had come to light that Lady Rowley's criticisms had all come
from a most absurd blunder. 'Only fancy;' she said to herself 'Miss
Petrie coming out as Lady Peterborough! Poor mamma!' And then she
thought of the reception which would be given to Caroline, and of the
place the future Lady Peterborough would fill in the world, and of the
glories of Monkhams! Resolving that she would do her best to counteract
any evil which she might have done, she seated herself at her desk, and
wrote the following letter to Miss Spalding:



'My Dear Caroline,

I am sure you will let me call you so, as had you not felt towards me
like a friend, you would not have come to me today and told me of your
doubts. I think that I did not answer you as I ought to have done when
you spoke to me. I did not like to say anything off-hand, and in that
way I misled you. I feel quite sure that you will encounter nothing in
England as Mr Glascock's wife to make you uncomfortable, and that he
will have nothing to repent. Of course Englishmen generally marry
Englishwomen; and, perhaps, there may be some people who will think
that such a prize should not be lost to their countrywomen. But that
will be all. Mr Glascock commands such universal respect that his wife
will certainly be respected, and I do not suppose that anything will
ever come in your way that can possibly make you feel that he is looked
down upon. I hope you will understand what I mean.

As for your changing now, that is quite impossible. If I were you, I
would not say a word about it to any living being; but just go on
straight forward in your own way, and take the good the gods provide
you as the poet says to the king in the ode. And I think the gods have
provided for you very well and for him.

I do hope that I may see you sometimes. I cannot explain to you how
very much out of your line "we" shall be for of course there is a "we."
People are more separated with us than they are, I suppose, with you.
And my "we" is a very poor man, who works hard at writing in a dingy
newspaper office, and we shall live in a garret and have brown sugar in
our tea, and eat hashed mutton. And I shall have nothing a year to buy
my clothes with. Still I mean to do it; and I don't mean to be long
before I do do it. When a girl has made up her mind to be married, she
had better go on with it at once, and take it all afterwards as it may
come. Nevertheless, perhaps, we may see each other somewhere, and I may
be able to introduce you to the dearest, honestest, very best, and most
affectionate man in the world. And he is very, very clever.

Yours very affectionately,

NORA ROWLEY.

'Thursday morning.'



CHAPTER LXXXI  - MR GLASCOCK IS MASTER

Caroline Spalding, when she received Nora's letter, was not disposed to
give much weight to it. She declared to herself that the girl's
unpremeditated expression of opinion was worth more than her studied
words. But she was not the less grateful or the less loving towards her
new friend. She thought how nice it would be to have Nora at that
splendid abode in England of which she had heard so much but she
thought also that in that splendid abode she herself ought never to
have part or share. If it were the case that this were an unfitting
match, it was clearly her duty to decide that there should be no
marriage. Nora had been quite right in bidding her speak to Mr Glascock
himself, and to Mr Glascock she would go. But it was very difficult for
her to determine on the manner in which she would discuss the subject
with him. She thought that she could be firm if her mind were once made
up. She believed that perhaps she was by nature more firm than he. In
all their intercourse together he had ever yielded to her; and though
she had been always pleased and grateful, there had grown upon her an
idea that he was perhaps too easy that he was a man as to whom it was
necessary that they who loved him should see that he was not led away
by weakness into folly. But she would want to learn something from him
before her decision was finally reached, and in this she foresaw a
great difficulty. In her trouble she went to her usual counsellor the
Republican Browning. In such an emergency she could hardly have done
worse. 'Wally,' she said, 'we talk about England, and Italy, and
France, as though we knew all about them; but how hard it is to realise
the difference between one's own country and others.'

'We can at least learn a great deal that is satisfactory,' said
Wallachia. 'About one out of every five Italians can read a book, about
two out of every five Englishmen can read a book. Out of every five New
Englanders four and four-fifths can read a book. I guess that is
knowing a good deal.'

'I don't mean in statistics.'

'I cannot conceive how you are to learn anything about any country
except by statistics. I have just discovered that the number of
illegitimate children--'

'Oh, Wally, I can't talk about that not now at least. What I cannot
realise is this what sort of a life it is that they will lead at
Monkhams.'

'Plenty to eat and drink, I guess; and you'll always have to go around
in fine clothes.'

'And that will be all?'

'No not all. There will be carriages and horses, and all manner of
people there who won't care much about you. If he is firm very firm if
he have that firmness which one does not often meet, even in an
American man, he will be able, after a while, to give you a position as
an English woman of rank.' It is to be feared that Wallachia Petrie had
been made aware of Caroline's idea as to Mr Glascock's want of purpose.

'And that will be all?'

'If you have a baby, they'll let you go and see it two or three times a
day. I don't suppose you will be allowed to nurse it, because they
never do in England. You have read what the Saturday Review says. In
every other respect the Saturday Review has been the falsest of all
false periodicals, but I guess it has been pretty true in what it has
said about English women.'

'I wish I knew more about it really.'

'When a man has to leap through a window in the dark, Caroline, of
course he doubts whether the feather bed said to be below will be soft
enough for him.'

'I shouldn't fear the leap for myself, if it wouldn't hurt him. Do you
think it possible that society can be so formed that a man should lose
caste because he doesn't marry just one of his own set?'

'It has been so all over the world, my dear. If like to like is to be
true anywhere, it should be true in marriage.'

'Yes but with a difference. He and I are like to like. We come of the
same race, we speak the same language, we worship the same God, we have
the same ideas of culture and of pleasures. The difference is one that
is not patent to the eye or to the ear. It is a difference of
accidental incident, not of nature or of acquirement.'

'I guess you would find, Caroline, that a jury of English matrons sworn
to try you fairly, would not find you to be entitled to come among them
as one of themselves.'

'And how will that affect him?'

'Less powerfully than many others, because he is not impassioned. He
is, perhaps lethargic.'

'No, Wally, he is not lethargic.'

'If you ask me I must speak. It would harass some men almost to death;
it will not do so with him. He would probably find his happiness best
in leaving his old country and coming among your people.'

The idea of Mr Glascock the future Lord Peterborough leaving England,
abandoning Monkhams, deserting his duty in the House of Lords, and
going away to live in an American town, in order that he might escape
the miseries which his wife had brought upon him in his own country,
was more than Caroline could bear. She knew that, at any rate, it would
not come to that. The lord of Monkhams would live at Monkhams, though
the heavens should fall in regard to domestic comforts. It was clear to
Caroline that Wallachia Petrie had in truth never brought home to her
own imagination the position of an English peer. 'I don't think you
understand the people at all,' she said angrily.

'You think that you can understand them better because you are engaged
to this man!' said Miss Petrie, with well-pronounced irony. 'You have
found generally that when the sun shines in your eyes your sight is
improved by it! You think that the love-talk of a few weeks gives
clearer instruction than the laborious reading of many volumes and
thoughtful converse with thinking persons! I hope that you may find it
so, Caroline.' So saying Wallachia Petrie walked off in great dudgeon.

Miss Petrie, not having learned from her many volumes and her much
converse with thoughtful persons to read human nature aright, was
convinced by this conversation that her friend Caroline was blind to
all results, and was determined to go on with this dangerous marriage,
having the rays of that sun of Monkhams so full upon her eyes that she
could not see at all. She was specially indignant at finding that her
own words had no effect. But, unfortunately, her words had had much
effect; and Caroline, though she had contested her points, had done so
only with the intention of producing her Mentor's admonitions. Of
course it was out of the question that Mr Glascock should go and live
in Providence, Rhode Island, from which thriving town Caroline Spalding
had come; but, because that was impossible, it was not the less
probable that he might be degraded and made miserable in his own home.
That suggested jury of British matrons was a frightful conclave to
contemplate, and Caroline was disposed to believe that the verdict
given in reference to herself would be adverse to her. So she sat and
meditated, and spoke not a word further to any one on the subject till
she was alone with the man that she loved.

Mr Spalding at this time inhabited the ground floor of a large palace
in the city, from which there was access to a garden which at this
period of the year was green, bright, and shady, and which as being in
the centre of a city was large and luxurious. From one end of the house
there projected a covered terrace, or loggia, in which there were
chairs and tables, sculptured ornaments, busts, and old monumental
relics let into the wall in profusion. It was half chamber and half
garden such an adjunct to a house as in our climate would give only an
idea of cold, rheumatism, and a false romance, but under an Italian sky
is a luxury daily to be enjoyed during most months of the year. Here Mr
Glascock and Caroline had passed many hours and here they were now
seated, late in the evening, while all others of the family were away.
As far as regarded the rooms occupied by the American Minister, they
had the house and garden to themselves, and there never could come a
time more appropriate for the saying of a thing difficult to be said.
Mr Glascock had heard from his father's physician, and had said that it
was nearly certain now that he need not go down to Naples again before
his marriage. Caroline was trembling, not knowing how to speak, not
knowing how to begin but resolved that the thing should be done. 'He
will never know you, Carry,' said Mr Glascock. 'It is, perhaps, hardly
a sorrow to me, but it is a regret.'

'It would have been a sorrow perhaps to him had he been able to know
me,' said she, taking the opportunity of rushing at her subject.

'Why so? Of all human beings he was the softest-hearted.'

'Not softer-hearted than you, Charles. But soft hearts have to be
hardened.'

'What do you mean? Am I becoming obdurate?'

'I am, Charles,' she said. 'I have got something to say to you. What
will your uncles and aunts and your mother's relations say of me when
they see me at Monkhams?'

'They will swear to me that you are charming; and then when my back is
turned they'll pick you to pieces a little among themselves. I believe
that is the way of the world, and I don't suppose that we are to do
better than others.'

'And if you had married an English girl, a Lady Augusta Somebody would
they pick her to pieces?'

'I guess they would as you say.'

'Just the same?'

'I don't think anybody escapes, as far as I can see. But that won't
prevent their becoming your bosom friends in a few weeks time.'

'No one will say that you have been wrong to marry an American girl?'

'Now, Carry, what is the meaning of all this?'

'Do you know any man in your position who ever did marry an American
girl any man of your rank in England?' Mr Glascock began to think of
the case, and could not at the moment remember any instance. 'Charles,
I do not think you ought to be the first.'

'And yet somebody must be first, if the thing is ever to be done and I
am too old to wait on the chance of being the second.'

She felt that at the rate she was now progressing she would only run
from one little suggestion to another, and that he, either wilfully or
in sheer simplicity, would take such suggestions simply as jokes; and
she was aware that she lacked the skill to bring the conversation round
gradually to the point which she was bound to reach. She must make
another dash, let it be ever so sudden. Her mode of doing so would be
crude, ugly almost vulgar, she feared; but she would attain her object
and say what she had to say. When once she had warmed herself with the
heat which argument would produce, then, she was pretty sure, she would
find herself at least as strong as he. 'I don't know that the thing
ought to be done at all,' she said. During the last moment or two he
had put his arm round her waist; and she, not choosing to bid him
desist from embracing her, but unwilling in her present mood to be
embraced, got up and stood before him. 'I have thought, and thought,
and thought, and feel that it should not be done. In marriage, like
should go to like.' She despised herself for using Wallachia's words,
but they fitted in so usefully, that she could not refrain from them.
'I was wrong not to know it before, but it is better to know it now,
than not to have known it till too late. Everything that I hear and see
tells me that it would be so. If you were simply an Englishman, I would
go anywhere with you; but I am not fit to be the wife of an English
lord. The time would come when I should be a disgrace to you, and then
I should die.'

'I think I should go near dying myself,' said he, 'if you were a
disgrace to me.' He had not risen from his chair, and sat calmly
looking up into her face.

'We have made a mistake, and let us unmake it,' she continued. 'I will
always be your friend. I will correspond with you. I will come and see
your wife.'

'That will be very kind!'

'Charles, if you laugh at me, I shall be angry with you. It is right
that you should look to your future life, as it is right that I should
do so also. Do you think that I am joking? Do you suppose that I do not
mean it?'

'You have taken an extra dose this morning of Wallachia Petrie, and of
course you mean it.'

'If you think that I am speaking her mind and not my own, you do not
know me.'

'And what is it you propose?' he said, still keeping his seat and
looking calmly up into her face.

'Simply that our engagement should be over.'

'And why?'

'Because it is not a fitting one for you to have made. I did not
understand it before, but now I do. It will not be good for you to
marry an American girl. It will not add to your happiness, and may
destroy it. I have learned, at last, to know how much higher is your
position than mine.'

'And I am to be supposed to know nothing about it?'

'Your fault is only this that you have been too generous. I can be
generous also.'

'Now, look here, Caroline, you must not be angry with me if on such a
subject I speak plainly. You must not even be angry if I laugh a
little.'

'Pray do not laugh at me! not now.'

'I must a little, Carry. Why am I supposed to be so ignorant of what
concerns my own happiness and my own duties? If you will not sit down,
I will get up, and we will take a turn together.' He rose from his
seat, but they did not leave the covered terrace. They moved on to the
extremity, and then he stood hemming her in against a marble table in
the corner. 'In making this rather wild proposition, have you
considered me at all?'

'I have endeavoured to consider you, and you only.'

'And how have you done it? By the aid of some misty, far-fetched ideas
respecting English society, for which you have no basis except your own
dreams and by the fantasies of a rabid enthusiast.'

'She is not rabid,' said Caroline earnestly; 'other people think just
the same.'

'My dear, there is only one person whose thinking on this subject is of
any avail, and I am that person. Of course, I can't drag you into
church to be married, but practically you can not help yourself from
being taken there now. As there need be no question about our marriage
which is a thing as good as done--'

'It is not done at all,' said Caroline.

'I feel quite satisfied you will not jilt me, and as I shall insist on
having the ceremony performed, I choose to regard it as a certainty.
Passing that by, then, I will go on to the results. My uncles, and
aunts, and cousins, and the people you talk of, were very reasonable
folk when I last saw them, and quite sufficiently alive to the fact
that they had to regard me as the head of their family. I do not doubt
that we shall find them equally reasonable when we get home; but should
they be changed, should there be any sign shewn that my choice of a
wife had occasioned displeasure such displeasure would not affect you.'

'But it would affect you.'

'Not at all. In my own house I am master and I mean to continue to be
so. You will be mistress there, and the only fear touching such a
position is that it may be recognised by others too strongly. You have
nothing to fear, Carry.'

'It is of you I am thinking.'

'Nor have I. What if some old women, or even some young women, should
turn up their noses at the wife I have chosen, because she has not been
chosen from among their own countrywomen, is that to be a cause of
suffering to us? Can not we rise above that lasting as it would do for
a few weeks, a month or two perhaps say a year till my Caroline shall
have made herself known? I think that we are strong enough to live down
a trouble so light.' He had come close to her as he was speaking, and
had again put his arm round her waist.

She tried to escape from his embrace not with persistency, not with the
strength which always suffices for a woman when the embrace is in truth
a thing to be avoided, but clutching at his fingers with hers, pressing
them rather than loosening their grasp. 'No, Carry,' he continued; 'we
have got to go through with it now, and we will try and make the best
of it. You may trust me that we shall not find it difficult not, at
least, on the ground of your present fears. I can bear a heavier burden
than you will bring upon me.'

'I know that I ought to prove to you that I am right,' she said, still
struggling with his hand.

'And I know that you can prove nothing of the kind. Dearest, it is
fixed between us now, and do not let us be so silly as to raise
imaginary difficulties. Of course you would have to marry me, even if
there were cause for such fears. If there were any great cause, still
the game would be worth the candle. There could be no going back, let
the fear be what it might. But there need be no fear if you will only
love me.' She felt that he was altogether too strong for her that she
had mistaken his character in supposing that she could be more firm
than he. He was so strong that he treated her almost as a child and yet
she loved him infinitely the better for so treating her. Of course, she
knew now that her objection, whether true or unsubstantial, could not
avail. As he stood with his arm round her, she was powerless to
contradict him in anything. She had so far acknowledged this that she
no longer struggled with him, but allowed her hand to remain quietly
within his. If there was no going back from this bargain that had been
made why, then, there was no need for combating. And when he stooped
over her and kissed her lips, she had not a word to say. 'Be good to
me,' he said, 'and tell me that I am right.'

'You must be master, I suppose, whether you are right or wrong. A man
always thinks himself entitled to his own way.'

'Why, yes. When he has won the battle, he claims his captive. Now, the
truth is this, I have won the battle, and your friend, Miss Petrie, has
lost it. I hope she will understand that she has been beaten at last
out of the field.' As he said this, he heard a step behind them, and
turning round saw Wallachia there almost before he could drop his arm.

'I am sorry that I have intruded on you,' she said very grimly.

'Not in the least,' said Mr Glascock. 'Caroline and I have had a little
dispute, but we have settled it without coming to blows.'

'I do not suppose that an English gentleman ever absolutely strikes a
lady,' said Wallachia Petrie.

'Not except on strong provocation,' said Mr Glascock. 'In reference to
wives, a stick is allowed as big as your thumb.'

'I have heard that it is so by the laws of England,' said Wallachia.

'How can you be so ridiculous, Wally!' said Caroline. 'There is nothing
that you would not believe.'

'I hope that it may never be true in your case,' said Wallachia.

A couple of days after this Miss Spalding found that it was absolutely
necessary that she should explain the circumstances of her position to
Nora. She had left Nora with the purpose of performing a very
high-minded action, of sacrificing herself for the sake of her lover,
of giving up all her golden prospects, and of becoming once again the
bosom friend of Wallachia Petrie, with this simple consolation for her
future life that she had refused to marry an English nobleman because
the English nobleman's condition was unsuited to her. It would have
been an episode in female life in which pride might be taken but all
that was now changed. She had made her little attempt had made it, as
she felt, in a very languid manner, and had found herself treated as a
child for doing so. Of course she was happy in her ill success; of
course she would have been broken-hearted had she succeeded. But,
nevertheless, she was somewhat lowered in her own esteem, and it was
necessary that she should acknowledge the truth to the friend whom she
had consulted. A day or two had passed before she found herself alone
with Nora, but when she did so she confessed her failure at once.

'You told him all, then?' said Nora.

'Oh yes, I told him all. That is, I could not really tell him. When the
moment came I had no words.'

'And what did he say?'

'He had words enough. I never knew him to be eloquent before.'

'He can speak out if he likes,' said Nora.

'So I have found with a vengeance. Nobody was ever so put down as I
was. Don't you know that there are times when it does not seem to be
worth your while to put out your strength against an adversary? So it
was with him. He just told me that he was my master, and that I was to
do as he bade me.'

'And what did you say?'

'I promised to be a good girl,' said Caroline, 'and not to pretend to
have any opinion of my own ever again. And so we kissed, and were
friends.'

'I dare say there was a kiss, my dear.'

'Of course there was and he held me in his arms, and comforted me, and
told me how to behave just as you would do a little girl. It's all over
now, of course; and if there be a mistake, it is his fault. I feel that
all responsibility is gone from myself, and that for all the rest of my
life I have to do just what he tells me.'

'And what says the divine Wallachia?'

'Poor Wally! She says nothing, but she thinks that I am a castaway and
a recreant. I am a recreant, I know but yet I think that I was right. I
know I could not help myself.'

'Of course you were right, my dear,' said the sage Nora. 'If you had
the notion in your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew how
it would be when you spoke to him.'

'You were not so weak when he came to you.'

'That was altogether another thing. It was not arranged in heaven that
I was to become his captive.'

After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her influence on her
former friend, but admitted to herself that the evil was done, and that
it could not be remedied. According to her theory of life, Caroline
Spalding had been wrong, and weak had shewn herself to be
comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked to get her happiness
from soft effeminate pleasures rather than from rational work and the
useful, independent exercise of her own intelligence. In the privacy of
her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed not absolute tears but many
tearful thoughts over her friend. It was to her a thing very terrible
that the chosen one of her heart should prefer the career of an English
lord's wife to that of an American citizeness, with all manner of
capability for female voting, female speechmaking, female poetising,
and, perhaps, female political action before her. It was a thousand
pities! 'You may take a horse to water,' said Wallachia to herself,
thinking of the ever-freshly springing fountain of her own mind, at
which Caroline Spalding would always have been made welcome freely to
quench her thirst 'but you cannot make him drink if he be not athirst.'
In the future she would have no friend. Never again would she subject
herself to the disgrace of such a failure. But the sacrifice was to be
made, and she knew that it was bootless to waste her words further on
Caroline Spalding. She left Florence before the wedding, and returned
alone to the land of liberty. She wrote a letter to Caroline explaining
her conduct, and Caroline Spalding shewed the letter to her husband as
one that was both loving and eloquent.

'Very loving and eloquent,' he said. 'But, nevertheless, one does think
of sour grapes.'

'There I am sure you wrong her,' said Caroline.



CHAPTER LXXXII - MRS FRENCH'S CARVING KNIFE

During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter. Camilla had
sworn that if Mr Gibson did not come to, there should be a tragedy, and
it appeared that she was inclined to keep her word. Immediately after
the receipt of her letter from Mr Gibson she had had an interview with
that gentleman in his lodgings, and had asked him his intentions. He
had taken measures to fortify himself against such an attack; but,
whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken through them. She had
stood before him as he sat in his armchair, and he had been dumb in her
presence. It had perhaps been well for him that the eloquence of her
indignation had been so great that she had hardly been able to pause a
moment for a reply. 'Will you take your letter back again?' she had
said. 'I should be wrong to do that,' he had lisped out in reply,
'because it is true. As a Christian minister I could not stand with you
at the altar with a lie in my mouth.' In no other way did he attempt to
excuse himself but that, twice repeated, filled up all the pause which
she made for him.

There never had been such a case before so impudent, so cruel, so
gross, so uncalled for, so unmanly, so unnecessary, so unjustifiable,
so damnable so sure of eternal condemnation! All this she said to him
with loud voice, and clenched fist, and starting eyes regardless
utterly of any listeners on the stairs, or of outside passers in the
street. In very truth she was moved to a sublimity of indignation. Her
low nature became nearly poetic under the wrong inflicted upon her. She
was almost tempted to tear him with her hands, and inflict upon him at
the moment some terrible vengeance which should be told of for ever in
the annals of Exeter. A man so mean as he, so weak, so cowardly, one so
little of a hero that he should dare to do it, and dare to sit there
before her, and to say that he would do it! 'Your gown shall be torn
off your back, Sir, and the very boys of Exeter shall drag you through
the gutters!' To this threat he said nothing, but sat mute, hiding his
face in his hands. 'And now tell me this, sir is there anything between
you and Bella?' But there was no voice in reply. 'Answer my question,
sir. I have a right to ask it.' Still he said not a word. 'Listen to
me. Sooner than that you and she should be man and wife, I would stab
her! Yes, I would you poor, paltry, lying, cowardly creature!' She
remained with him for more than half an hour, and then banged out of
the room flashing back a look of scorn at him as she went. Martha,
before that day was over, had learned the whole story from Mr Gibson's
cook, and had told her mistress.

'I did not think he had so much spirit in him,' was Miss Stanbury's
answer. Throughout Exeter the great wonder arising from the crisis was
the amount of spirit which had been displayed by Mr Gibson.

When he was left alone he shook himself, and began to think that if
there were danger that such interviews might occur frequently he had
better leave Exeter for good. As he put his hand over his forehead, he
declared to himself that a very little more of that kind of thing would
kill him. When a couple of hours had passed over his head he shook
himself again, and sat down and wrote a letter to his intended
mother-in-law.

'I do not mean to complain,' he said, 'God knows I have no right; but I
cannot stand a repetition of what has occurred just now. If your
younger daughter comes to see me again I must refuse to see her, and
shall leave the town. I am ready to make what reparation may be
possible for the mistake into which I have fallen.

'T. G.'



Mrs French was no doubt much afraid of her younger daughter, but she
was less afraid of her than were other people. Familiarity, they say,
breeds contempt; and who can be so familiar with a child as its parent?
She did not in her heart believe that Camilla would murder anybody, and
she fully realised the conviction that, even after all that was come
and gone, it would be better that one of her daughters should have a
husband than that neither should be so blessed. If only Camilla could
be got out of Exeter for a few months how good a thing it would be for
them all! She had a brother in Gloucester if only he could be got to
take Camilla for a few months! And then, too, she knew that if the true
rights of her two daughters were strictly and impartially examined,
Arabella's claim was much stronger than any that Camilla could put
forward to the hand of Mr Gibson.

'You must not go there again, Camilla,' the mother said.

'I shall go whenever I please,' replied the fury.

'Now, Camilla, we may as well understand each other. I will not have it
done. If I am provoked, I will send to your uncle at Gloucester.' Now
the uncle at Gloucester was a timber merchant, a man with protuberant
eyes and a great square chin known to be a very stern man indeed, and
not at all afraid of young women.

'What do I care for my uncle? My uncle would take my part.'

'No, he would not. The truth is, Camilla, you interfered with Bella
first.'

'Mamma, how dare you say so!'

'You did, my dear. And these are the consequences.'

'And you mean to say that she is to be Mrs Gibson?'

'I say nothing about that. But I do not see why they shouldn't be
married if their hearts are inclined to each other.'

'I will die first!'

'Your dying has nothing to do with it, Camilla.'

'And I will kill her!'

'If you speak to me again in that way I will write to your uncle at
Gloucester. I have done the best I could for you both, and I will not
bear such treatment.'

'And how am I treated?'

'You should not have interfered with your sister.'

'You are all in a conspiracy together,' shouted Camilla, 'you are!
There never was anybody so badly treated never never never! What will
everybody say of me?'

'They will pity you, if you will be quiet.'

'I don't want to be pitied I won't be pitied. I wish I could die and I
will die! Anybody else would, at any rate, have had their mother and
sister with them!' Then she burst into a flood of real, true, womanly
tears.

After this there was a lull at Heavitree for a few days. Camilla did
not speak to her sister, but she condescended to hold some intercourse
with her mother, and to take her meals at the family table. She did not
go out of the house, but she employed herself in her own room, doing no
one knew what, with all that new clothing and household gear which was
to have been transferred in her train to Mr Gibson's house. Mrs French
was somewhat uneasy about the new clothing and household gear, feeling
that, in the event of Bella's marriage, at least a considerable portion
of it must be transferred to the new bride. But it was impossible at
the present moment to open such a subject to Camilla it would have been
as a proposition to a lioness respecting the taking away of her whelps.
Nevertheless, the day must soon come in which something must be said
about the clothing and household gear. All the property that had been
sent into the house at Camilla's orders could not be allowed to remain
as Camilla's perquisites, now that Camilla was not to be married. 'Do
you know what she is doing, my dear?' said Mrs French to her elder
daughter.

'Perhaps she is picking out the marks,' said Bella.

'I don't think she would do that as yet,' said Mrs French.

'She might just as well leave it alone,' said Bella, feeling that one
of the two letters would do for her. But neither of them dared to speak
to her of her occupation in these first days of her despair.

Mr Gibson in the meantime remained at home, or only left his house to
go to the Cathedral or to visit the narrow confines of his little
parish. When he was out he felt that everybody looked at him, and it
seemed to him that people whispered about him when they saw him at his
usual desk in the choir. His friends passed him merely bowing to him,
and he was aware that he had done that which would be regarded by every
one around him as unpardonable. And yet what ought he to have done? He
acknowledged to himself that he had been very foolish, mad quite
demented at the moment when he allowed himself to think it possible
that he should marry Camilla French. But having found out how mad he
had been at that moment, having satisfied himself that to live with her
as his wife would be impossible, was he not right to break the
engagement? Could anything be so wicked as marrying a woman whom he
hated? Thus he tried to excuse himself; but yet he knew that all the
world would condemn him. Life in Exeter would be impossible, if no way
to social pardon could be opened for him. He was willing to do anything
within bounds in mitigation of his offence. He would give up fifty
pounds a year to Camilla for his life or he would marry Bella. Yes; he
would marry Bella at once if Camilla would only consent, and give up
that idea of stabbing some one. Bella French was not very nice in his
eyes; but she was quiet, he thought, and it might be possible to live
with her. Nevertheless, he told himself over and over again that the
manner in which unmarried men with incomes were set upon by ladies in
want of husbands was very disgraceful to the country at large. That
mission to Natal which had once been offered to him would have had
charms for him now, of which he had not recognised the force when he
rejected it.

'Do you think that he ever was really engaged to her?' Dorothy said to
her aunt. Dorothy was now living in a seventh heaven of happiness,
writing love-letters to Brooke Burgess every other day, and devoting to
this occupation a number of hours of which she ought to have been
ashamed; making her purchases for her wedding with nothing, however, of
the magnificence of a Camilla but discussing everything with her aunt,
who urged her on to extravagances which seemed beyond the scope of her
own economical ideas; settling, or trying to settle, little
difficulties which perplexed her somewhat, and wondering at her own
career. She could not of course be married without the presence of her
mother and sister, and her aunt with something of a grim courtesy had
intimated that they should be made welcome to the house in the Close
for the special occasion. But nothing had been said about Hugh. The
wedding was to be in the Cathedral, and Dorothy had a little scheme in
her head for meeting her brother among the aisles. He would no doubt
come down with Brooke, and nothing perhaps need be said about it to
Aunt Stanbury. But still it was a trouble. Her aunt had been so good
that Dorothy felt that no step should be taken which would vex the old
woman. It was evident enough that when permission had been given for
the visit of Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla, Hugh's name had been purposely
kept back. There had been no accidental omission. Dorothy, therefore,
did not dare to mention it and yet it was essential for her happiness
that he should be there. At the present moment Miss Stanbury's intense
interest in the Stanbury wedding was somewhat mitigated by the
excitement occasioned by Mr Gibson's refusal to be married. Dorothy was
so shocked that she could not bring herself to believe the statement
that had reached them through Martha.

'Of course he was engaged to her. We all knew that,' said Miss
Stanbury.

'I think there must have been some mistake,' said Dorothy. 'I don't see
how he could do it.'

'There is no knowing what people can do, my dear, when they're hard
driven. I suppose we shall have a lawsuit now, and he'll have to pay
ever so much money. Well, well, well! see what a deal of trouble you
might have saved!'

'But, he'd have done the same to me, aunt only, you know, I never could
have taken him, Isn't it better as it is, aunt? Tell me.'

'I suppose young women always think it best when they can get their own
ways. An old woman like me has only got to do what she is bid.'

'But this was best, aunt was it not?'

'My dear, you've had your way, and let that be enough. Poor Camilla
French is not allowed to have hers at all. Dear, dear, dear! I didn't
think the man would ever have been such a fool to begin with or that he
would ever have had the heart to get out of it afterwards.' It
astonished Dorothy to find that her aunt was not loud in reprobation of
Mr Gibson's very dreadful conduct.

In the meantime Mrs French had written to her brother at Gloucester.
The maid-servant, in making Miss Camilla's bed, and in 'putting the
room to rights,' as she called it which description probably was
intended to cover the circumstances of an accurate search had
discovered, hidden among some linen a carving knife! such a knife as is
used for the cutting up of fowls; and, after two days' interval, had
imparted the discovery to Mrs French. Instant visit was made to the
pantry, and it was found that a very aged but unbroken and
sharply-pointed weapon was missing. Mrs French at once accused Camilla,
and Camilla, after some hesitation, admitted that it might be there.
Molly, she said, was a nasty, sly, wicked thing, to go looking in her
drawers, and she would never leave anything unlocked again. The knife,
she declared, had been taken upstairs, because she had wanted something
very sharp to cut the bones of her stays. The knife was given up, but
Mrs French thought it best to write to her brother, Mr Crump. She was
in great doubt about sundry matters. Had the carving knife really
pointed to a domestic tragedy and if so, what steps ought a poor widow
to take with such a daughter? And what ought to be done about Mr.,
Gibson? It ran through Mrs French's mind that unless something were
done at once, Mr Gibson would escape scot-free. It was her wish that he
should yet become her son-in-law. Poor Bella was entitled to her
chance. But if Bella was to be disappointed from fear of carving
knives, or for other reasons then there came the question whether Mr
Gibson should not be made to pay in purse for the mischief he had done.
With all these thoughts and doubts running through her head, Mrs French
wrote to her brother at Gloucester.

There came back an answer from Mr Crump, in which that gentleman
expressed a very strong idea that Mr Gibson should be prosecuted for
damages with the utmost virulence, and with the least possible delay.
No compromise should be accepted. Mr Crump would himself come to Exeter
and see the lawyer as soon as he should be told that there was a lawyer
to be seen. As to the carving knife, Mr Crump was of opinion that it
did not mean anything. Mr Crump was a gentleman who did not believe in
strong romance, but who had great trust in all pecuniary claims. The
Frenches had always been genteel. The late Captain French had been an
officer in the army, and at ordinary times and seasons the Frenches
were rather ashamed of the Crump connection. But now the timber
merchant might prove himself to be a useful friend.

Mrs French shewed her brother's letter to Bella and poor Bella was
again sore-hearted, seeing that nothing was said in it of her claims.
'It will be dreadful scandal to have it all in the papers!' said Bella.

'But what can we do?'

'Anything would be better than that,' said Bella. 'And you don't want
to punish Mr Gibson, mamma.'

'But my dear, you see what your uncle says. What can I do, except go to
him for advice?'

'Why don't you go to Mr Gibson yourself, mamma?'

But nothing was said to Camilla about Mr Crump nothing as yet. Camilla
did not love Mr Crump, but there was no other house except that of Mr
Crump's at Gloucester to which she might be sent, if it could be
arranged that Mr Gibson and Bella should be made one. Mrs French took
her eldest daughter's advice, and went to Mr Gibson taking Mr Crump's
letter in her pocket. For herself she wanted nothing but was it not the
duty of her whole life to fight for her daughters? Poor woman! If
somebody would only have taught her how that duty might best be done,
she would have endeavoured to obey the teaching. 'You know I do not
want to threaten you,' she said to Mr Gibson; 'but you see what my
brother says. Of course I wrote to my brother. What could a poor woman
do in such circumstances except write to her brother?'

'If you choose to set the bloodhounds of the law at me, of course you
can,' said Mr Gibson.

'I do not want to go to law at all God knows I do not!' said Mrs
French. Then there was a pause. 'Poor dear Bella!' ejaculated Mrs
French.

'Dear Bella!' echoed Mr Gibson.

'What do you mean to do about Bella?' asked Mrs French.

'I sometimes think that I had better take poison and have done with
it!' said Mr Gibson, feeling himself to be very hard pressed.



CHAPTER LXXXIII - BELLA VICTRIX

Mr Crump arrived at Exeter. Camilla was not told of his coming till the
morning of the day on which he arrived; and then the tidings were
communicated, because it was necessary that a change should be made in
the bed-rooms. She and her sister had separate rooms when there was no
visitor with them, but now Mr Crump must be accommodated. There was a
long consultation between Bella and Mrs French, but at last it was
decided that Bella should sleep with her mother. There would still be
too much of the lioness about Camilla to allow of her being regarded as
a safe companion through the watches of the night. 'Why is Uncle Jonas
coming now?' she asked.

'I thought it better to ask him,' said Mrs French.

After a long pause, Camilla asked another question. 'Does Uncle Jonas
mean to see Mr Gibson?'

'I suppose he will,' said Mrs French.

'Then he will see a low, mean fellow: the lowest, meanest fellow that
ever was heard of! But that won't make much difference to Uncle Jonas.
I wouldn't have him now, if he was to ask me ever so that I wouldn't!'

Mr Crump came, and kissed his sister and two nieces. The embrace with
Camilla was not very affectionate.'so your Joe has been and jilted
you?' said Uncle Jonas 'it's like one of them clergymen. They say so
many prayers, they think they may do almost anything afterwards.
Another man would have had his head punched.'

'The less talk there is about it the better,' said Camilla. On the
following day Mr Crump called by appointment on Mr Gibson, and remained
closeted with that gentleman for the greater portion of the morning.
Camilla knew well that he was going, and went about the house like a
perturbed spirit during his absence. There was a look about her that
made them all doubt whether she was not, in truth, losing her mind. Her
mother more than once went to the pantry to see that the knives were
right; and, as regarded that sharp-pointed weapon, was careful to lock
it up carefully out of her daughter's way. Mr Crump had declared
himself willing to take Camilla back to Gloucester, and had laughed at
the obstacles which his niece might, perhaps, throw in the way of such
an arrangement.'she mustn't have much luggage that is all,' said Mr
Crump. For Mr Crump had been made aware of the circumstances of the
trousseau. About three o'clock Mr Crump came back from Mr Gibson's, and
expressed a desire to be left alone with Camilla. Mrs French was
prepared for everything; and Mr Crump soon found himself with his
younger niece.

'Camilla, my dear,' said he, 'this has been a bad business.'

'I don't know what business you mean, Uncle Jonas.'

'Yes, you do, my dear you know. And I hope it won't come too late to
prove to you that young women shouldn't be too keen in setting their
caps at the gentlemen. It's better for them to be hunted, than to
hunt.'

'Uncle Jonas, I will not be insulted.'

'Stick to that, my dear, and you won't get into a scrape again. Now,
look here. This man can never be made to marry you, anyhow.'

'I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs, if he were kneeling at my
feet!'

'That's right; stick to that. Of course, you wouldn't now, after all
that has come and gone. No girl with any spirit would.'

'He's a coward and a thief, and he'll be damned for what he has done,
some of these days!'

'T-ch, t-ch, t-ch! That isn't a proper way for a young lady to talk.
That's cursing and swearing.'

'It isn't cursing and swearing it's what the Bible says.'

'Then we'll leave him to the Bible. In the meantime, Mr Gibson wants to
marry some one else, and that can't hurt you.'

'He may marry whom he likes but he shan't marry Bella that's all!'

'It is Bella that he means to marry.'

'Then he won't. I'll forbid the banns. I'll write to the bishop. I'll
go to the church and prevent its being done. I'll make such a noise in
the town that it can't be done. It's no use your looking at me like
that, Uncle Jonas. I've got my own feelings, and he shall never marry
Bella. It's what they have been intending all through, and it shan't be
done!'

'It will be done.'

'Uncle Jonas, I'll stab her to the heart, and him too, before I'll see
it done! Though I were to be killed the next day, I would. Could you
bear it?'

'I'm not a young woman. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do.'

'I'll not do anything.'

'Just pack up your things, and start with me to Gloucester tomorrow.'

'I won't!'

'Then you'll be carried, my dear. I'll write to your aunt, to say that
you're coming; and we'll be as jolly as possible when we get you home.'

'I won't go to Gloucester, Uncle Jonas. I won't go away from Exeter. I
won't let it be done. She shall never, never, never be that man's
wife!'

Nevertheless, on the day but one after this, Camilla French did go to
Gloucester. Before she went, however, things had to be done in that
house which almost made Mrs French repent that she had sent for so
stern an assistant. Camilla was at last told, in so many words, that
the things which she had prepared for her own wedding must be given up
for the wedding of her sister; and it seemed that this item in the list
of her sorrows troubled her almost more than any other. She swore that
whither she went there should go the dresses, and the handkerchiefs,
and the hats, the bonnets, and the boots. 'Let her have them,' Bella
had pleaded. But Mr Crump was inexorable. He had looked into his
sister's affairs, and found that she was already in debt. To his
practical mind, it was an absurdity that the unmarried sister should
keep things that were wholly unnecessary, and that the sister that was
to be married should be without things that were needed. There was a
big trunk, of which Camilla had the key, but which, unfortunately for
her, had been deposited in her mother's room. Upon this she sat, and
swore that nothing should move her but a promise that her plunder
should remain untouched. But there came this advantage from the
terrible question of the wedding raiments that in her energy to keep
possession of them, she gradually abandoned her opposition to her
sister's marriage. She had been driven from one point to another till
she was compelled at last to stand solely upon her possessions.
'Perhaps we had better let her keep them,' said Mrs French. 'Trash and
nonsense!' said Mr Crump. 'If she wants a new frock, let her have it;
as for the sheets and tablecloths, you'd better keep them yourself. But
Bella must have the rest.'

It was found on the eve of the day on which she was told that she was
to depart that she had in truth armed herself with a dagger or clasp
knife. She actually displayed it when her uncle told her to come away
from the chest on which she was sitting. She declared that she would
defend herself there to the last gasp of her life; but of course the
knife fell from her hand the first moment that she was touched. 'I did
think once that she was going to make a poke at me,' Mr Crump said
afterwards; 'but she had screamed herself so weak that she couldn't do
it.'

When the morning came, she was taken to the fly and driven to the
station without any further serious outbreak. She had even condescended
to select certain articles, leaving the rest of the hymeneal wealth
behind her. Bella, early on that morning of departure, with great
humility, implored her sister to forgive her; but no entreaties could
induce Camilla to address one gracious word to the proposed bride.
'You've been cheating me all along!' she said; and that was the last
word she spoke to poor Bella.

She went, and the field was once more open to the amorous Vicar of St.
Peter's-cum-Pumpkin. It is astonishing how the greatest difficulties
will sink away, and become as it were nothing, when they are
encountered face to face. It is certain that Mr Gibson's position had
been one most trying to the nerves. He had speculated on various modes
of escape a curacy in the north of England would be welcome, or the
duties of a missionary in New Zealand or death. To tell the truth, he
had, during the last week or two, contemplated even a return to the
dominion of Camilla. That there should ever again be things pleasant
for him in Exeter seemed to be quite impossible. And yet, on the
evening of the day but one after the departure of Camilla, he was
seated almost comfortably with his own Arabella! There is nothing that
a man may not do, nothing that he may not achieve, if he have only
pluck enough to go through with it.

'You do love me?' Bella said to him. It was natural that she should ask
him; but it would have been better perhaps if she had held her tongue.
Had she spoken to him about his house, or his income, or the servants,
or the duties of his parish church, it would have been easier for him
to make a comfortable reply.

'Yes I love you,' he replied; 'of course I love you. We have always
been friends, and I hope things will go straight now. I have had a
great deal to go through, Bella, and so have you but God will temper
the wind to the shorn lambs.' How was the wind to be tempered for the
poor lamb who had gone forth shorn down to the very skin!

Soon after this Mrs French returned to the room, and then there was no
more romance. Mrs French had by no means forgiven Mr Gibson all the
trouble he had brought into the family, and mixed a certain amount of
acrimony with her entertainment of him. She dictated to him, treated
him with but scant respect, and did not hesitate to let him understand
that he was to be watched very closely till he was actually and
absolutely married. The poor man had in truth no further idea of
escape. He was aware that he had done that which made it necessary that
he should bear a great deal, and that he had no right to resent
suspicion. When a day was fixed in June on which he should be married
at the church of Heavitree, and it was proposed that he should be
married by banns, he had nothing to urge to the contrary. And when it
was also suggested to him by one of the prebendaries of the Cathedral
that it might be well for him to change his clerical duties for a
period with the vicar of a remote parish in the north of Cornwall so as
to be out of the way of remark from those whom he had scandalised by
his conduct he had no objection to make to that arrangement. When Mrs
MacHugh met him in the Close, and told him that he was a gay Lothario,
he shook his head with a melancholy self-abasement, and passed on
without even a feeling of anger. 'When they smite me on the right
cheek, I turn unto them my left,' he said to himself, when one of the
cathedral vergers remarked to him that after all he was going to be
married at last. Even Bella became dominant over him, and assumed with
him occasionally the air of one who had been injured.

Bella wrote a touching letter to her sister a letter that ought to have
touched Camilla, begging for forgiveness, and for one word of sisterly
love. Camilla answered the letter, but did not send a word of sisterly
love. 'According to my way of thinking, you have been a nasty sly
thing, and I don't believe you'll ever be happy. As for him, I'll never
speak to him again.' That was nearly the whole of her letter. 'You must
leave it to time,' said Mrs French wisely;'she'll come round some day.'
And then Mrs French thought how bad it would be for her if the daughter
who was to be her future companion did not 'come round' some day.

And so it was settled that they should be married in Heavitree Church
Mr Gibson and his first love and things went on pretty much as though
nothing had been done amiss. The gentleman from Cornwall came down to
take Mr Gibson's place at St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin, while his duties in
the Cathedral were temporarily divided among the other priest-vicars
-with some amount of grumbling on their part. Bella commenced her
modest preparations without any of the eclat which had attended
Camilla's operations, but she felt more certainty of ultimate success
than had ever fallen to Camilla's lot. In spite of all that had come
and gone, Bella never feared again that Mr Gibson would be untrue to
her. In regard to him, it must be doubted whether Nemesis ever fell
upon him with a hand sufficiently heavy to punish him for the great
sins which he had manifestly committed. He had encountered a bad week
or two, and there had been days in which, as has been said, he thought
of Natal, of ecclesiastical censures, and even of annihilation; but no
real punishment seemed to fall upon him. It may be doubted whether,
when the whole arrangement was settled for him, and when he heard that
Camilla had yielded to the decrees of Fate, he did not rather flatter
himself on being a successful man of intrigue whether he did not take
some glory to himself for his good fortune with women, and pride
himself amidst his self-reproaches for the devotion which had been
displayed for him by the fair sex in general. It is quite possible that
he taught himself to believe that at one time Dorothy Stanbury was
devotedly in love with him, and that when he reckoned up his sins she
was one of those in regard to whom he accounted himself to have been a
sinner. The spirit of intrigue with women, as to which men will flatter
themselves, is customarily so vile, so mean, so vapid a reflection of a
feeling, so aimless, resultless, and utterly unworthy! Passion exists
and has its sway. Vice has its votaries and there is, too, that
worn-out longing for vice, 'prurient, yet passionless, cold-studied
lewdness', which drags on a feeble continuance with the aid of money.
But the commonest folly of man in regard to women is a weak taste for
intrigue, with little or nothing on which to feed it a worse than
feminine aptitude for male coquetry, which never ascends beyond a
desire that somebody shall hint that there is something peculiar; and
which is shocked and retreats backwards into its boots when anything
like a consequence forces itself on the apprehension. Such men have
their glory in their own estimation. We remember how Falstaff flouted
the pride of his companion whose victory in the fields of love had been
but little glorious. But there are victories going now-a-days so
infinitely less glorious, that Falstaff's page was a Lothario, a very
Don Juan, in comparison with the heroes whose praises are too often
sung by their own lips. There is this recompense that their defeats are
always sung by lips louder than their own. Mr Gibson, when he found
that he was to escape apparently unscathed that people standing
respectably before the world absolutely dared to whisper words to him
of congratulation on this third attempt at marriage within little more
than a year, took pride to himself, and bethought himself that he was a
gay deceiver. He believed that he had selected his wife and that he had
done so in circumstances of peculiar difficulty! Poor Mr Gibson we
hardly know whether most to pity him, or the unfortunate, poor woman
who ultimately became Mrs Gibson.

'And so Bella French is to be the fortunate woman after all,' said Miss
Stanbury to her niece.

'It does seem to me to be so odd,' said Dorothy. 'I wonder how he
looked when he proposed it.'

'Like a fool as he always does.'

Dorothy refrained from remarking that Miss Stanbury had not always
thought that Mr Gibson looked like a fool, but the idea occurred to her
mind. 'I hope they will be happy at last,' she said.

'Pshaw! Such people can't be happy, and can't be unhappy. I don't
suppose it much matters which he marries, or whether he marries them
both, or neither. They are to be married by banns, they say at
Heavitree.'

'I don't see anything bad in that.'

'Only Camilla might step out and forbid them,' said Aunt Stanbury. 'I
almost wish she would.'

'She has gone away, aunt to an uncle who lives at Gloucester.'

'It was well to get her out of the way, no doubt. They'll be married
before you now, Dolly.'

'That won't break my heart, aunt.'

'I don't suppose there'll be much of a wedding. They haven't anybody
belonging to them, except that uncle at Gloucester.' Then there was a
pause. 'I think it is a nice thing for friends to collect together at a
wedding,' continued Aunt Stanbury.

'I think it is,' said Dorothy, in the mildest, softest voice.

'I suppose we must make room for that black sheep of a brother of
yours, Dolly or else you won't be contented.'

'Dear, dear, dearest aunt!' said Dorothy, falling down on her knees at
her aunt's feet.



CHAPTER LXXXIV - SELF-SACRIFICE

Trevelyan, when his wife had left him, sat for hours in silence
pondering over his own position and hers. He had taken his child to an
upper room, in which was his own bed and the boy's cot, and before he
seated himself, he spread out various toys which he had been at pains
to purchase for the unhappy little fellow a regiment of Garibaldian
soldiers all with red shirts, and a drum to give the regiment martial
spirit, and a soft fluffy Italian ball, and a battledore and a
shuttlecock instruments enough for juvenile joy, if only there had been
a companion with whom the child could use them. But the toys remained
where the father had placed them, almost unheeded, and the child sat
looking out of the window, melancholy, silent, and repressed. Even the
drum did not tempt him to be noisy. Doubtless he did not know why he
was wretched, but he was fully conscious of his wretchedness. In the
meantime the father sat motionless, in an old worn-out but once
handsome leathern arm-chair, with his eyes fixed against the opposite
wall, thinking of the wreck of his life.

Thought deep, correct, continued, and energetic is quite compatible
with madness. At this time Trevelyan's mind was so far unhinged, his
ordinary faculties were so greatly impaired, that they who declared him
to be mad were justified in their declaration. His condition was such
that the happiness and welfare of no human being not even his own could
safely be entrusted to his keeping. He considered himself to have been
so injured by the world, to have been the victim of so cruel a
conspiracy among those who ought to have been his friends, that there
remained nothing for him but to flee away from them and remain in
solitude. But yet, through it all, there was something approaching to a
conviction that he had brought his misery upon himself by being unlike
to other men; and he declared to him self over and over again that it
was better that he should suffer than that others should be punished.
When he was alone his reflections respecting his wife were much juster
than were his words when he spoke either with her, or to others, of her
conduct. He would declare to himself not only that he did not believe
her to have been false to him, but that he had never accused her of
such crime. He had demanded from her obedience, and she had been
disobedient. It had been incumbent upon him so ran his own ideas, as
expressed to himself in these long unspoken soliloquies to exact
obedience, or at least compliance, let the consequences be what they
might. She had refused to obey or even to comply, and the consequences
were very grievous. But, though he pitied himself with a pity that was
feminine, yet he acknowledged to himself that her conduct had been the
result of his own moody temperament. Every friend had parted from him.
All those to whose counsels he had listened, had counselled him that he
was wrong. The whole world was against him. Had he remained in England,
the doctors and lawyers among them would doubtless have declared him to
be mad. He knew all this, and yet he could not yield. He could not say
that he had been wrong. He could not even think that he had been wrong
as to the cause of the great quarrel. He was one so miserable and so
unfortunate so he thought that even in doing right he had fallen into
perdition!

He had had two enemies, and between them they had worked his ruin.
These were Colonel Osborne and Bozzle. It may be doubted whether he did
not hate the latter the more strongly of the two. He knew now that
Bozzle had been untrue to him, but his disgust did not spring from that
so much as from the feeling that he had defiled himself by dealing with
the man. Though he was quite assured that he had been right in his
first cause of offence, he knew that he had fallen from bad to worse in
every step that he had taken since. Colonel Osborne had marred his
happiness by vanity, by wicked intrigue, by a devilish delight in doing
mischief; but he, he himself, had consummated the evil by his own
folly. Why had he not taken Colonel Osborne by the throat, instead of
going to a low-born, vile, mercenary spy for assistance? He hated
himself for what he had done and yet it was impossible that he should
yield.

It was impossible that he should yield but it was yet open to him to
sacrifice himself. He could not go back to his wife and say that he was
wrong; but he could determine that the destruction should fall upon him
and not upon her. If he gave up his child and then died died, alone,
without any friend near him, with no word of love in his ears, in that
solitary and miserable abode which he had found for himself then it
would at least be acknowledged that he had expiated the injury that he
had done. She would have his wealth, his name, his child to comfort her
and would be troubled no longer by demands for that obedience which she
had sworn at the altar to give him, and which she had since declined to
render to him. Perhaps there was some feeling that the coals of fire
would be hot upon her head when she should think how much she had
received from him and how little she had done for him. And yet he loved
her, with all his heart, and would even yet dream of bliss that might
be possible with her had not the terrible hand of irresistible Fate
come between them and marred it all. It was only a dream now. It could
be no more than a dream. He put out his thin wasted hands and looked at
them, and touched the hollowness of his own cheeks, and coughed that he
might hear the hacking sound of his own infirmity, and almost took
glory in his weakness. It could not be long before the coals of fire
would be heaped upon her head.

'Louey,' he said at last, addressing the child who had sat for an hour
gazing through the window without stirring a limb or uttering a sound;
'Louey, my boy, would you like to go back to mamma?' The child turned
round on the floor, and fixed his eyes on his father's face, but made
no immediate reply. 'Louey, dear, come to papa and tell him. Would it
be nice to go back to mamma?' And he stretched out his hand to the boy.
Louey got up, and approached slowly and stood between his father's
knees. 'Tell me, darling you understand what papa says?'

'Altro!' said the boy, who had been long enough among Italian servants
to pick up the common words of the language. Of course he would like to
go back. How indeed could it be otherwise?

'Then you shall go to her, Louey.'

'To-day, papa?'

'Not today, nor to-morrow.'

'But the day after?'

'That is sufficient. You shall go. It is not so bad with you that one
day more need be a sorrow to you. You shall go and then you will never
see your father again!' Trevelyan as he said this drew his hands away
so as not to touch the child. The little fellow had put out his arm,
but seeing his father's angry gesture had made no further attempt at a
caress. He feared his father from the bottom of his little heart, and
yet was aware that it was his duty to try to love papa. He did not
understand the meaning of that last threat, but slunk back, passing his
untouched toys, to the window, and there seated himself again, filling
his mind with the thought that when two more long long days should have
crept by, he should once more go to his mother.

Trevelyan had tried his best to be soft and gentle to his child. All
that he had said to his wife of his treatment of the boy had been true
to the letter. He had spared no personal trouble, he had done all that
he had known how to do, he had exercised all his intelligence to
procure amusement for the boy but Louey had hardly smiled since he had
been taken from his mother. And now that he was told that he was to go
and never see his father again, the tidings were to him simply tidings
of joy. 'There is a curse upon me,' said Trevelyan; 'it is written down
in the book of my destiny that nothing shall ever love me!'

He went out from the house, and made his way down by the narrow path
through the olives and vines to the bottom of the hill in front of the
villa. It was evening now, but the evening was very hot, and though the
olive trees stood in long rows, there was no shade. Quite at the bottom
of the hill there was a little sluggish muddy brook, along the sides of
which the reeds grew thickly and the dragon-flies were playing on the
water. There was nothing attractive in the spot, but he was weary, and
sat himself down on the dry hard bank which had been made by repeated
clearing of mud from the bottom of the little rivulet. He sat watching
the dragon-flies as they made their short flights in the warm air, and
told himself that of all God's creatures there was not one to whom less
power of disporting itself in God's sun was given than to him. Surely
it would be better for him that he should die, than live as he was now
living without any of the joys of life. The solitude of Casalunga was
intolerable to him, and yet there was no whither that he could go and
find society. He could travel if he pleased. He had money at command,
and, at any rate as yet, there was no embargo on his personal liberty.
But how could he travel alone even if his strength might suffice for
the work? There had been moments in which he had thought that he would
be happy in the love of his child that the companionship of an infant
would suffice for him if only the infant would love him. But all such
dreams as that were over. To repay him for his tenderness his boy was
always dumb before him. Louey would not prattle as he had used to do.
He would not even smile, or give back the kisses with which his father
had attempted to win him. In mercy to the boy he would send him back to
his mother in mercy to the boy if not to the mother also. It was in
vain that he should look for any joy in any quarter. Were he to return
to England, they would say that he was mad!

He lay there by the brook-side till the evening was far advanced, and
then he arose and slowly returned to the house. The labour of ascending
the hill was so great to him that he was forced to pause and hold by
the olive trees as he slowly performed his task. The perspiration came
in profusion from his pores, and he found himself to be so weak that he
must in future regard the brook as being beyond the tether of his daily
exercise. Eighteen months ago he had been a strong walker, and the
snow-bound paths of Swiss mountains had been a joy to him. He paused as
he was slowly dragging himself on, and looked up at the wretched,
desolate, comfortless abode which he called his home. Its dreariness
was so odious to him that he was half-minded to lay himself down where
he was, and let the night air come upon him and do its worst. In such
case, however, some Italian doctor would be sent down who would say
that he was mad. Above all the things, and to the last, he must save
himself from that degradation.

When he had crawled up to the house, he went to his child, and found
that the woman had put the boy to bed. Then he was angry with himself
in that he himself had not seen to this, and kept up his practice of
attending the child to the last. He would, at least, be true to his
resolution, and prepare for the boy's return to his mother. Not knowing
how otherwise to manage it, he wrote that night the following note to
Mr Glascock:



'Casalunga,

Thursday night.

My Dear Sir,

Since you last were considerate enough to call upon me I have resolved
to take a step in my affairs which, though it will rob me of my only
remaining gratification, will tend to lessen the troubles under which
Mrs Trevelyan is labouring. If she desires it, as no doubt she does, I
will consent to place our boy again in her custody trusting to her
sense of honour to restore him to me should I demand it. In my present
unfortunate position I cannot suggest that she should come for the boy.
I am unable to support the excitement occasioned by her presence. I
will, however, deliver up my darling either to you, or to any messenger
sent by you whom I can trust. I beg heartily to apologise for the
trouble I am giving you, and to subscribe myself yours very faithfully.

Louis Trevelyan

The Hon. C. Glascock.

P.S. It is as well, perhaps, that I should explain that I must decline
to receive any visit from Sir Marmaduke Rowley. Sir Marmaduke has
insulted me grossly on each occasion on which I have seen him since his
return home.'



CHAPTER LXXXV - THE BATHS OF LUCCA

June was now far advanced, and the Rowleys and the Spaldings had
removed from Florence to the Baths of Lucca. Mr Glascock had followed
in their wake, and the whole party were living at the Baths in one of
those hotels in which so many English and Americans are wont to
congregate in the early weeks of the Italian summer. The marriage was
to take place in the last week of the month; and all the party were to
return to Florence for the occasion with the exception of Sir Marmaduke
and Mrs Trevelyan. She was altogether unfitted for wedding joys, and
her father had promised to bear her company when the others left her.
Mr Glascock and Caroline Spalding were to be married in Florence, and
were to depart immediately from thence for some of the cooler parts of
Switzerland. After that Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to return to
London with their daughters, preparatory to that dreary journey back to
the Mandarins; and they had not even yet resolved what they had better
do respecting that unfortunate man who was living in seclusion on the
hilltop near Siena. They had consulted lawyers and doctors in Florence,
but it had seemed that everybody there was afraid of putting the law in
force against an Englishman. Doubtless there was a law in respect to
the custody of the insane; and it was admitted that if Trevelyan were
dangerously mad something could be done; but it seemed that nobody was
willing to stir in such a case as that which now existed. Something, it
was said, might be done at some future time; but the difficulties were
so great that nothing could be done now.

It was very sad, because it was necessary that some decision should be
made as to the future residence of Mrs Trevelyan and of Nora. Emily had
declared that nothing should induce her to go to the Islands with her
father and mother unless her boy went with her. Since her journey to
Casalunga she had also expressed her unwillingness to leave her
husband. Her heart had been greatly softened towards him, and she had
declared that where he remained, there would she remain as near to him
as circumstances would admit. It might be that at last her care would
be necessary for his comfort. He supplied her with means of living, and
she would use these means as well as she might be able in his service.

Then there had arisen the question of Nora's future residence. And
there had come troubles and storms in the family. Nora had said that
she would not go back to the Mandarins, but had not at first been able
to say where or how she would live. She had suggested that she might
stay with her sister, but her father had insisted that she could not
live on the income supplied by Trevelyan. Then, when pressed hard, she
had declared that she intended to live on Hugh Stanbury's income. She
would marry him at once with her father's leave, if she could get it,
but without it if it needs must be so. Her mother told her that Hugh
Stanbury was not himself ready for her; he had not even proposed so
hasty a marriage, nor had he any home fitted for her. Lady Rowley, in
arguing this, had expressed no assent to the marriage, even as a
distant arrangement, but had thought thus to vanquish her daughter by
suggesting small but insuperable difficulties. On a sudden, however,
Lady Rowley found that all this was turned against her, by an offer
that came direct from Mr Glascock. His Caroline, he said, was very
anxious that Nora should come to them at Monkhams as soon as they had
returned home from Switzerland. They intended to be there by the middle
of August, and would hurry there sooner, if there was any immediate
difficulty about finding a home for Nora. Mr Glascock said nothing
about Hugh Stanbury; but, of course, Lady Rowley understood that Nora
had told all her troubles and hopes to Caroline, and that Caroline had
told them to her future husband. Lady Rowley, in answer to this, could
only say that she would consult her husband.

There was something very grievous in the proposition to Lady Rowley. If
Nora had not been self-willed and stiff-necked beyond the usual
self-wilderness and stiff-nakedness of young women she might have been
herself the mistress of Monkhams. It was proposed now that she should
go there to wait till a poor man should have got together shillings
enough to buy a few chairs and tables, and a bed to lie upon! The
thought of this was very bitter. 'I cannot think, Nora, how you could
have the heart to go there,' said Lady Rowley.

'I cannot understand why not, mamma. Caroline and I are friends, and
surely he and I need not be enemies. He has never injured me; and if he
does not take offence, why should I?'

'If you don't see it, I can't help it,' said Lady Rowley.

And then Mrs Spalding's triumph was terrible to Lady Rowley. Mrs
Spalding knew nothing of her future son-in-law's former passion, and
spoke of her Caroline as having achieved triumphs beyond the reach of
other girls. Lady Rowley bore it, never absolutely telling the tale of
her daughter's fruitless victory. She was too good at heart to utter
the boast but it was very hard to repress it. Upon the whole she would
have preferred that Mr Glascock and his bride should not have become
the fast friends of herself and her family. There was more of pain than
of pleasure in the alliance. But circumstances had been too strong for
her. Mr Glascock had been of great use in reference to Trevelyan, and
Caroline and Nora had become attached to each other almost on their
first acquaintance. Here they were together at the Baths of Lucca, and
Nora was to be one of the four bridesmaids. When Sir Marmaduke was
consulted about this visit to Monkhams, he became fretful, and would
give no answer. The marriage, he said, was impossible, and Nora was a
fool. He could give her no allowance more than would suffice for her
clothes, and it was madness for her to think of stopping in England.
But he was so full of cares that he could come to no absolute decision
on this matter. Nora, however, had come to a very absolute decision.

'Caroline,' she said, 'if you will have me, I will go to Monkhams.'

'Of course we will have you. Has not Charles said how delighted he
would be?'

'Oh yes your Charles,' said Nora laughing.

'He is mine now, dear. You must not expect him to change his mind
again. I gave him the chance, you know, and he would not take it. But,
Nora, come to Monkhams, and stay as long as it suits. I have talked it
all over with him, and we both agree that you shall have a home there.
You shall be just like a sister. Olivia is coming too after a bit; but
he says there is room for a dozen sisters. Of course it will be all
right with Mr Stanbury after a while.' And so it was settled among them
that Nora Rowley should find a home at Monkhams, if a home in England
should be wanted for her.

It wanted but four days to that fixed for the marriage at Florence, and
but six to that on which the Rowleys were to leave Italy for England,
when Mr Glascock received Trevelyan's letter. It was brought to him as
he was sitting at a late breakfast in the garden of the hotel; and
there were present at the moment not only all the Spalding family, but
the Rowleys also. Sir Marmaduke was there and Lady Rowley, and the
three unmarried daughters; but Mrs Trevelyan, as was her wont, had
remained alone in her own room. Mr Glascock read the letter, and read
it again, without attracting much attention. Caroline, who was of
course sitting next to him, had her eyes upon him, and could see that
the letter moved him; but she was not curious, and at any rate asked no
question. He himself understood fully how great was the offer made how
all-important to the happiness of the poor mother and he was also
aware, or thought that he was aware, how likely it might be that the
offer would be retracted. As regarded himself, a journey from the Baths
at Lucca to Casalunga and back before his marriage, would be a great
infliction on his patience. It was his plan to stay where he was till
the day before his marriage, and then to return to Florence with the
rest of the party. All this must be altered, and sudden changes must be
made, if he decided on going to Siena himself. The weather now was very
hot, and such a journey would be most disagreeable to him. Of course he
had little schemes in his head, little amatory schemes for prenuptial
enjoyment, which, in spite of his mature years, were exceedingly
agreeable to him. The chestnut woods round the Baths of Lucca are very
pleasant in the early summer, and there were excursions planned in
which Caroline would be close by his side almost already his wife. But,
if he did not go, whom could he send? It would be necessary at least
that he should consult her, the mother of the child, before any
decision was formed.

At last he took Lady Rowley aside, and read to her the letter. She
understood at once that it opened almost a heaven of bliss to her
daughter and she understood also how probable it might be that wretched
man, with his shaken wits, should change his mind. 'I think I ought to
go,' said Mr Glascock. 'But how can you go now?'

'I can go,' said he. 'There is time for it. It need not put off my
marriage to which of course I could not consent. I do not know whom I
could send.'

'Moonier could go,' said Lady Rowley, naming the courier.

'Yes he could go. But it might be that he would return without the
child, and then we should not forgive ourselves. I will go, Lady
Rowley. After all, what does it signify? I am a little old, I sometimes
think, for this philandering. You shall take his letter to your
daughter, and I will explain it all to Caroline.'

Caroline had not a word to say. She could only kiss him, and promise to
make him what amends she could when he came back. 'Of course you are
right,' she said. 'Do you think that I would say a word against it,
even though the marriage were to be postponed?'

'I should a good many words. But I will be back in time for that, and
will bring the boy with me.'

Mrs Trevelyan, when her husband's letter was read to her, was almost
overcome by the feelings which it excited. In her first paroxysm of joy
she declared that she would herself go to Siena, not for her child's
sake, but for that of her husband. She felt at once that the boy was
being given up because of the father's weakness because he felt himself
to be unable to be a protector to his son and her woman's heart was
melted with softness as she thought of the condition of the man to whom
she had once given her whole heart. Since then, doubtless, her heart
had revolted from him. Since that time there had come hours in which
she had almost hated him for his cruelty to her. There had been moments
in which she had almost cursed his name because of the aspersion which
it had seemed that he had thrown upon her. But this was now forgotten,
and she remembered only his weakness. 'Mamma,' she said, 'I will go. It
is my duty to go to him.' But Lady Rowley withheld her, explaining that
were she to go, the mission might probably fail in its express purpose.
'Let Louey be sent to us first,' said Lady Rowley, 'and then we will
see what can be done afterwards.'

And so Mr Glascock started, taking with him a maid-servant who might
help him with the charge of the child. It was certainly very hard upon
him. In order to have time for his journey to Siena and back, and time
also to go out to Casalunga, it was necessary that he should leave the
Baths at five in the morning. 'If ever there was a hero of romance, you
are he!' said Nora to him.

'The heroes of life are so much better than the heroes of romance,'
said Caroline.

'That is a lesson from the lips of the American Browning,' said Mr
Glascock. 'Nevertheless, I think I would rather ride a charge against a
Paynim knight in Palestine than get up at half-past four in the
morning.'

'We will get up too, and give the knight his coffee,' said Nora. They
did get up, and saw him off; and when Mr Glascock and Caroline parted
with a lover's embrace, Nora stood by as a sister might have done. Let
us hope that she remembered that her own time was coming.

There had been a promise given by Nora, when she left London, that she
would not correspond with Hugh Stanbury while she was in Italy, and
this promise had been kept. It may be remembered that Hugh had made a
proposition to his lady-love, that she should walk out of the house one
fine morning, and get herself married without any reference to her
father's or her mother's wishes. But she had not been willing to take
upon herself as yet independence so complete as this would have
required. She had assured her lover that she did mean to marry him some
day, even though it should be in opposition to her father, but that she
thought that the period for filial persuasion was not yet over; and
then, in explaining all this to her mother, she had given a promise
neither to write nor to receive letters during the short period of her
sojourn in Italy. She would be an obedient child for so long but, after
that, she must claim the right to fight her own battle. She had told
her lover that he must not write; and, of course, she had not written a
word herself. But now, when her mother threw it in her teeth that
Stanbury would not be ready to marry her, she thought that an unfair
advantage was being taken of her and of him. How could he be expected
to say that he was ready deprived as he was of the power of saying
anything at all?

'Mamma,' she said, the day before they went to Florence, 'has papa
fixed about your leaving England yet? I suppose you'll go now on the
last Saturday in July?'

'I suppose we shall, my dear.'

'Has not papa written about the berths?'

'I believe he has, my dear.'

'Because he ought to know who are going. I will not go.

'You will not, Nora. Is that a proper way of speaking?'

'Dear mamma, I mean it to be proper. I hope it is proper. But is it not
best that we should understand each other. All my life depends on my
going or my staying now. I must decide.'

'After what has passed, you do not, I suppose, mean to live in Mr
Glascock's house?'

'Certainly not. I mean to live with with with my husband. Mamma, I
promised not to write, and I have not written. And he has not written
because I told him not. Therefore, nothing is settled. But it is not
fair to throw it in my teeth that nothing is settled.'

'I have thrown nothing in your teeth, Nora.'

'Papa talks sneeringly about chairs and tables. Of course, I know what
he is thinking of. As I cannot go with him to the Mandarins, I think I
ought to be allowed to look after the chairs and tables.'

'What do you mean, my dear?'

'That you should absolve me from my promise, and let me write to Mr
Stanbury. I do not want to be left without a home.'

'You cannot wish to write to a gentleman and ask him to marry you!'

'Why not? We are engaged. I shall not ask him to marry me that is
already settled; but I shall ask him to make arrangements.'

'Your papa will be very angry if you break your word to him.'

'I will write, and show you the letter. Papa may see it, and if he will
not let it go, it shall not go. He shall not say that I broke my word.
But, mamma, I will not go out to the Islands. I should never get back
again, and I should be broken-hearted.' Lady Rowley had nothing to say
to this; and Nora went and wrote her letter. 'Dear Hugh,' the letter
ran, 'Papa and mamma leave England on the last Saturday in July. I have
told mamma that I cannot return with them. Of course, you know why I
stay. Mr .Glascock is to be married the day after to-morrow, and they
have asked me to go with them to Monkhams some time in August. I think
I shall do so, unless Emily wants me to remain with her. At any rate, I
shall try to be with her till I go there. You will understand why I
tell you all this. Papa and mamma know that I am writing. It is only a
business letter, and, therefore, I shall say no more, except that I am
ever and always yours NORA.' 'There,' she said, handing her letter to
her mother, 'I think that ought to be sent. If papa chooses to prevent
its going, he can.'

Lady Rowley, when she handed the letter to her husband, recommended
that it should be allowed to go to its destination. She admitted that,
if they sent it, they would thereby signify their consent to her
engagement and she alleged that Nora was so strong in her will, and
that the circumstances of their journey out to the Antipodes were so
peculiar, that it was of no avail for them any longer to oppose the
match. They could not force their daughter to go with them. 'But I can
cast her off from me, if she be disobedient,' said Sir Marmaduke. Lady
Rowley, however, had no desire that her daughter should be cast off,
and was aware that Sir Marmaduke, when it came to the point of casting
off, would be as little inclined to be stern as she was herself. Sir
Marmaduke, still hoping that firmness would carry the day, and
believing that it behoved him to maintain his parental authority, ended
the discussion by keeping possession of the letter, and saying that he
would take time to consider the matter. 'What security have we that he
will ever marry her, if she does stay?' he asked the next morning. Lady
Rowley had no doubt on this score, and protested that her opposition to
Hugh Stanbury arose simply from his want of income. 'I should never be
justified,' said Sir Marmaduke, 'if I were to go and leave my girl as
it were in the hands of a penny-a-liner.' The letter, in the end, was
not sent; and Nora and her father hardly spoke to each other as they
made their journey back to Florence together.

Emily Trevelyan, before the arrival of that letter from her husband,
had determined that she would not leave Italy. It had been her purpose
to remain somewhere in the neighbourhood of her husband and child; and
to overcome her difficulties or be overcome by them, as circumstances
might direct. Now her plans were again changed or, rather, she was now
without a plan. She could form no plan till she should again see Mr
Glascock. Should her child be restored to her, would it not be her duty
to remain near her husband? All this made Nora's line of conduct the
more difficult for her. It was acknowledged that she could not remain
in Italy. Mrs Trevelyan's position would be most embarrassing; but as
all her efforts were to be used towards a reconciliation with her
husband, and as his state utterly precluded the idea of a mixed
household of any such a family arrangement as that which had existed in
Curzon Street Nora could not remain with her. Mrs Trevelyan herself had
declared that she would not wish it. And, in that case, where was Nora
to bestow herself when Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley had sailed?
Caroline offered to curtail those honeymoon weeks in Switzerland, but
it was impossible to listen to an offer so magnanimous and so
unreasonable. Nora had a dim romantic idea of sharing Priscilla's
bedroom in that small cottage near Nuncombe Putney, of which she had
heard, and of there learning lessons in strict economy but of this she
said nothing. The short journey from the Baths of Lucca to Florence was
not a pleasant one, and the Rowley family were much disturbed as they
looked into the future. Lodgings had now been taken for them, and there
was the great additional doubt whether Mrs Trevelyan would find her
child there on her arrival.

The Spaldings went one way from the Florence station, and the Rowleys
another. The American Minister had returned to the city some days
previously drawn there nominally by pleas of business, but, in truth,
by the necessities of the wedding breakfast and he met them at the
station. 'Has Mr Glascock come back?' Nora was the first to ask. Yes he
had come. He had been in the city since two o'clock, and had been up at
the American Minister's house for half a minute. 'And has he brought
the child?' asked Caroline, relieved of doubt on her own account. Mr
Spalding did not know indeed, he had not interested himself quite so
intently about Mrs Trevelyan's little boy, as had all those who had
just returned from the Baths. Mr Glascock had said nothing to him about
the child, and he had not quite understood why such a man should have
made a journey to Siena, leaving his sweetheart behind him, just on the
eve of his marriage. He hurried his women-kind into their carriage, and
they were driven away; and then Sir Marmaduke was driven away with his
women-kind. Caroline Spalding had perhaps thought that Mr Glascock
might have been there to meet her.



CHAPTER LXXXVI - MR GLASCOCK AS NURSE

A message had been sent by the wires to Trevelyan, to let him know that
Mr Glascock was himself coming for the boy. Whether such message would
or would not be sent out to Casalunga Mr Glascock had been quite
ignorant but it could, at any rate, do no harm. He did feel it hard as
in this hot weather he made the journey, first to Florence, and then on
to Siena. What was he to the Rowleys, or to Trevelyan himself, that
such a job of work should fall to his lot at such a period of his life?
He had been very much in love with Nora, no doubt; but, luckily for
him, as he thought, Nora had refused him. As for Trevelyan Trevelyan
had never been his friend. As for Sir Marmaduke Sir Marmaduke was
nothing to him. He was almost angry even with Mrs Trevelyan as he
arrived tired, heated, and very dusty, at Siena. It was his purpose to
sleep at Siena that night, and to go out to Casalunga early the next
morning. If the telegram had not been forwarded, he would send a
message on that evening. On inquiry, however, he found that the message
had been sent, and that the paper had been put into the Signore's own
hand by the Sienese messenger. Then he got into some discourse with the
landlord about the strange gentleman at Casalunga. Trevelyan was
beginning to become the subject of gossip in the town, and people were
saying that the stranger was very strange indeed. The landlord thought
that if the Signore had any friends at all, it would be well that such
friends should come and look after him. Mr Glascock asked if Mr
Trevelyan was ill. It was not only that the Signore was out of health
so the landlord heard but that he was also somewhat And then the
landlord touched his head. He eat nothing, and went nowhere, and spoke
to no one; and the people at the hospital to which Casalunga belonged
were beginning to be uneasy about their tenant. Perhaps Mr Glascock had
come to take him away. Mr Glascock explained that he had not come to
take Mr Trevelyan away but only to take away a little boy that was with
him. For this reason he was travelling with a maid-servant a fact for
which Mr Glascock clearly thought it necessary that he should give an
intelligible and credible explanation. The landlord seemed to think
that the people at the hospital would have been much rejoiced had Mr
Glascock intended to take Mr Trevelyan away also.

He started after a very early breakfast, and found himself walking up
over the stone ridges to the house between nine and ten in the morning.
He himself had sat beside the driver and had put the maid inside the
carriage. He had not deemed it wise to take an undivided charge of the
boy even from Casalunga to Siena. At the door of the house, as though
waiting for him, he found Trevelyan, not dirty as he had been before,
but dressed with much appearance of smartness. He had a brocaded cap on
his head, and a shirt with a laced front, and a worked waistcoat, and a
frockcoat, and coloured bright trowsers. Mr Glascock knew at once that
all the clothes which he saw before him had been made for Italian and
not for English wear; and could almost have said that they had been
bought in Siena and not in Florence. 'I had not intended to impose this
labour on you, Mr Glascock,' Trevelyan said, raising his cap to salute
his visitor.

'For fear there might be mistakes, I thought it better to come myself,'
said Mr Glascock. 'You did not wish to see Sir Marmaduke?'

'Certainly not Sir Marmaduke,' said Trevelyan, with a look of anger
that was almost grotesque.

'And you thought it better that Mrs Trevelyan should not come.'

'Yes I thought it better but not from any feeling of anger towards her.
If I could welcome my wife here, Mr Glascock, without a risk of wrath
on her part, I should be very happy to receive her. I love my wife, Mr
Glascock. I love her dearly. But there have been misfortunes. Never
mind. There is no reason why I should trouble you with them. Let us go
in to breakfast. After your drive you will have an appetite.'

Poor Mr Glascock was afraid to decline to sit down to the meal which
was prepared for him. He did mutter something about having already
eaten, but Trevelyan put this aside with a wave of his hand as he led
the way into a spacious room, in which had been set out a table with
almost a sumptuous banquet. The room was very bare and comfortless,
having neither curtains nor matting, and containing not above half a
dozen chairs. But an effort had been made to give it an air of Italian
luxury. The windows were thrown open, down to the ground, and the table
was decorated with fruits and three or four long-necked bottles.
Trevelyan waved with his hand towards an arm-chair, and Mr Glascock had
no alternative but to seat himself. He felt that he was sitting down to
breakfast with a madman; but if he did not sit down, the madman might
perhaps break out into madness. Then Trevelyan went to the door and
called aloud for Catarina. 'In these remote places,' said he, 'one has
to do without the civilisation of a bell. Perhaps one gains as much in
quiet as one loses in comfort.' Then Catarina came with hot meats and
fried potatoes, and Mr Glascock was compelled to help himself.

'I am but a bad trencherman myself,' said Trevelyan, 'but I shall
lament my misfortune doubly if that should interfere with your
appetite.' Then he got up and poured out wine into Mr Glascock's glass.
'They tell me that it comes from the Baron's vineyard,' said Trevelyan,
alluding to the wine-farm of Ricasoli, 'and that there is none better
in Tuscany. I never was myself a judge of the grape, but this to me is
as palatable as any of the costlier French wines. How grand a thing
would wine really be, if it could make glad the heart of man. How truly
would one worship Bacchus if he could make one's heart to rejoice. But
if a man have a real sorrow, wine will not wash it away not though a
man were drowned in it, as Clarence was.'

Mr Glascock hitherto had spoken hardly a word. There was an attempt at
joviality about this breakfast or, at any rate, of the usual
comfortable luxury of hospitable entertainment which, coming as it did
from Trevelyan, almost locked his lips. He had not come there to be
jovial or luxurious, but to perform a most melancholy mission; and he
had brought with him his saddest looks, and was prepared for a few sad
words. Trevelyan's speech, indeed, was sad enough, but Mr Glascock
could not take up questions of the worship of Bacchus at half a
minute's warning. He eat a morsel, and raised his glass to his lips,
and felt himself to be very uncomfortable. It was necessary, however,
that he should utter a word. 'Do you not let your little boy come in to
breakfast?' he said.

'He is better away,' said Trevelyan gloomily.

'But as we are to travel together,' said Mr Glascock, 'we might as well
make acquaintance.'

'You have been a little hurried with me on that score,' said Trevelyan.
'I wrote certainly with a determined mind, but things have changed
somewhat since then.'

'You do not mean that you will not send him?'

'You have been somewhat hurried with me, I say. If I remember rightly,
I named no time, but spoke of the future. Could I have answered the
message which I received from you, I would have postponed your visit
for a week or so.'

'Postponed it! Why I am to be married the day after to-morrow. It was
just as much as I was able to do, to come here at all.' Mr Glascock now
pushed his chair back from the table, and prepared himself to speak up.
'Your wife expects her child now, and you will never break her heart by
refusing to send him.'

'Nobody thinks of my heart, Mr Glascock.'

'But this is your own offer.'

'Yes, it was my own offer, certainly. I am not going to deny my own
words, which have no doubt been preserved in testimony against me.'

'Mr Trevelyan, what do you mean?' Then, when he was on the point of
boiling over with passion, Mr Glascock remembered that his companion
was not responsible for his expressions. 'I do hope you will let the
child go away with me,' he said. 'You cannot conceive the state of his
mother's anxiety, and she will send him back at once if you demand it.'

'Is that to be in good faith?'

'Certainly, in good faith. I would lend myself to nothing, Mr
Trevelyan, that was not said and done in good faith.'

'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 ill 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 to-morrow. 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 his hand. Mr Glascock
followed him to the window and stood looking at him for a few moments.
But Trevelyan did not turn or move. There he stood gazing at the pale,
cloudless, heat-laden, motionless sky, thinking of his own sorrows, and
remembering too, doubtless, with the vanity of a madman, that he was
probably being watched in his reverie.

Mr Glascock was too practical a man not to make the most of the offer
that had been made to him, and he went back among the passages and
called for Catarina. Before long he had two or three women with him,
including her whom he had brought from Florence, and among them Louey
was soon made to appear, dressed for his journey, together with a small
trunk in which were his garments. It was quite clear that the order for
his departure had been given before that scene at the breakfast-table,
and that Trevelyan had not intended to go back on his promise.
Nevertheless Mr Glascock thought it might be as well to hurry his
departure, and he turned back to say the shortest possible word of
farewell to Trevelyan in the garden. But when he got to the window,
Trevelyan was not to be found among the olive trees. Mr Glascock walked
a few steps down the hill, looking for him, but seeing nothing of him,
returned to the house. The elder woman said that her master had not
been there, and Mr Glascock started with his charge. Trevelyan was
manifestly mad, and it was impossible to treat him as a sane man would
have been treated. Nevertheless, Mr Glascock felt much compunction in
carrying the child away without a final kiss or word of farewell from
its father. But it was not to be so. He had got into the carriage with
the child, having the servant seated opposite to him for he was moved
by some undefinable fear which made him determine to keep the boy close
to him, and he had not, therefore, returned to the driver's seat when
Trevelyan appeared standing by the road-side at the bottom of the hill.
'Would you take him away from me without one word!' said Trevelyan
bitterly.

'I went to look for you but you were gone,' said Mr Glascock.

'No, sir, I was not gone. I am here. It is the last time that I shall
ever gladden my eyes with his brightness. Louey, my love, will you come
to your father?' Louey did not seem to be particularly willing to leave
the carriage, but he made no loud objection when Mr Glascock held him
up to the open space above the door. The child had realised the fact
that he was to go, and did not believe that his father would stop him
now; but he was probably of opinion that the sooner the carriage began
to go on the better it would be for him. Mr Glascock, thinking that his
father intended to kiss him over the door, held him by his frock; but
the doing of this made Trevelyan very angry. 'Am I not to be trusted
with my own child in my arms?' said he. 'Give him to me, sir. I begin
to doubt now whether I am right to deliver him to you.' Mr Glascock
immediately let go his hold of the boy's frock and leaned back in the
carriage. 'Louey will tell papa that he loves him before he goes?' said
Trevelyan. The poor little fellow murmured something, but it did not
please his father, who had him in his arms. 'You are like the rest of
them, Louey,' he said; 'because I cannot laugh and be gay, all my love
for you is nothing nothing! You may take him. He is all that I have all
that I have and I shall never see him again!' So saying he handed the
child into the carriage, and sat himself down by the side of the road
to watch till the vehicle should be out of sight. As soon as the last
speck of it had vanished from his sight, he picked himself up, and
dragged his slow footsteps back to the house.

Mr Glascock made sundry attempts to amuse the child, with whom he had
to remain all that night at Siena; but his efforts in that line were
not very successful. The boy was brisk enough, and happy, and social by
nature; but the events, or rather the want of events of the last few
months, had so cowed him, that he could not recover his spirits at the
bidding of a stranger. 'If I have any of my own,' said Mr Glascock to
himself, 'I hope they will be of a more cheerful disposition.'

As we have seen, he did not meet Caroline at the station thereby
incurring his lady-love's displeasure for the period of half-a-minute;
but he did meet Mrs Trevelyan almost at the door of Sir Marmaduke's
lodgings. 'Yes, Mrs Trevelyan; he is here.'

'How am I ever to thank you for such goodness?' said she. 'And Mr
Trevelyan you saw him?'

'Yes I saw him.'

Before he could answer her further she was upstairs, and had her child
in her arms. It seemed to be an age since the boy had been stolen from
her in the early spring in that unknown, dingy street near Tottenham
Court Road. Twice she had seen her darling, since that twice during his
captivity; but on each of these occasions she had seen him as one not
belonging to herself, and had seen him under circumstances which had
robbed the greeting of almost all its pleasure. But now he was her own
again, to take whither she would, to dress and to undress, to feed, to
coax, to teach, and to caress. And the child lay up close to her as she
hugged him, putting up his little cheek to her chin, and burying
himself happily in her embrace. He had not much as yet to say, but she
could feel that he was contented.

Mr Glascock had promised to wait for her a few minutes even at the risk
of Caroline's displeasure and Mrs Trevelyan ran down to him as soon as
the first craving of her mother's love was satisfied. Her boy would at
any rate be safe with her now, and it was her duty to learn something
of her husband. It was more than her duty if only her services might be
of avail to him. 'And you say he was well?' she asked. She had taken Mr
Glascock apart, and they were alone together, and he had determined
that he would tell her the truth.

'I do not know that he is ill though he is pale and altered beyond
belief.'

'Yes I saw that.'

'I never knew a man so thin and haggard.'

'My poor Louis!'

'But that is not the worst of it.'

'What do you mean, Mr Glascock?'

'I mean that his mind is astray, and that he should not be left alone.
There is no knowing what he might do. He is so much more alone there
than he would be in England. There is not a soul who could interfere.'

'Do you mean that you think that he is in danger from himself?'

'I would not say so, Mrs Trevelyan; but who can tell? I am sure of this
that he should not be left alone. if it were only because of the misery
of his life, he should not be left alone.'

'But what can I do? He would not even see papa.'

'He would see you.'

'But he would not let me guide him in anything. I have been to him
twice, and he breaks out as if I were a bad woman.'

'Let him break out. What does it matter?'

'Am I to own to a falsehood and such a falsehood?'

'Own to anything, and you will conquer him at once. That is what I
think. You will excuse what I say, Mrs Trevelyan.'

'Oh, Mr Glascock, you have been such a friend! What should we have done
without you!'

'You cannot take to heart the words that come from a disordered reason.
In truth, he believes no ill of you.'

'But he says so.'

'It is hard to know what he says. Declare that you will submit to him,
and I think that he will be softened towards you. Try to bring him back
to his own country. It may be that were he to die there, alone, the
memory of his loneliness would be heavy with you in after days.' Then,
having so spoken, he rushed off, declaring, with a forced laugh, that
Caroline Spalding would never forgive him.

The next day was the day of the wedding, and Emily Trevelyan was left
all alone. It was of course out of the question that she should join
any party the purport of which was to be festive. Sir Marmaduke went
with some grumbling, declaring that wine and severe food in the
mornings were sins against the plainest rules of life. And the three
Rowley girls went, Nora officiating as one of the bridesmaids. But Mrs
Trevelyan was left with her boy, and during the day she was forced to
resolve what should be the immediate course of her life. Two days after
the wedding her family would return to England. It was open to her to
go with them, and to take her boy with her. But a few days since how
happy she would have been could she have been made to believe that such
a mode of returning would be within her power! But now she felt that
she might not return and leave that poor, suffering wretch behind her.
As she thought of him she tried to interrogate herself in regard to her
feelings. Was it love, or duty, or compassion which stirred her? She
had loved him as fondly as any bright young woman loves the man who is
to take her away from everything else, and make her a part of his house
and of himself. She had loved him as Nora now loved the man whom she
worshipped and thought to be a god, doing godlike work in the dingy
recesses of the D. R. office. Emily Trevelyan was forced to tell
herself that all that was over with her. Her husband had shown himself
to be weak, suspicious, unmanly by no means like a god. She had learned
to feel that she could not trust her comfort in his hands that she
could never know what his thoughts of her might be. But still he was
her husband, and the father of her child; and though she could not dare
to look forward to happiness in living with him, she could understand
that no comfort would be possible to her, were she to return to England
and to leave him to perish alone at Casalunga. Fate seemed to have
intended that her life should be one of misery, and she must bear it as
best she might.

The more she thought of it, however, the greater seemed to be her
difficulties. What was she to do when her father and mother should have
left her? She could not go to Casalunga if her husband would not give
her entrance; and if she did go, would it be safe for her to take her
boy with her? Were she to remain in Florence she would be hardly nearer
to him for any useful purpose than in England; and even should she
pitch her tent at Siena, occupying there' some desolate set of huge
apartments in a deserted palace, of what use could she be to him? Could
she stay there if he desired her to go; and was it probable that he
would be willing that she should be at Siena while he was living at
Casalunga no more than two leagues distant? How should she begin her
work; and if he repulsed her, how should she then continue it?

But during these wedding hours she did make up her mind as to what she
would do for the present. She would certainly not leave Italy while her
husband remained there. She would for a while keep her rooms in
Florence, and there should her boy abide. But from time to time twice a
week perhaps she would go down to Siena and Casalunga, and there form
her plans in accordance with her husband's conduct. She was his wife,
and nothing should entirely separate her from him, now that he so
sorely wanted her aid.



CHAPTER LXXXVII - MR GLASCOCK'S MARRIAGE COMPLETED

The Glascock marriage was a great affair in Florence so much so, that
there were not a few who regarded it as a strengthening of peaceful
relations between the United States and the United Kingdom, and who
thought that the Alabama claims and the question of naturalisation
might now be settled with comparative ease. An English lord was about
to marry the niece of an American Minister to a foreign court. The
bridegroom was not, indeed, quite a lord as yet, but it was known to
all men that he must be a lord in a very short time, and the bride was
treated with more than usual bridal honours because she belonged to a
legation. She was not, indeed, an ambassador's daughter, but the niece
of a daughterless ambassador, and therefore almost as good as a
daughter. The wives and daughters of other ambassadors, and the
ambassadors themselves, of course, came to the wedding; and as the
palace in which Mr Spalding had apartments stood alone, in a garden,
with a separate carriage entrance, it seemed for all wedding purposes
as though the whole palace were his own. The English Minister came, and
his wife although she had never quite given over turning up her nose at
the American bride whom Mr Glascock had chosen for himself. It was such
a pity, she said, that such a man as Mr Glascock should marry a young
woman from Providence, Rhode Island. Who in England would know anything
of Providence, Rhode Island? And it was so expedient, in her
estimation, that a man of family should strengthen himself by marrying
a woman of family. It was so necessary, she declared, that a man when
marrying should remember that his child would have two grandfathers,
and would be called upon to account for four great-grandfathers.
Nevertheless Mr Glascock was Mr Glascock; and, let him marry whom he
would, his wife would be the future Lady Peterborough. Remembering
this, the English Minister's wife gave up the point when the thing was
really settled, and benignly promised to come to the breakfast with all
the secretaries and attaches belonging to the legation, and all the
wives and daughters thereof. What may a man not do, and do with eclat,
if he be heir to a peer and have plenty of money in his pocket?

Mr and Mrs Spalding were covered with glory on the occasion; and
perhaps they did not bear their glory as meekly as they should have
done. Mrs Spalding laid herself open to some ridicule from the British
Minister's wife because of her inability to understand with absolute
clearness the condition of her niece's husband in respect to his late
and future seat in Parliament, to the fact of his being a commoner and
a nobleman at the same time, and to certain information which was
conveyed to her, surely in a most unnecessary manner, that if Mr
Glascock were to die before his father her niece would never become
Lady Peterborough, although her niece's son, if she had one, would be
the future lord. No doubt she blundered, as was most natural; and then
the British Minister's wife made the most of the blunders; and when
once Mrs Spalding ventured to speak of Caroline as her ladyship, not to
the British Minister's wife, but to the sister of one of the
secretaries, a story was made out of it which was almost as false as it
was ill-natured. Poor Caroline was spoken of as her ladyship backward
and forwards among the ladies of the legation in a manner which might
have vexed her had she known anything about it; but nevertheless, all
the ladies prepared their best flounces to go to the wedding. The time
would soon come when she would in truth be a 'ladyship,' and she might
be of social use to any one of the ladies in question.

But Mr Spalding was, for the time, the most disturbed of any of the
party concerned. He was a tall, thin, clever Republican of the North
very fond of hearing himself talk, and somewhat apt to take advantage
of the courtesies of conversation for the purpose of making
unpardonable speeches. As long as there was any give and take going on
in the melee of words he would speak quickly and with energy, seizing
his chances among others; but the moment he had established his right
to the floor as soon as he had won for himself the position of having
his turn at the argument, he would dole out his words with considerable
slowness, raise his hand for oratorical effect, and proceed as though
Time were annihilated. And he would go further even than this, for
fearing by experience the escape of his victims he would catch a man by
the button-hole of his coat, or back him ruthlessly into the corner of
a room, and then lay on to him without quarter. Since the affair with
Mr Glascock had been settled, he had talked an immensity about England
not absolutely taking honour to himself because of his intended
connection with a lord, but making so many references to the
aristocratic side of the British constitution as to leave no doubt on
the minds of his hearers as to the source of his arguments. In old
days, before all this was happening, Mr Spalding, though a courteous
man in his personal relations, had constantly spoken of England with
the bitter indignation of the ordinary American politician. England
must be made to disgorge. England must be made to do justice. England
must be taught her place in the world. England must give up her claims.
In hot moments he had gone further, and had declared that England must
be whipped. He had been specially loud against that aristocracy of
England which, according to a figure of speech often used by him, was
always feeding on the vitals of the people. But now all this was very
much changed. He did not go the length of expressing an opinion that
the House of Lords was a valuable institution; but he discussed
questions of primogeniture and hereditary legislation, in reference to
their fitness for countries which were gradually emerging from feudal
systems, with an equanimity, an impartiality, and a perseverance which
soon convinced those who listened to him where he had learned his
present lessons, and why. 'The conservative nature of your
institutions, sir,' he said to poor Sir Marmaduke at the Baths of Lucca
a very few days before the marriage, 'has to be studied with great care
before its effects can be appreciated in reference to a people who,
perhaps, I may be allowed to say, have more in their composition of
constitutional reverence than of educated intelligence.' Sir Marmaduke,
having suffered before, had endeavoured to bolt; but the American had
caught him and pinned him, and the Governor of the Mandarins was
impotent in his hands. 'The position of the great peer of Parliament is
doubtless very splendid, and may be very useful,' continued Mr
Spalding, who was intending to bring round his argument to the evil
doings of certain scandalously extravagant young lords, and to offer a
suggestion that in such cases a committee of aged and respected peers
should sit and decide whether a second son, or some other heir should
not be called to the inheritance both of the title and the property.
But Mrs Spalding had seen the sufferings of Sir Marmaduke, and had
rescued him. 'Mr Spalding,' she had said, 'it is too late for politics,
and Sir Marmaduke has come out here for a holiday.' Then she took her
husband by the arm, and led him away helpless.

In spite of these drawbacks to the success if ought can be said to be a
drawback on success of which the successful one is unconscious the
marriage was prepared with great splendour, and everybody who was
anybody in Florence was to be present. There were only to be four
bridesmaids, Caroline herself having strongly objected to a greater
number. As Wallachia Petrie had fled at the first note of preparation
for these trivial and unpalatable festivities, another American young
lady was found; and the sister of the English secretary of legation,
who had so maliciously spread that report about her 'ladyship,' gladly
agreed to be the fourth.

As the reader will remember, the whole party from the Baths of Lucca
reached Florence only the day before the marriage, and Nora at the
station promised to go up to Caroline that same evening. 'Mr Glascock
will tell me about the little boy,' said Caroline; 'but I shall be so
anxious to hear about your sister.' So Nora crossed the bridge after
dinner, and went up to the American Minister's palatial residence.
Caroline was then in the loggia, and Mr Glascock was with her; and for
a while they talked about Emily Trevelyan and her misfortunes. Mr
Glascock was clearly of opinion that Trevelyan would soon be either in
an asylum or in his grave. 'I could not bring myself to tell your
sister so,' he said; 'but I think your father should be told or your
mother. Something should be done to put an end to that fearful
residence at Casalunga.' Then by degrees the conversation changed
itself to Nora's prospects; and Caroline, with her friend's hand in
hers, asked after Hugh Stanbury.

'You will not mind speaking before him will you?' said Caroline,
putting her hand on her own lover's arm.

'Not unless he should mind it,' said Nora, smiling.

She had meant nothing beyond a simple reply to her friend's question,
but he took her words in a different sense, and blushed as he
remembered his visit to Nuncombe Putney.

'He thinks almost more of your happiness than he does of mine,' said
Caroline; 'which isn't fair, as I am sure that Mr Stanbury will not
reciprocate the attention. And now, dear, when are we to see you?'

'Who on earth can say?'

'I suppose Mr Stanbury would say something only he is not here.'

'And papa won't send my letter,' said Nora.

'You are sure that you will not go out to the Islands with him?'

'Quite sure,' said Nora. 'I have made up my mind so far as that.'

'And what will your sister do?'

'I think she will stay. I think she will say good-bye to papa and mamma
here in Florence.'

'I am quite of opinion that she should not leave her husband alone in
Italy,' said Mr Glascock.

'She has not told us with certainty,' said Nora; 'but I feel sure that
she will stay. Papa thinks she ought to go with them to London.'

'Your papa seems to have two very intractable daughters,' said
Caroline.

'As for me,' declared Nora, solemnly, 'nothing shall make me go back to
the Islands unless Mr Stanbury should tell me to do so.'

'And they start at the end of July?'

'On the last Saturday.'

'And what will you do then, Nora?'

'I believe there are casual wards that people go to.'

'Casual wards!' said Caroline.

'Miss Rowley is condescending to poke her fun at you,' said Mr
Glascock.

'She is quite welcome, and shall poke as much as she likes; only we
must be serious now. If it be necessary, we will get back by the end of
July won't we, Charles?'

'You will do nothing of the kind,' said Nora. 'What! give up your
honeymoon to provide me with board and lodgings! How can you suppose
that I am so selfish or so helpless? I would go to my aunt, Mrs
Outhouse.'

'We know that that wouldn't do,' said Caroline. 'You might as well be
in Italy as far as Mr Stanbury is concerned.'

'If Miss Rowley would go to Monkhams, she might wait for us,' suggested
Mr Glascock. 'Old Mrs Richards is there; and though of course she would
be dull--'

'It is quite unnecessary,' said Nora. 'I shall take a two-pair back in
a respectable feminine quarter, like any other young woman who wants
such accommodation, and shall wait there till my young man can come and
give me his arm to church. That is about the way we shall do it. I am
not going to give myself any airs, Mr Glascock, or make any
difficulties. Papa is always talking to me about chairs and tables and
frying-pans, and I shall practise to do with as few of them as
possible. As I am headstrong about having my young man and I own that I
am headstrong about that I guess I've got to fit myself for that sort
of life.' And Nora, as she said this, pronounced her words with
something of a nasal twang, imitating certain countrywomen of her
friend's.

'I like to hear you joking about it, Nora; because your voice is so
cheery and you are so bright when you joke. But, nevertheless, one has
to be reasonable, and to look the facts in the face. I don't see how
you are to be left in London alone, and you know that your aunt Mrs
Outhouse or at any rate your uncle would not receive you except on
receiving some strong anti-Stanbury pledge.'

'I certainly shall not give an anti-Stanbury pledge.'

'And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight
or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of their departure, and I
declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them.'

'Never! unless he says so.'

'I don't see how you are even to meet "him," and talk it over.'

'I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in
Italy.'

'I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on
this poor destitute one.'

'If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to
Monkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall
do something very shocking so that all your patronage will hardly be
able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do something that will
serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to be turned back
now.' Nora, as she spoke of having 'gone so far,' was looking at Mr
Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he
was to make his wife on the morrow, and she was thinking no doubt, of
the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first
irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love
was given to another. That had been her Rubicon. And though there had
been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt
that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid
security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her
ambition though there had been moments in which she had almost
regretted her own courage and noble action, still, having passed the
river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not
going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself
for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother
might be able, almost surreptitiously, to give her. She was without
friends to help her except these who were now with her, whose
friendship had come to her in so singular a mariner, and whose power to
aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own
circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In
consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her that she
should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present
wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he
would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother,
though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the
press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried
away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She
knew all this but she had made up her mind that she would not be
carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought that she would be
obliged at last to ask her young man as she called him, to provide for
her; but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands
sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. 'I can be very resolute if I
please, my dear,' she said, looking at Caroline. Mr Glascock almost
thought that she must have intended to address him.

They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long,
cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further except that
Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to
shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went
into the house, and for a few minutes Mr Glascock was alone with Nora.
He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that
it was there he was for awhile unable to say the words that he wished
to utter. At last he spoke. 'Miss Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be
your friend.'

'I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr
Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us.'

'I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. But I did
not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are
not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not
very good at expressing myself.'

'I know nothing of the kind.'

'There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone
by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman,
is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am
saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't
pretend to say now that I regret its result.'

'I am quite sure you don't.'

'No; I do not though I thought then that I should regret it always. But
remember this, Miss Rowley that you can never ask me to do anything
that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little
difficulty now.,

'It will disappear, Mr Glascock. Difficulties always do.'

'But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should a certain
event take place--'

'It will take place some day.'

'Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr Stanbury and his wife quite
at home at Monkhams.' After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and
at that moment Caroline came back to them.

'Tomorrow, Mr Glascock,' she said, 'you will, I believe, be at liberty
to kiss everybody; but today you should be more discreet.'

It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florence that
there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers since it had
become the capital of Italia. Mr Glascock and Miss Spalding were
married in the chapel of the legation a legation chapel on the ground
floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatly enhanced
the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and
bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery into close fusty
carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the
remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the
shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and
lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were
whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and
before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian
Councillor of Legation, they were half way up the Apennines on their
road to Bologna. Mr Spalding behaved himself like a man on the
occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made
that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue
of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the
aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on with a simile about the
lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of
its being a little too long for the occasion.

'It has gone off very well, mamma; has it not?' said Nora, as she
returned home with her mother to her lodgings.

'Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do.'

'I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was so
pleasant, and so much like a gentleman not noisy, you know and yet not
too serious.'

'I dare say, my love.'

'It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she has
nothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can.
And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has
so difficult a part to play! If he tries to carry himself as though it
were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and if he
is very special, he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr
Glascock did it very well.'

'To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him.'

'I did narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely.'

'How could you think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you
must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand.'

'Mamma, my memories of Mr Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for
regrets I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry a man
whom I did not love and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved
another? You cannot mean that, mamma.'

'I know this that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have
been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had you been
standing there instead of that American young woman.' As she said this
Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by
embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too
large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger
daughters. 'Of course, I feel it,' said Lady Rowley, through her tears.
'It would have been such a position for my child! And that young man
without a shilling in the world; and writing in that way, just for bare
bread!' Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would
have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It
was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it.

There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned to
England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that,
in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to
the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commence at once the stem
necessity of their return home home, not only to England, but to those
antipodean islands from which it was too probable that some of them
might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be
almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily
Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to
her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness
to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any
manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step,
intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should
receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and
father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become
estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving
with his eldest daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of
leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet
not within her custody. But he could do nothing could hardly say a word
toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with
the means of living; and when she said that it was her duty to be near
him, her father could not deny it.

The parting came. 'I will return to you the moment you send to me,'
were Nora's last words to her sister. 'I don't suppose I shall send,'
said Emily. 'I shall try to bear it without assistance.'

Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much
gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found
themselves at Gregg's Hotel.



CHAPTER LXXXVIII - CROPPER AND BURGESS

We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr Brooke Burgess and Miss
Dorothy Stan-bury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be
thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence to the
preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is the nature of
a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close.
In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come.
We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's
treachery, or death or the possibility that he after all may turn out
to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual
inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of
Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the
instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a
husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne should be caught in some
matrimonial trap as, how otherwise should he be fitly punished? and
that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who
from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages.
That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away
with Mrs MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding
capacity; but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to
be evolved with some delicacy and much detail.

There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place
Miss Stanbury was not very well and then she was very fidgety. She must
see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she
must see her lawyer. 'To have a lot of money to look after is more
plague than profit, my dear,' she said to Dorothy one day;
'particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it.'
Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money
since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke
Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which
made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she
had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and
Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that
her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt.
If, by engaging herself to him, she would rob him of his inheritance,
how bitter a burden to him would her love have been! If, on the other
hand, she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by
forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how
base would be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much,
and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance
allusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone very right.
She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to
marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to
the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know
what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She
had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the
marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that, in the
meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did
not care for how long it was put off only that she hoped it might not
be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the
present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at
once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married, but
she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going.
Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the
privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the Close; and that
running down to meet him in the little front parlour, and the getting
up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were
among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the
breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a
letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of
which was copied from beginning to end because some word in it was not
thought to be sweet enough what a heaven of happiness they were to her!
The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost
repented of the privilege before it was ended; but with the first and
second the difficulties had disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat
ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written
him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity,
but in a most cursory manner sending seven or eight lines in return for
two sheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least.
He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to
do. He, too, could say so thought Dorothy more in eight lines than she
could put into as many pages.

She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take
place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did
come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by
declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable.

'If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two,' said he,
'how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes?'
In answer to this Dorothy tried to make him understand that business
should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she
could do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed for
her. 'I'm not going to be done in that way,' said Brooke. 'And now that
I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times
that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take
it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you, that she
calls her own.'

'She is so generous, Brooke.'

'She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to
make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message
to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As
far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to London for me, in
order that I may take a message across the Close.'

'You talk as though it were very disagreeable, coming to Exeter,' said
Dorothy, with a little pout.

'So it is very disagreeable.'

'Oh, Brooke!'

'Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it
will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having
snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements
and settlements.' As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his
face quite close to hers shewing thereby that he was not altogether
averse even to his present privileges she forgave him.

On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke
went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been
closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt and, as he went, his step was
sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncle Barty, and was not
very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect that Miss
Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr Bartholomew Burgess on business,
at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been
made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular
interview was desired; but it was not a part of his duty to communicate
any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent
to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty
Burgess could be given; but his present mission was confined to an
authority to give the invitation.

Old Mr Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline
the proposition made by the 'old harridan,' as he called her. He had
never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury
with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had
taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his
nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matter
rationally.

'And you don't know what it's all about?' said Uncle Barty.

'I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate,
I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must not say what
it is.'

'Will it do me or anybody else any good?'

'It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you.'

'But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and
then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her
way, and I think I had better do so still.'

Nevertheless Brooke prevailed or rather the feeling of curiosity which
was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty
Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without
seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived and he had never
seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It
would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he
confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss
Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought,
impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and
disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in
life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former
Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the
property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed
of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him. And, to
give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly
been behind him in the warmth of her expression of which old Barty was
well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he
knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent
because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her.
His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward. It could not be that now
at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of
tardy justice nor did he wish to be reconciled at this, the eleventh
hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss
Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he
looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go.
As Brooke had said no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at
least listen to her proposition.

About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss
Stanbury was sitting in the small upstairs parlour, dressed in her
second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and
state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a
quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old
Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound.
Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word.
She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and
was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the
grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her
uncle. According to arrangement, Mr Burgess was shewn upstairs by his
nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not
been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was
somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word.
Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be
wanted; but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be
present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she
rose in a stately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand
upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face
meanwhile, and curtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a
chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it
may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more
than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round
to the chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed that
he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not
going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in
his eyes.

Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had
muttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had made
some return. Then she began: 'Mr Burgess,' she said, 'I am indebted to
you for your complaisance in coming here at my request.' To this he
bowed again. 'I should not have ventured thus to trouble you were it
not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you,
and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest
otherwise than in my own room.' It was her room now, certainly, by law;
but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when
she used to give them all their meals there now so many, many years
ago! He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could
sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech.

She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was
forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which she found it
very difficult to touch without saying that which would either belie
herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared
herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she was greatly
impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last her proposition
was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be
married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was her intention to make
Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received
under the will of the late Mr Brooke Burgess. 'Indeed,' she said, 'all
that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's
family unimpaired' He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she
went on to say that it had at first been a mater to her of deep regret
that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had
been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should
enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as
being hers only for the term of her life; but that she had found that
the young people had been so much in earnest, and that her own feeling
had been so near akin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this
was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that
there might be something worse even than his silence. His smile told
her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was
not fool, enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be
changed by a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a
thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking
to lawyers about a new will.

'I do not know that I can help you,' said Barty, finding that a longer
pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary.

'I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detain you so
long, Mr Burgess' And she did go on. She had, she said, made some
saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr Burgess with
this matter only that she might explain to him that what she would at
once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy
after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such
gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again
smiled as he heard. this, and Miss Stanbury in her heart likened him to
the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that
Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in
the town and the neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing such was her
word that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his
grandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover she
acknowledged that she spoke selfishly she dreaded the idea of being
left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last
was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his
nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank.

'I am damned, if I do!' said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair.

But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the
proposition. Miss Stanbury had of course known that any such suggestion
coming from her without an adequate reason assigned, would have been
mere idle wind. She was prepared with such adequate reason. If Mr
Burgess could see his way to make the proposed transfer of his share of
the bank business, she, Miss Stanbury, would hand over to him, for his
life, a certain proportion of the Burgess property which lay in the
city, the income of which would exceed that drawn by him from the
business. Would he, at his time of life, take that for doing nothing
which he now got for working hard? That was the meaning of it. And
then, too, as far as the portion of the property went and it extended
to the houses owned by Miss Stanbury on the bank side of the Close it
would belong altogether to Barty Burgess for his life. 'It will simply
be this, Mr Burgess that Brooke will be your heir as would be natural.

'I don't know that it would be at all natural,' said he. 'I should
prefer to choose my own heir.

'No doubt, Mr Burgess in respect to your own property,' said Miss
Stanbury.

At last he said that he would think of it, and consult his partner; and
then he got up to take his leave. 'For myself,' said Miss Stanbury, 'I
would wish that all animosities might be buried.'

'We can say that they are buried,' said the grim old man 'but nobody
will believe us.'

'What matters if we could believe it ourselves?'

'But suppose we didn't. I don't believe that much good can come from
talking of such things, Miss Stanbury. You and I have grown too old to
swear a friendship. I will think of this thing, and if I find that it
can be made to suit without much difficulty, I will perhaps entertain
it.' Then the interview was over, and old Barty made his way
downstairs, and out of the house. He looked over to the tenements in
the Close which were offered to him, every circumstance of each one of
which he knew, and felt that he might do worse. Were he to leave the
bank, he could not take his entire income with him, and it had been
long said of him that he ought to leave it. The Croppers, who were his
partners and whom he had never loved would be glad to welcome in his
place one of the old family who would have money; and then the name
would be perpetuated in Exeter, which, even to Barty Burgess, was
something.

On that night the scheme was divulged to Dorothy, and she was in
ecstasies. London had always sounded bleak and distant and terrible to
her; and her heart had misgiven her at the idea of leaving her aunt. If
only this thing might be arranged! When Brooke spoke the next morning
of returning at once to his office, he was rebuked by both the ladies.
What was the Ecclesiastical Commission Office to any of them, when
matters of such importance were concerned? But Brooke would not be
talked out of his prudence. He was very willing to be made a banker at
Exeter, and to go to school again and learn banking business; but he
would not throw up his occupation in London till he knew that there was
another ready for him in the country. One day longer he spent in
Exeter, and During that day he was more than once with his uncle. He
saw also the Messrs Cropper, and was considerably chilled by the manner
in which they at first seemed to entertain the proposition. Indeed, for
a couple of hours he thought that the scheme must be abandoned. It was
pointed out to him that Mr Barty Burgess's life would probably be
short, and that he Barty had but a small part of the business at his
disposal. But gradually a way to terms was seen not quite so simple as
that which Miss Stanbury had suggested; and Brooke, when he left
Exeter, did believe it possible that he, after all, might become the
family representative in the old banking-house of the Burgesses.

'And how long will it take, Aunt Stanbury?' Dorothy asked.

'Don't you be impatient, my dear.'

'I am not the least impatient; but of course I want to tell mamma and
Priscilla. It will be so nice to live here and not go up to London. Are
we to stay here in this very house?'

'Have you not found out yet that Brooke will be likely to have an
opinion of his own on such things?'

'But would you wish us to live here, aunt?'

'I hardly know, dear. I am a foolish old woman, and cannot say what I
would wish. I cannot bear to be alone.'

'Of course we will stay with you.'

'And yet I should be jealous if I were not mistress of my own house.'

'Of course you will be mistress.'

'I believe, Dolly, that it would be better that I should die. I have
come to feel that I can do more good by going out of the world than by
remaining in it.' Dorothy hardly answered this in words, but sat close
by her aunt, holding the old woman's hand and caressing it, and
administering that love of which Miss Stanbury had enjoyed so little
during her life and which had become so necessary to her.

The news about the bank arrangements, though kept of course as a great
secret, soon became common in Exeter. It was known to be a good thing
for the firm in general that Barty Burgess should be removed from his
share of the management. He was old-fashioned, unpopular, and very
stubborn; and he and a certain Mr Julius Cropper, who was the leading
man among the Croppers, had not always been comfortable together. It
was at first hinted that old Miss Stanbury had been softened by sudden
twinges of conscience, and that she had confessed to some terrible
crime in the way of forgery, perjury, or perhaps worse, and had
relieved herself at last by making full restitution. But such a rumour
as this did not last long or receive wide credence. When it was hinted
to such old friends as Sir Peter Mancrudy and Mrs MacHugh, they laughed
it to scorn and it did not exist even in the vague form of an
undivulged mystery for above three days. Then it was asserted that old
Barty had been found to have no real claim to any share in the bank,
and that he was to be turned out at Miss Stanbury's instance that he
was to be turned out, and that Brooke had been acknowledged to be the
owner of the Burgess share of her business. Then came the fact that old
Barty had been bought out, and that the future husband of Miss
Stanbury's niece was to be the junior partner. A general feeling
prevailed at last that there had been another great battle between Miss
Stanbury and old Barty, and that the old maid had prevailed now as she
had done in former days. Before the end of July the papers were in the
lawyer's hands, and all the terms had been fixed. Brooke came down
again and again, to Dorothy's great delight, and displayed considerable
firmness in the management of his own interest. If Fate intended to
make him a banker in Exeter instead of a clerk in the Ecclesiastical
Commission Office, he would be a banker after a respectable fashion.
There was more than one little struggle between him and Mr Julius
Cropper, which ended in accession of respect on the part of Mr Cropper
for his new partner. Mr Cropper had thought that the establishment
might best be known to the commercial world of the West of England as
"Croppers' Bank"; but Broke had been very firm in asserting that if he
was to have anything to do with it the old name should be maintained.

'It's to be "Cropper and Burgess," he said to Dorothy one afternoon.
'They fought hard for "Cropper, Cropper, and Burgess" but I wouldn't
stand more than one Cropper.'

'Of course not,' said Dorothy, with something almost of scorn in her
voice. By this time Dorothy had gone very deeply into banking business.



CHAPTER LXXXIX - 'I WOULDN'T DO IT, IF I WAS YOU'

Miss Stanbury at this time was known all through Exeter to be very much
altered from the Miss Stanbury of old or even from the Miss Stanbury of
two years since. The Miss Stanbury of old was a stalwart lady who would
play her rubber of whist five nights a week, and could hold her own in
conversation against the best woman in Exeter not to speak of her
acknowledged superiority over every man in that city. Now she cared
little for the glories of debate; and though she still liked her
rubber, and could wake herself up to the old fire in the detection of a
revoke or the claim for a second trick, her rubbers were few and far
between, and she would leave her own house on an evening only when all
circumstances were favourable, and with many precautions against wind
and water. Some said that she was becoming old, and that she was going
out like the snuff of a candle. But Sir Peter Mancrudy declared that
she might live for the next fifteen years, if she would only think so
herself. 'It was true,' Sir Peter said, 'that in the winter she had
been ill, and that there had been danger as to her throat during the
east winds of the spring but those dangers had passed away, and, if she
would only exert herself, she might be almost as good a woman as ever
she had been.' Sir Peter was not a man of many words, or given to talk
frequently of his patients; but it was clearly Sir Peter's opinion that
Miss Stanbury's mind was ill at ease. She had become discontented with
life, and therefore it was that she cared no longer for the combat of
tongues, and had become cold even towards the card-table. It was so in
truth; and yet perhaps the lives of few men or women had been more
innocent, and few had struggled harder to be just in their dealings and
generous in their thoughts.

There was ever present to her mind an idea of failure and a fear lest
she had been mistaken in her views throughout her life. No one had ever
been more devoted to peculiar opinions, or more strong in the use of
language for their expression; and she was so far true to herself, that
she would never seem to retreat from the position she had taken. She
would still scorn the new fangles of the world around her, and speak of
the changes which she saw as all tending to evil. But, through it all,
there was an idea present to herself that it could not be God's
intention that things should really change for the worse, and that the
fault must be in her, because she had been unable to move as others had
moved. She would sit thinking of the circumstances of her own life and
tell herself that with her everything had failed. She had loved, but
had quarrelled with her lover; and her love had come to nothing but
barren wealth. She had fought for her wealth and had conquered and had
become hard in the fight, and was conscious of her own hardness. In the
early days of her riches and power she had taken her nephew by the
hand, and had thrown him away from her because he would not dress
himself in her mirror. She had believed herself to be right, and would
not, even now, tell herself that she had been wrong; but there were
doubts, and qualms of conscience, and an uneasiness because her life
had been a failure. Now she was seeking to appease her self-accusations
by sacrificing everything for the happiness of her niece and her chosen
hero; but as she went on with the work she felt that all would be in
vain, unless she could sweep herself altogether from off the scene. She
had told herself that if she could bring Brooke to Exeter, his
prospects would be made infinitely brighter than they would be in
London, and that she in her last days would not be left utterly alone.
But as the prospect of her future life came nearer to her, she saw, or
thought that she saw, that there was still failure before her. Young
people would not want an old woman in the house with them even though
the old woman would declare that she would be no more in the house than
a tame cat. And she knew herself also too well to believe that she
could make herself a tame cat in the home that had so long been subject
to her dominion. Would it not be better that she should go away
somewhere and die?

'If Mr Brooke is to come here,' Martha said to her one day, 'we ought
to begin and make the changes, ma'am'.

'What changes? You are always wanting to make changes'.

'If they was never made till I wanted them they'd never be made, ma'am.
But if there is to be a married couple there should be things proper.
Anyways, ma'am, we ought to know oughtn't we?'

The truth of this statement was so evident that Miss Stanbury could not
contradict it. But she had not even yet made up her mind. Ideas were
running through her head which she knew to be very wild, but of which
she could not divest herself. 'Martha,' she said after a while, 'I
think I shall go away from this myself.'

'Leave the house, ma'am?' said Martha, awestruck.

'There are other houses in the world, I suppose, in which an old woman
can live and die.'

'There is houses, ma'am, of course,'

'And what is the difference between one and another?'

'I wouldn't do it, ma'am, if I was you. I wouldn't do it if it was ever
so. Sure the house is big enough for Mr Brooke and Miss Dorothy along
with you. I wouldn't go and make such change as that I wouldn't indeed,
ma'am.' Martha spoke out almost with eloquence, so much expression was
there in her face. Miss Stanbury said nothing more at the moment,
beyond signifying her indisposition to make up her mind to anything at
the present moment. Yes the house was big enough as far as rooms were
concerned; but how often had she heard that an old woman must always be
in the way, if attempting to live with a newly-married couple? If a
mother-in-law be unendurable, how much more so one whose connection
would be less near? She could keep her own house no doubt, and let them
go elsewhere; but what then would come of her old dream, that Burgess,
the new banker in the city, should live in the very house that had been
inhabited by the Burgesses, the bankers of old? There was certainly
only one way out of all these troubles, and that way would be that she
should go from them and be at rest.

Her will had now been drawn out and completed for the third or fourth
time, and she had made no secret of is contents either with Brooke or
Dorothy. The whole estate she left to Brooke, including the houses
which were to become his after his uncle's death; and in regard to the
property she had made no further stipulation. 'I might have settled, it
on your children,' she said to him, 'but in doing so I should have
settled it on hers. I don't know why an old woman should try to
interfere with things after she has gone. I hope you won't squander it,
Brooke.'

'I shall be a steady old man by that time,' he said.

'I hope you'll be steady at any rate. But there it is, and God must
direct you in the use of it, if He will. It has been a burthen to me;
but then I have been a solitary old woman.' Half of what she had saved
she proposed to give Dorothy on her marriage, and for doing this
arrangements had already been made. There were various other legacies,
and the last she announced was one to her nephew, Hugh. 'I have left
him a thousand pounds,' she said to Dorothy 'so that he may remember me
kindly at last' As to this, however, she exacted a pledge that no
intimation of the legacy was to be made to Hugh. Then it was that
Dorothy told her aunt that Hugh intended to marry Nora Rowley, one of
the ladies who had been at the Clock House during the days in which her
mother had lived in grandeur; and then it was also that Dorothy
obtained leave to invite Hugh to her own wedding. 'I hope she will be
happier than her sister,' Miss Stanbury said, when she heard of the
intended marriage.

'It wasn't Mrs Trevelyan's fault, you know, aunt.'

'I say nothing about anybody's fault; but this I do say, that it was a
very great misfortune. I fought all that battle with your sister
Priscilla, and I don't mean to fight it again, my dear. If Hugh marries
the young lady, I hope she will be more happy than her sister. There
can be no harm in saying that.'

Dorothy's letter to her brother shall be given, because it will inform
the reader of all the arrangements as they were made up to that time,
and will convey the Exeter news respecting various persons with whom
our story is concerned.



'The Close, July 20, 186-

DEAR HUGH,

The day for my marriage is now fixed, and I wish with all my heart that
it was the same with you. Pray give my love to Nora. It seems so odd
that, though she was living for a while with mamma at Nuncombe Putney,
I never should have seen her yet. I am very glad that Brooke has seen
her, and he declares that she is quite magnificently beautiful. Those
are his own words.

We are to be married on the 10th of August, a Wednesday, and now comes
my great news. Aunt Stanbury says that you are to come and stay in the
house. She bids me tell you so with her love; and that you can have a
room as long as you like. Of course, you must come. In the first place,
you must because you are to give me away, and Brooke wouldn't have me
if I wasn't given away properly; and then it will make me so happy that
you and Aunt Stanbury should be friends again. You can stay as long as
you like, but, of course, you must come the day before the wedding. We
are to be married in the Cathedral, and there are to be two clergymen,
but I don't yet know who they will be not Mr Gibson, certainly, as you
were good enough to suggest.

Mr Gibson is married to Arabella French, and they have gone away
somewhere into Cornwall. Camilla has come back, and I have seen her
once. She looked ever so fierce, as though she intended to declare that
she didn't mind what anybody may think. They say that she still
protests that she never will speak to her sister again.

I was introduced to Mr Barty Burgess the other day. Brooke was here,
and we met him in the Close. I hardly knew what he said to me, I was so
frightened; but Brooke said that he meant to be civil, and that he is
going to send me a present. I have got a quantity of things already,
and yesterday Mrs MacHugh sent me such a beautiful cream-jug. If you'll
come in time on the 9th, you shall see them all before they are put
away.

'Mamma and Priscilla are to be here, and they will come on the 9th
also. Poor, dear mamma is, I know, terribly flurried about it, and so
is Aunt Stanbury. It is so long since they have seen each other. I
don't think Priscilla feels it the same way, because she is so brave.
Do you remember when it was first proposed that I should come here? I
am so glad I came because of Brooke. He will come on the 9th, quite
early, and I do so hope you will come with him.

Yours most affectionately,

DOROTHY STANBURY.

Give my best, best love to Nora'



CHAPTER LIX - LADY ROWLEY CONQUERED

When the Rowleys were back in London, and began to employ themselves on
the terrible work of making ready for their journey to the Islands,
Lady Rowley gradually gave way about Hugh Stanbury. She had become
aware that Nora would not go back with them unless under an amount of
pressure which she would find it impossible to use. And if Nora did not
go out to the Islands, what was to become of her unless she married
this man? Sir Marmaduke, when all was explained to him, declared that a
girl must do what her parents ordered her to do. 'Other girls live with
their fathers and mothers, and so must she.' Lady Rowley endeavoured to
explain that other girls lived with their fathers and mothers, because
they found themselves in established homes from which they are not
disposed to run away; but Nora's position was, as she alleged, very
different. Nora's home had latterly been with her sister, and it was
hardly to be expected that the parental authority should not find
itself impaired by the interregnum which had taken place. Sir Marmaduke
would not see the thing in the same light, and was disposed to treat
his daughter with a high hand. If she would not do as she was bidden,
she should no longer be daughter of his. In answer to this Lady Rowley
could only repeat her conviction that Nora would not go out to the
Mandarins; and that as for disinheriting her, casting her out, cursing
her, and the rest she had no belief in such doings at all. 'On the
stage they do such things as that' she said; 'and, perhaps, they used
to do it once in reality. But you know that it's out of the question
now. Fancy your standing up and cursing at the dear girl, just as we
are all starting from Southampton!' Sir Marmaduke knew as well as his
wife that it would be impossible, and only muttered something about the
'dear girl' behaving herself with great impropriety.

They were all aware that Nora was not going to leave England, because
no berth had been taken for her on board the ship, and because, while
the other girls were preparing for their long voyage, no preparations
were made for her. Of course she was not going. Sir Marmaduke would
probably have given way altogether immediately on his return to London,
had he not discussed the matter with his friend Colonel Osborne. It
became, of course, his duty to make some inquiry as to the Stanbury
family, and he knew that Osborne had visited Mrs Stanbury when he made
his unfortunate pilgrimage to the porch of Cockchaffington Church. He
told Osborne the whole story of Nora's engagement, telling also that
other most heart-breaking tale of her conduct in regard to Mr Glascock,
and asked the Colonel what he thought about the Stanburys. Now the
Colonel did not hold the Stanburys in high esteem. He had met Hugh, as
the reader may perhaps remember, and had had some intercourse with the
young man, which had not been quite agreeable to him, on the platform
of the railway station at Exeter. And he had also heard something of
the ladies at Nuncombe Putney during his short sojourn at the house of
Mrs Crocket. 'My belief is, they are beggars,' said Colonel Osborne.

'I suppose so,' said Sir Marmaduke, shaking his head.

'When I went over to call on Emily that time I was at Cockchaffington,
you know, when Trevelyan made himself such a d fool I found. the mother
and sister living in a decentish house enough; but it wasn't their
house.'

'Not their own, you mean?'

'It was a place that Trevelyan had got this young man to take for
Emily, and they had merely gone there to be with her. They had been
living in a little bit of a cottage; a sort of place that any any
ploughman would live in. Just that kind of cottage.'

'Goodness gracious!'

'And they've gone to another just like it so I'm told.'

'And can't he do anything better for them than that?' asked Sir
Marmaduke.

'I know nothing about him. I have met him, you know. He used to be with
Trevelyan that was when Nora took a fancy for him, of course. And I saw
him once down in Devonshire, when I must say he behaved uncommonly
badly doing all he could to foster Trevelyan's stupid jealousy.'

'He has changed his mind about that, I think.'

'Perhaps he has; but he behaved very badly then. Let him shew up his
income that, I take it, is the question in such a case as this. His
father was a clergyman, and therefore I suppose he must be considered
to he a gentleman. But has he means to support a wife, and keep up a
house in London? If he has not, that is an end to it, I should say.'

But Sir Marmaduke could not see his way to any such end, and, although
he still looked black. upon Nora, and talked to his wife of his
determination to stand no contumacy, and hinted at cursing,
disinheriting, and the like, he began to perceive that Nora would have
her own way. In his unhappiness he regretted this visit to England, and
almost thought that the Mandarins were a pleasanter residence than
London. He could do pretty much as he pleased there, and could live
quietly, without the trouble which encountered him now on every side.

Nora, immediately on her return to London, had written a note to Hugh,
simply telling him of her arrival and begging him to come and see her.
'Mamma,' the said, 'I must see him, and it would be nonsense to say
that he must not come here. I have done what I have said I would do,
and you ought not to make difficulties.' Lady Rowley declared that Sir
Marmaduke would be very angry if Hugh were admitted without his express
permission. 'I don't want to do anything in the dark,' continued Nora,
'but of course I must see him. I suppose it will be better that he
should come to me than that I should go to him?' Lady Rowley quite
understood the threat that was conveyed in this. It would be much
better that Hugh should come to the hotel, and that he should be
treated then as an accepted lover. She had come to that conclusion. But
she was obliged to vacillate for awhile between her husband and her
daughter. Hugh came of course, and Sir Marmaduke, by his wife's advice,
kept out of the way. Lady Rowley, though she was at home, kept herself
also out of the way, remaining above with her two other daughters. Nora
thus achieved the glory and happiness of receiving her lover alone.

'My own true girl!' he said, speaking with his arms still round her
waist.

'I am true enough; but whether I am your own that is another question.'

'You mean to be?'

'But papa doesn't mean it. Papa says that you are nobody, and that you
haven't got an income; and thinks that I had better go back and be an
old maid at the Mandarins.'

'And what do you think yourself, Nora?'

'What do I think? As far as I can understand, young ladies are not
allowed to think at all. They have to do what their papas tell them.
That will do, Hugh. You can talk without taking hold of me.'

'It is such a time since I have had a hold of you as you call it.'

'It will be much longer before you can do so again, if I go back to the
Islands with papa. I shall expect you to be true, you know; and it will
be ten years at the least before I can hope to be home again.'

'I don't think you mean to go, Nora.'

'But what am I to do? That idea of yours of walking out to the next
church and getting ourselves married sounds very nice and independent,
but you know that it is not practicable.'

'On the other hand, I know it is.'

'It is not practicable for me, Hugh. Of all things in the world I don't
want to be a Lydia. I won't do anything that anybody shall ever say
that your wife ought not to have done. Young women when they are
married ought to have their papas' and mammas' consent, I have been
thinking about it a great deal for the last month or two, and I have
made up my mind to that.'

'What is it all to come to, then?'

'I mean to get papa's consent. That is what it is to come to.'

'And if he is obstinate?'

'I shall coax him round at last. When the time for going comes, he'll
yield then.'

'But you will not go with them?' As he asked this he came to her and
tried again to take her by the waist; but she retreated from him, and
got herself clear from us arm. 'If you are afraid of me, I shall know
that you think it possible that we may be parted.'

'I am not a bit afraid of you, Hugh.'

'Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely.'

'I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this,
however I will not go back to the Islands.'

'Give me your hand on that.'

'There is my hand. But, remember I had told you just as much before. I
don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean but I do not think I
will tell you all the things I mean to do.'

'You mean to be my wife?'

'Certainly some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables
can settle itself. The real question now is what am I to do with myself
when papa and mamma are gone?'

'Become Mrs H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have
chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live
in lodgings for a few months?'

'There must be preliminaries, Hugh even for lodgings, though they may
be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has
got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then
there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others,
out of which I don't see my way yet'. Hugh began to asseverate that it
was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as
others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. 'It will be by-and-by,
Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at
present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all I should
have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to
see you'

'My own darling!'

'When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her.'

'I'll take you!' said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of
such a tour together, over the Alps.

'No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together
we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had
better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible.
There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or
he will become so bad that that medical interference will be
unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a
home when she had one and I must always remember that I met you there.'
After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm,
which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she
told him of her friendship for Mr Glascock's wife, and of her intention
at some future time to visit them at Monkhams.

'And see all the glories that might have been your own,' he said.

'And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are
to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a
time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing
myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune and an
obedient, good girl.'

'And why didn't you?'

'I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because because because
Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to
Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!'

'And why didn't I speak to you?'

'I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of
nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to
Liddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?'

'I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you
wouldn't go.'

'You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you
remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw
it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we
are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those
stones.'

'You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet.'

'Of course I pretended because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh,
dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all.'

'Don't I know it all now?'

'I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it,
and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so
strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly and that
for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming
that I know of did you?'

'I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say.'

'You did nothing, sir except just let me fall in love with you. And you
were not quite sure that you would let me do that.'

'Nora, I don't think you do understand.'

'I do perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice
word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand.'

'Why was it?'

'Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would
give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and
I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you.
But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear
little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back.'

They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady
Rowley was patient upstairs; as mothers will be patient in such
emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she
remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the
thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together.
Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr Glascock would have been a
son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of whose
existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to
her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but
nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother
with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now
that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's
marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that
he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that
she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had
behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite
willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that
the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be
summoned. 'You must let me go for mamma for a moment,' Nora said. 'I
want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are
ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces.' Hugh
declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother.

Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a 'good boy' in Lady
Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for sometime, felt very
strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally
recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and as not
yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as
the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with
her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in
some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began
by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living
were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming
journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended
return to Italy. 'We don't know how that may be,' said Lady Rowley.
'Her papa still wishes her to go back with us.'

'Mamma, you know that that is impossible,' said Nora.

'Not impossible, my love.'

'But she will not go back,' said Hugh. 'Lady Rowley, you would not
propose to separate us by such a distance as that?'

'It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask.'

'Mamma, mamma!' exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, 'it is
not papa that we must ask not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't
we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa
will come round.'

'My dear Nora!'

'You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and
kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How
could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen
wives before I could get back to him--'

'If you have not more trust in him than that--'

'Long engagements are awful bores,' said Hugh, finding it to be
necessary that he also should press forward his argument.

'I can trust him as far as I can see him,' said Nora, 'and therefore I
do not want to lose sight of him altogether.'

Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law.
After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to
making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he
would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some
time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must
depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself
ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that
could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and
kissed him again and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did
not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that
feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged
young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the
taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to
be hidden, especially from maternal eyes, that feeling of being a fine
fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice.



CHAPTER XCI - FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He
quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And had
visited Mr and Mrs Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home
for her there, if it might be possible. Mr Outhouse did not refuse, but
gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a
refusal. 'He was,' he said, 'much attached to his niece Nora, but he
had heard that there was a love affair.' Sir Marmaduke, of course,
could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of
which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed
income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession.'such a
love affair,' thought Mr Outhouse, 'was a sort of thing that he didn't
know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to
visit at the house, or was he not?' Then Mrs Outhouse said something as
to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir
Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs Trevelyan had
written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter
had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at
that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She
saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless according to her
statements her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his
wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and
return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would
do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in
all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being
under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or
twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much
of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had
lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and
latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits
cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never
expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the
house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her
return to England as a step which must be taken soon and the sooner the
better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very
fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation
to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had
spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's
attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of
no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and
all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs Trevelyan, he
would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should
have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would
be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his
health, her account of him was very sad. 'He seemed,' she said, 'to be
withering away.' His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so
covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face
but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail
and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his
clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had
brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed
as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out
to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in
Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the
gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been
furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor.
He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again,
he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the
gates of Casalunga. 'Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you,' Mrs
Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. 'Your being here would
do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being
watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were
here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be
mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is
essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the
heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town of
which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems
to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to
England as long as papa is there but I hope that he may be induced to
do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you
send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa
has sailed.'

It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora
was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till
some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh
that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had
explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her
that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. 'There
never was such a forlorn young woman,' she said. 'When papa goes I
shall literally be without shelter.' There had come a letter from Mrs
Glascock at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name
might have been used dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying
back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord
Peterborough was dead. 'And she is Lady Peterborough!' said Lady
Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. 'Of course
she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be? though she
does not so sign herself.' 'We think,' said the American peeress, 'that
we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that
you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of
course, because of Lord Peterborough's death.' 'I saw it in the paper,'
said Sir Marmaduke, 'and quite forgot to mention it.'

That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's
prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's
Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel
that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had
yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called
disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the
intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty
consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but
twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton,
and nothing had been settled. 'If papa will allow me something ever so
small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings,' said Nora.

'It is the maddest thing I ever heard,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Who would take care of you, Nora?' asked Lady Rowley.

'And who would walk about with you?' said Lucy.

'I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that,' said
Sophie.

'Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and
I could live alone very well,' said Nora. 'I don't see why a young
woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes
to. Of course it won't be very nice but it need not be for long.'

'Why not for long?' asked Sir Marmaduke.

'Not for very long,' said Nora.

'It does not seem to me,' said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable
pause, 'that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the
match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made.'

'Papa, that is unfair, most unfair and ungenerous.'

'Nora,' said her mother, 'do not speak in that way to your father.'

'Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr Stanbury of being being lukewarm
and untrue of not being in earnest.'

'I would rather that he were not in earnest,' said Sir Marmaduke.

'Mr Stanbury is ready at any time,' continued Nora. 'He would have the
banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks if I would let him.'

'Good gracious, Nora!' exclaimed Lady Rowley.

'But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement,
because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That
is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till
I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You
can trust Mr Glascock for that, and you can trust her.'

'I suppose your papa will make you some allowance,' said Lady Rowley.

'She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper
home,' said Sir Marmaduke.

The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not
allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be
interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by
degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was
prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for
this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was
addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands as
ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. 'Louis is
much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best.'

In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew
what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she
would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was
impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed
herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a
proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would
of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and
Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She
was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might.
According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of
the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to
go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still
thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if
Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end
of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over
Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the
office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. 'Dear Mr Stanbury We
have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, at once. Please
come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come E. R.'

It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it
might, it was all but impossible that Mrs Trevelyan should be with them
before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they
should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the
morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the
afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when
he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan
should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same
speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter;
but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. 'If anything
were to happen, she might have come with us,' said Lady Rowley.

'It is out of the question,' said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. 'I could not
give up the places I have taken.'

'A few days more would have done it.'

'I don't suppose she would wish to go,' said Nora. 'Of course she would
not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so
ill as that.'

'There is no saying,' said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that,
whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly developed
wish for his son-in-law's recovery.

They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and
two o'clock at night. The 'boots' had returned saying that Mr Stanbury
had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to
information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other
address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of
necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful,
and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But
he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to
send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should
certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were
necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was
not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. 'I
should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there,' she said. 'Of
course I must speak to him before he goes.' Sophie and Lucy considered
that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be
called geese and idiots by their father.

Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had
just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came
a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up,
and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his
excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R.
office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to
write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the
reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away
laden with his article. 'It was certainly better that we should remain
up, than that the whole town should be disappointed,' said Sir
Marmaduke, with something of a sneer.

'It is so very, very good of you to come,' said Nora. 'Indeed it is,'
said Lady Rowley; 'but we were quite sure you would come.' Having
kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared
to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough.

'Perhaps, Mr Stanbury, we had better shew you this telegram,' said Sir
Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand
since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and
read it. 'I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your
name,' continued Sir Marmaduke 'but as she has done so, and as perhaps
the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it
best to send for you.'

'No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke.'

'We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that
we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on
Saturday.'

'I will go as a matter of course,' said Hugh. 'I will start at once at
any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought
that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time,
and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure.'

There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the
discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all
of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again probably for
many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were
they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently
remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull
by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the
presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons,
even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there
arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to
believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a
dinner in his pocket although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably
the richer man of the two said something about defraying the cost of
the journey. 'It is taken altogether on our behalf,' said Sir
Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a
word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world
'even if there were nothing else.' Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of
himself without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural said nothing
further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever.

The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was
spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse
Bradshaw we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental because
all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks
that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close
research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to
say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an
hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any
other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that
first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a
pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses.
The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing
could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the
morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the
road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail
train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then
came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission
could be given to him. A telegram should be sent to Emily the next
morning to say that he was coming; and then he would hurry on and take
his orders from her.

They were all in doubt, terribly in doubt, whether the aggravated
malady of which the telegram spoke was malady of the mind or of the
body. If of the former nature then the difficulty might be very great
indeed; and it would be highly expedient that Stanbury should have some
one in Italy to assist him. It was Nora who suggested that he should
carry a letter of introduction to Mr Spalding, and it was she who wrote
it. Sir Marmaduke had not foregathered very closely with the English
Minister, and nothing was said of assistance that should be peculiarly
British. Then, at last, about three or four in the morning came the
moment for parting. Sir Marmaduke had suggested that Stanbury should
dine with them on the next day before he started, but Hugh had
declined, alleging that as the day was at his command it must be
devoted to the work of providing for his absence. In truth, Sir
Marmaduke had given the invitation with a surly voice, and Hugh, though
he was ready to go to the North Pole for any others of the family, was
at the moment in an aggressive mood of mind towards Sir Marmaduke.

'I will send a message directly I get there,' he said, holding Lady
Rowley by the hand, 'and will write fully to you immediately.'

'God bless you, my dear friend!' said Lady Rowley, crying.

'Good night, Sir Marmaduke,' said Hugh.

'Good night, Mr Stanbury.'

Then he gave a hand to the two girls, each of whom, as she took it,
sobbed, and looked away from Nora. Nora was. standing away from them,
by herself, and away from the door, holding on to her chair, and with
her hands clasped together. She had prepared nothing not a word, or an
attitude, not a thought, for this farewell. But she had felt that it
was coming, and had known that she must trust to him for a cue for her
own demeanour. If he could say adieu with a quiet voice, and simply
with a touch of the hand, then would she do the same and endeavour to
think no worse of him. Nor had he prepared anything; but when the
moment came he could not leave her after that fashion. He stood a
moment hesitating, not approaching her, and merely called her by her
name 'Nora!' For a moment she was still; for a moment she held by her
chair; and then she rushed into his arms. He did not much care for her
father now, but kissed her hair and her forehead, and held her closely
to his bosom. 'My own, own Nora!'

It was necessary that Sir Marmaduke should say something. There was at
first a little scene between all the women, during which he arranged
his deportment.

'Mr Stanbury,' he said, 'let it be so. I could wish for my child's
sake, and also for your own, that your means of living were less
precarious.' Hugh accepted this simply as an authority for another
embrace, and then he allowed them all to go to bed.



CHAPTER XCII - TREVELYAN DISCOURSES ON LIFE

Stanbury made his journey without pause or hindrance till he reached
Florence, and as the train for Siena made it necessary that he should
remain there for four or five hours, he went to an inn, and dressed and
washed himself, and had a meal, and was then driven to Mr Spalding's
house. He found the American Minister at home, and was received with
cordiality; but Mr Spalding could tell him little or nothing about
Trevelyan. They went up to Mrs Spalding's room, and Hugh was told by
her that she had seen Mrs Trevelyan once since her niece's marriage,
and that then she had represented her husband as being very feeble.
Hugh, in the midst of his troubles, was amused by a second and a third,
perhaps by a fourth, reference to 'Lady Peterborough.' Mrs Spalding's
latest tidings as to the Trevelyans had been received through 'Lady
Peterborough' from Nora Rowley.

'Lady Peterborough' was at the present moment at Naples, but was
expected to pass north through Florence in a day or two. They, the
Spaldings themselves, were kept in Florence in this very hot weather by
this circumstance. They were going up to the Tyrolese mountains for a
few weeks as soon as 'Lady Peterborough' should have left them for
England. 'Lady Peterborough' would have been so happy to make Mr
Stanbury's acquaintance, and to have heard something direct from her
friend Nora. Then Mrs Spalding smiled archly, showing thereby that she
knew all about Hugh Stanbury and his relation to Nora Rowley. From all
which, and in accordance with the teaching which we got alas, now many
years ago from a great master on the subject, we must conclude that
poor, dear Mrs Spalding was a snob. Nevertheless, with all deference to
the memory of that great master, we think that Mrs Spalding's allusions
to the success in life achieved by her niece were natural and
altogether pardonable; and that reticence on the subject a calculated
determination to abstain from mentioning a triumph which must have been
very dear to her would have betrayed on the whole a condition of mind
lower than that which she exhibited. While rank, wealth, and money are
held to be good things by all around us, let them be acknowledged as
such. It is natural that a mother should be as proud when her daughter
marries an Earl's heir as when her son becomes Senior Wrangler; and
when we meet a lady in Mrs Spalding's condition who purposely abstains
from mentioning the name of her titled daughter, we shall be disposed
to judge harshly of the secret workings of that lady's thoughts on the
subject. We prefer the exhibition, which we feel to be natural. Mr
Spalding got our friend by the button-hole, and was making him a speech
on the perilous condition in which Mrs Trevelyan was placed; but
Stanbury, urged by the circumstances of his position, pulled out his
watch, pleaded the hour, and escaped.

He found Mrs Trevelyan waiting for him at, the station at Siena. He
would hardly have known her not from any alteration that was physically
personal to herself, not that she had become older in face, or thin, or
grey, or sickly but that the trouble of her life had robbed her for the
time of that brightness of apparel, of that pride of feminine gear, of
that sheen of high-bred womanly bearing with which our wives and
daughters are so careful to invest themselves. She knew herself to be a
wretched woman, whose work in life was now to watch over a poor
prostrate wretch, and who had thrown behind her all ideas of grace and
beauty. It was not quickly that, this condition had come upon her. She
had been unhappy at Nuncombe Putney; but unhappiness had not then told
upon the outward woman. She had been more wretched still at St.
Diddulph's, and all the outward circumstances of life in her uncle's
parsonage had been very wearisome to her; but she had striven against
it all, and the sheen and outward brightness had still been there.
After that her child had been taken from her, and the days which she
had passed in Manchester Street had been very grievous but even yet she
had not given way. It was not till her child had been brought back to
her, and she had seen the life which her husband was living, and that
her anger hot anger had changed to pity, and that with pity love had
returned, it was not till this point had come in her sad life that her
dress became always black and sombre, that a veil habitually covered
her face, that a bonnet took the place of the jaunty hat that she had
worn, and that the prettinesses of her life were lain aside. 'It is
very good of you to come,' she said; 'very good, I hardly knew what to
do, I was so wretched. On the day that I sent he was so bad that I was
obliged to do something.' Stanbury, of course, inquired after
Trevelyan's health, as they were being driven up to Mrs Trevelyan's
lodgings. On the day on which she had sent the telegram her husband had
again been furiously angry with her. She had interfered, or had
endeavoured to interfere, in some arrangements as to his health and
comfort, and he had turned upon her with an order that the child should
be at once sent back to him, and that she should immediately quit
Siena. 'When I said that Louey could not be sent and who could send a
child into such keeping? he told me that I was the basest liar that
ever broke a promise, and the vilest traitor that had ever returned
evil for good. I was never to come to him again never; and the gate of
the house would be closed against me if I appeared there.'

On the next day she had gone again, however, and had seen him, and had
visited him on every day since. Nothing further had been said about the
child, and he had now become almost too weak for violent anger. 'I told
him you were coming, and though he would not say so, I think he is glad
of it. He expects you tomorrow.'

'I will go this evening, if he will let me.'

'Not to-night. I think he goes to bed almost as the sun sets. I am
never there myself after four or five in the afternoon. I told him that
you should be there tomorrow alone. I have hired a little carriage, and
you can take it. He said specially that I was not to come with you.
Papa goes certainly on next Saturday?' It was a Saturday now this day
on which Stanbury had arrived at Siena.

'He leaves town on Friday.'

'You must make him believe that. Do not tell him suddenly, but bring it
in by degrees. He thinks that I am deceiving him. He would go back if
he knew that papa were gone.'

They spent a long evening together, and Stanbury learned all that Mrs
Trevelyan could tell him of her husband's state. There was no doubt,
she said, that his reason was affected; but she thought the state of
his mind was diseased in a ratio the reverse of that of his body, and
that when he was weakest in health, then were his ideas the most clear
and rational. He never now mentioned Colonel Osborne's name, but would
refer to the affairs of the last two years as though they had been
governed by an inexorable Fate which had utterly destroyed his
happiness without any fault on his part. 'You may be sure,' she said,
'that I never accuse hint Even when he says terrible things of me which
he does I never excuse myself. I do not think I should answer a word,
if he called me the vilest thing on earth.' Before they parted for the
night many questions were of course asked about Nora, and Hugh
described the condition in which he and she stood to each other. 'Papa
has consented, then?'

'Yes at four o'clock in the morning just as I was leaving them.'

'And when is it to be?'

'Nothing has been settled, and I do not as yet know where she will go
to when they leave London. I think she will visit Monkhams when the
Glascock people return to England.'

'What an episode in life to go and see the place, when it might all now
have been hers!'

'I suppose I ought to feel dreadfully ashamed of myself for having
marred such promotion,' said Hugh.

'Nora is such a singular girl so firm, so headstrong, so good, and so
self-reliant that she will do as well with a poor man as she would have
done with a rich. Shall I confess to you that I did wish that she
should accept Mr Glascock, and that I pressed it on her very strongly?
You will not be angry with me?'

'I am only the more proud of her and of myself.'

'When she was told of all that he had to give in the way of wealth and
rank, she took the bit between her teeth and would not be turned an
inch. Of course she was in love.'

'I hope she may never regret it that is all.'

'She must change her nature first. Everything she sees at Monkhams will
make her stronger in her choice. With all her girlish ways, she is like
a rock nothing can move her.'

Early on the next morning Hugh started alone for Casalunga, having
first, however, seen Mrs Trevelyan. He took out with him certain little
things for the sick man's table as to which, however, he was cautioned
to say not a word to the sick man himself. And it was arranged that he
should endeavour to fix a day for Trevelyan's return to England. That
was to be the one object in view. 'If we could get him to England,' she
said, 'he and I would, at any rate, be together, and gradually he would
be taught to submit himself to advice.' Before ten in the morning,
Stanbury was walking up the hill to the house, and wondering at the
dreary, hot, hopeless desolation of the spot. It seemed to him that no
one could live alone in such a place, in such weather, without being
driven to madness. The soil was parched and dusty, as though no drop of
rain had fallen there for months. The lizards, glancing in and out of
the broken walls, added to the appearance of heat. The vegetation
itself was of a faded yellowish green, as though the glare of the sun
had taken the fresh colour out of it. There was a noise of grasshoppers
and a hum of flies in the air, hardly audible, but all giving evidence
of the heat. Not a human voice was to be heard, nor the sound of a
human foot, and there was no shelter; but the sun blazed down full upon
everything. He took off his hat, and rubbed his head with his
handkerchief as he struck the door with his stick. Oh God, to what
misery had a little folly brought two human beings who had had every
blessing that the world could give within their reach!

In a few minutes he was conducted through the house, and found
Trevelyan seated in a chair under the verandah which looked down upon
the olive trees. He did not even get up from his seat, but put out his
left hand and welcomed his old friend. 'Stanbury,' he said, 'I am glad
to see you for auld lang syne's sake. When I found out this retreat, I
did not mean to have friends round me here. I wanted to try what
solitude was and, by heaven, I've tried it!' He was dressed in a bright
Italian dressing-gown, or woollen paletot Italian, as having been
bought in Italy, though, doubtless, it had come from France and on his
feet he had green worked slippers, and on his head a brocaded cap. He
had made but little other preparation for his friend in the way of
dressing. His long dishevelled hair came down over his neck, and his
beard covered his face. Beneath his dressing-gown he had on a
night-shirt and drawers, and was as dirty in appearance as he was gaudy
in colours.'sit down and let us two moralise,' he said. 'I spend my
life here doing nothing nothing nothing; while 'you cudgel your brain
from day to day to mislead the British public. Which of us two is
taking the nearest road to the devil?'

Stanbury seated himself in a second arm-chair, which there was there in
the verandah, and looked as carefully as he dared to do at his friend.
There could be no mistake as to the restless gleam of that eye. And
then the affected air of ease, and the would-be cynicism, and the
pretence of false motives, all told the same story. 'They used to tell
us,' said Stanbury, 'that idleness is the root of all evil.'

'They have been telling us since the world began so many lies, that I
for one have determined never to believe anything again. Labour leads
to greed, and greed to selfishness, and selfishness to treachery, and
treachery straight to the devil straight to the devil. Ha, my friend,
all your leading articles won't lead you out of that. What's the news?
Who's alive? Who dead? Who in? Who out? What think you of a man who has
not seen a newspaper for two months; and who holds no conversation with
the world further than is needed for the cooking of his polenta and the
cooling of his modest wine-flask?'

'You see your wife sometimes,' said Stanbury.

'My wife! Now, my friend, let us drop that subject. Of all topics of
talk it is the most distressing to man in general, and I own that I am
no exception to the lot. Wives, Stanbury, are an evil, more or less
necessary to humanity, and I own to being one who has not escaped. The
world must be populated, though for what reason one does not see. I
have helped to the extent of one male bantling; and if you are one who
consider population desirable, I will express my regret that I should
have done no more.'

It was very difficult to force Trevelyan out of this humour, and it was
not till Stan bury had risen apparently to take his leave that he found
it possible to say a word as to his mission there. 'Don't you think you
would be happier at home?' he asked.

'Where is my home, Sir Knight of the midnight pen?'

'England is your home, Trevelyan.'

'No, sir; England was my home once; but I have taken the liberty
accorded to me by my Creator of choosing a new country. Italy is now my
nation, and Casalunga is my home.'

'Every tie you have in the world is in England.'

'I have no tie, sir no tie anywhere. It has been my study to untie all
the ties; and, by Jove, I have succeeded. Look at me here. I have got
rid of the trammels pretty well haven't I? have unshackled myself, and
thrown off the paddings, and the wrappings, and the swaddling clothes.
I have got rid of the conventionalities, and can look Nature straight
in the face. I don't even want the Daily Record, Stanbury think of
that!'

Stanbury paced the length of the terrace, and then stopped for a moment
down under the blaze of the sun, in order that he might think how to
address this philosopher. 'Have you heard,' he said at last, 'that I am
going to marry your sister-in-law, Nora Rowley?'

'Then there will be two more full-grown fools in the world certainly,
and probably an infinity of young fools coming afterwards. Excuse me,
Stanbury, but this solitude is apt to make one plain-spoken.'

'I got Sir Marmaduke's sanction the day before I left.'

'Then you got the sanction of an illiterate, ignorant, self-sufficient,
and most contemptible old man; and much good may it do you.'

'Let him be what he may, I was glad to have it. Most probably I shall
never see him again. He sails from Southampton for the Mandarins on
this day week.'

'He does does he? May the devil sail along with him! that is all I say.
And does my much respected and ever-to-be-beloved mother-in-law sail
with him?'

'They all return together except Nora.'

'Who remains to comfort you? I hope you may be comforted that is all.
Don't be too particular. Let her choose her own friends, and go her own
gait, and have her own way, and do you be blind and deaf and dumb and
properly submissive; and it may be that she'll give you your breakfast
and dinner in your own house so long as your hours don't interfere with
her pleasures. If she should even urge you beside yourself by her
vanity, folly, and disobedience so that at last you are driven to
express your feeling no doubt she will come to you after a while and
tell you with the sweetest condescension that she forgives you. When
she has been out of your house for a twelvemonth or more, she will
offer to come back to you, and to forget everything on condition that
you will do exactly as she bids you for the future.'

This attempt at satire, so fatuous, so plain, so false, together with
the would-be jaunty manner of the speaker, who, however, failed
repeatedly in his utterances from sheer physical exhaustion, was
excessively painful to Stanbury. What can one do at any time with a
madman? 'I mentioned my marriage,' said he, 'to prove my right to have
an additional interest in your wife's happiness.'

'You are quite welcome, whether you marry the other one or not welcome
to take any interest you please. I have got beyond all that, Stanbury
yes, by Jove, a long way beyond all that.'

'You have not got beyond loving your wife, and your child, Trevelyan?'

'Upon my word, yes I think I have. There may be a grain of weakness
left, you know. But what have you to do with my love for my wife?'

'I was thinking more just now of her love for you. There she is at
Siena. You cannot mean that she should remain there?'

'Certainly not. What the deuce is there to keep her there?'

'Come with her then to England.'

'Why should I go to England with her? Because you bid me, or because
she wishes it or simply because England is the most damnable,
puritanical, God-forgotten, and stupid country on the face of the
globe? I know no other reason for going to England. Will you take a
glass of wine, Stanbury?' Hugh declined the offer. 'You will excuse
me,' continued Trevelyan; 'I always take a glass of wine at this hour.'
Then he rose from his chair, and helped himself from a cupboard that
was near at hand. Stanbury, watching him as he filled his glass, could
see that his legs were hardly strong enough to carry him. And Stanbury
saw, moreover, that the unfortunate man took two glasses out of the
bottle. 'Go to England indeed. I do not think much of this country; but
it is, at any rate, better than England.'

Hugh perceived that he could do nothing more on the present occasion.
Having heard so much of Trevelyan's debility, he had been astonished to
hear the man speak with so much volubility and attempts at high-flown
spirit. Before he had taken the wine he had almost sunk into his chair,
but still he had continued to speak with the same fluent would-be
cynicism. 'I will come and see you again,' said Hugh, getting up to
take his departure.

'You might as well save your trouble, Stanbury; but you can come if you
please, you know. If you should find yourself locked out, you won't be
angry. A hermit such as I am must assume privileges.'

'I won't be angry,' said Hugh, good humouredly.

'I can smell what you are come about,' said Trevelyan. 'You and my wife
want to take me away from here among you, and I think it best to stay
here. I don't want much for myself, and why should I not live here? My
wife can remain at Siena if she pleases, or she can go to England if
she pleases. She must give me the same liberty the same liberty the
same liberty.' After this he fell a-coughing violently, and Stanbury
thought it better to leave him. He had been at Casalunga about two
hours, and did not seem as yet to have done any good. He had been
astonished both by Trevelyan's weakness, and by his strength; by his
folly, and by his sharpness. Hitherto he could see no way for his
future sister-in-law out of her troubles.

When he was with her at Siena, he described what had taken place with
all the accuracy in his power. 'He has intermittent days,' said Emily.
'To-morrow he will be in quite another frame of mind melancholy, silent
perhaps, and self-reproachful. We will both go tomorrow, and we shall
find probably that he has forgotten altogether what has passed to-day
between you and him.'

So their plans for the morrow were formed.



CHAPTER XCIII -'SAY THAT YOU FORGIVE ME'

On the following day, again early in the morning, Mrs Trevelyan and
Stanbury were driven out to Casalunga. The country people along the
road knew the carriage well, and the lady who occupied it, and would
say that the English wife was going to see her mad husband. Mrs
Trevelyan knew that these words were common in the people's mouths, and
explained to her companion how necessary it would be to use these
rumours, to aid her in putting some restraint over her husband even in
this, country, should they fail in their effort to take him to England.
She saw the doctor in Siena constantly, and had learned from him how
such steps might be taken. The measure proposed would be slow,
difficult, inefficient, and very hard to set aside, if once taken but
still it might be indispensable that something should be done. 'He
would be so much worse off here than he would be at home,' she said 'if
we could only make him understand that it would be so.' Then Stanbury
asked about the wine. It seemed that of late Trevelyan had taken to
drink freely, but only of the wine of the country. But the wine of the
country in these parts is sufficiently stimulating, and Mrs Trevelyan
acknowledged that hence had arisen a further cause of fear.

They walked up the hill together, and Mrs Trevelyan, now well knowing
the ways of the place, went round at once to the front terrace. There
he was, seated in his arm-chair, dressed in the same way as yesterday,
dirty, dishevelled, and gaudy with various colours; but Stanbury could
see at once that his mood had greatly changed. He rose slowly, dragging
himself up out of his chair, as they came up to him, but shewing as he
did so and perhaps somewhat assuming the impotency of querulous
sickness. His wife went to him, and took him by the hand, and placed
him back in his chair. He was weak, he said, and had not slept, and
suffered from the heat; and then he begged her to give him wine. This
she did, half filling for him a tumbler, of which he swallowed the
contents greedily. 'You see me very poorly, Stanbury very poorly,' he
said, seeming to ignore all that had taken place on the previous day.

'You want change of climate, old fellow,' said Stanbury.

'Change of everything I want change of everything,' he said. 'If I
could have a new body and a new mind, and a new soul!'

'The mind and soul, dear, will do well enough, if you will let us look
after the body,' said his wife, seating herself on a stool near his
feet. Stanbury, who had settled beforehand how he would conduct
himself, took out a cigar and lighted it and then they sat together
silent, or nearly silent, for half an hour. She had said that if Hugh
would do so, Trevelyan would soon become used to the presence of his
old friend, and it seemed that he had already done so. More than once,
when he coughed, his wife fetched him some drink in a cup, which he
took from her without a word. And Stanbury the while went on smoking in
silence.

'You have heard, Louis,' she said at last, 'that, after all, Nora and
Mr Stanbury are going to be married?'

'Ah yes; I think I was told of it. I hope you may be happy, Stanbury
happier than I have been.' This was unfortunate, but neither of the
visitors winced, or said a word.

'It will be a pity that papa and mamma cannot be present at the
wedding,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'If I had to do it again, I should not regret your father's absence; I
must say that. He has been my enemy. Yes, Stanbury my enemy. I don't
care who hears me say so. I am obliged to stay here, because that man
would swear every shilling I have away from me if I were in England. He
would strive to do so, and the struggle in my state of health would be
too much for me.'

'But Sir Marmaduke sails from Southampton this very week,' said
Stanbury.

'I don't know. He is always sailing, and always coming back again. I
never asked him for a shilling in my life, and yet he has treated me as
though I were his bitterest enemy.'

'He will trouble you no more now, Louis,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'He cannot trouble you again. He will have left England before you can
possibly reach it.'

'He will have left other traitors behind him though none as bad as
himself,' said Trevelyan.

Stanbury, when his cigar was finished, rose and left the husband and
wife together on the terrace. There was little enough to be seen at
Casalunga, but he strolled about looking at the place. He went into the
huge granary, and then down among the olive trees, and up into the
sheds which had been built for beasts. He stood and teased the lizards,
and listened to the hum of the insects, and wiping away the
perspiration which rose to his brow even as he was standing. And all
the while he was thinking what he would do next, or what say next, with
the view of getting Trevelyan away from the place. Hitherto he had been
very tender with him, contradicting him in nothing, taking from him
good humouredly any absurd insult which he chose to offer, pressing
upon him none of the evil which he had himself occasioned, saying to
him no word that could hurt either his pride or his comfort. But he
could not see that this would be efficacious for the purpose desired.
He had come thither to help Nora's sister in her terrible distress, and
he must take upon himself to make some plan for giving this aid. When
he had thought of all this and made his plan, he sauntered back round
the house on to the terrace. She was still there, sitting at her
husband's feet, and holding one of his hands in hers. It was well that
the wife should be tender, but he doubted whether tenderness would
suffice.

'Trevelyan,' he said, 'you know why I have come over here?'

'I suppose she told you to come,' said Trevelyan.

'Well; yes; she did tell me. I came to try and get you back to England.
If you remain here, the climate and solitude together will kill you.'

'As for the climate, I like it and as for the solitude, I have got used
even to that.'

'And then there is another thing,' said Stanbury.

'What is that?' asked Trevelyan, starting.

'You are not safe here.'

'How not safe?'

'She could not tell you, but I must.' His wife was still holding his
hand, and he did not at once attempt to withdraw it; but he raised
himself in his chair, and fixed his eyes fiercely on Stanbury. 'They
will not let you remain here quietly,' said Stanbury.

'Who will not?'

'The Italians. They are already saying that you are not fit to be
alone; and if once they get you into their hands under some Italian
medical board, perhaps into some Italian asylum, it might be years
before you could get out if ever. I have come to tell you what the
danger is. I do not know whether you will believe me.'

'Is it so?' he said, turning to his wife.

'I believe it is, Louis.'

'And who has told them? Who has been putting them up to it?' Now his
hand had been withdrawn. 'My God, am I to be followed here too with
such persecution as this?'

'Nobody has told them but people have eyes.'

'Liar, traitor, fiend! it is you!' he said, turning upon his wife.

'Louis, as I hope for mercy, I have said not a word to any one that
could injure you.'

'Trevelyan, do not be so unjust, and so foolish,' said Stanbury. 'It is
not her doing. Do you suppose that you can live here like this and give
rise to no remarks? Do you think that people's eyes are not open, and
that their tongues will not speak? I tell you, you are in danger here.'

'What am I to do? Where am I to go? Can not they let me stay till I
die? Whom am I hurting here? She may have all my money, if she wants
it. She has got my child.'

'I want nothing, Louis, but to take you where you may be safe and
well.'

'Why are you afraid of going to England?' Stanbury asked.

'Because they have threatened to put me in a mad-house.'

'Nobody ever thought of so treating you,' said his wife.

'Your father did and your mother. They told me so.'

'Look here, Trevelyan. Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley are gone. They
will have sailed, at least, before we can reach England. Whatever may
have been either their wishes or their power, they can do nothing now.
Here something would be done very soon; you may take my word for that.
If you will return with me and your wife, you shall choose your own
place of abode. Is not that so, Emily?'

'He shall choose everything. His boy will be with him, and I will be
with him, and he shall be contradicted in nothing. If he only knew my
heart towards him!'

'You hear what she says, Trevelyan?'

'Yes; I hear her.'

'And you believe her?'

'I'm not so sure of that, Stanbury, how should you like to be locked up
in a madhouse and grin through the bars till your heart was broken. It
would not take long with me, I know.'

'You shall never be locked up never be touched,' said his wife.

'I am very harmless here,' he said, almost crying; 'very harmless. I do
not think anybody here will touch me,' he added afterwards. 'And there
are other places. There are other places. My God, that I should be
driven about the world like this!' The conference was ended by his
saying that he would take two days to think of it, and by his then
desiring that they would both leave him. They did so, and descended the
hill together, knowing that he was watching them that he would watch
them till they were out of sight from the gate for, as Mrs Trevelyan
said, he never came down the hill now, knowing that the labour of
ascending it was too much for him. When they were at the carriage they
were met by one of the women of the house, and strict injunctions were
given to her by Mrs Trevelyan to send on word to Siena if the Signore
should prepare to move. 'He cannot go far without my knowing it,' said
she, 'because he draws his money in Siena, and lately I have taken to
him what he wants. He has not enough with him for a long journey.' For
Stanbury had suggested that he might be off to seek another residence
in another country, and that they would find Casalunga vacant when they
reached it on the following Tuesday. But he told himself almost
immediately not caring to express such an opinion to Emily that
Trevelyan would hardly have strength even to prepare for such a journey
by himself.

On the intervening day, the Monday, Stanbury had no occupation
whatever, and he thought that since he was born no day had ever been so
long. Siena contains many monuments of interest, and much that is
valuable in art having had a school of painting of its own, and still
retaining in its public gallery specimens of its school, of which as a
city it is justly proud. There are palaces there to be beaten for
gloomy majesty by none in Italy. There is a cathedral which was to have
been the largest in the world, and than which few are more worthy of
prolonged inspection. The town is old, and quaint, and picturesque, and
dirty, and attractive as it becomes a town in Italy to be. But in July
all such charms are thrown away. In July Italy is not a land of charms
to an Englishman. Poor Stanbury did wander into the cathedral, and
finding it the coolest place in the town, went to sleep on a stone
step. He was awoke by the voice of the priests as they began to chant
the vespers. The good-natured Italians had let him sleep, and would
have let him sleep till the doors were closed for the night. At five he
dined with Mrs Trevelyan, and then endeavoured to while away the
evening thinking of Nora with a pipe in his mouth. He was standing in
this way at the hotel gateway, when, on a sudden, all Siena was made
alive by the clatter of an open carriage and four on its way through
the town to the railway. On looking up, Stanbury saw Lord Peterborough
in the carriage with a lady whom he did not doubt to be Lord
Peterborough's wife. He himself had not been recognised, but he slowly
followed the carriage to the railway station. After the Italian
fashion, the arrival was three-quarters of an hour before the proper
time, and Stanbury had full opportunity of learning their news and
telling his own. They were coming up from Rome, and thought it
preferable to take the route by Siena than to use the railway through
the Maremma; and they intended to reach Florence that night.

'And do you think he is really mad?' asked Lady Peterborough.

'He is undoubtedly so mad as to be unfit to manage anything for
himself, but he is not in such a condition that any one would wish to
see him put into confinement. If he were raving mad there would be less
difficulty, though there might be more distress.'

A great deal was said about Nora, and both Lord Peterborough and his
wife insisted that the marriage should take place at Monkhams. 'We
shall be home now in less than three weeks,' said Caroline, 'and she
must come to us at once. But I will write to her from Florence, and
tell her how we saw you smoking your pipe under the archway. Not that
my husband knew you in the least.'

'Upon my word no,' said the husband 'one didn't expect to find you
here. Good-bye. I hope you may succeed in getting him home. I went to
him once, but could do very little.' Then the train started, and
Stanbury went back to Mrs Trevelyan.

On the next day Stanbury went out to Casalunga alone. He had
calculated, on leaving England, that if any good might be done at Siena
it could be done in three days, and that he would have been able to
start on his return on the Wednesday morning or on Wednesday evening at
the latest. But now there did not seem to be any chance of that and he
hardly knew how to guess when he might get away. He had sent a telegram
to Lady Rowley after his first visit, in which he had simply said that
things were not at all changed at Casalunga, and he had written to Nora
each day since his arrival. His stay was prolonged at great expense and
inconvenience to himself; and yet it was impossible that he should go
and leave his work half finished. As he walked up the hill to the house
he felt very angry with Trevelyan, and prepared himself to use hard
words and dreadful threats. But at the very moment of his entrance on
the terrace, Trevelyan professed himself ready to go to England.
'That's right, old fellow,' said Hugh. 'I am so glad.' But in
expressing his joy he had hardly noticed Trevelyan's voice and
appearance.

'I might as well go,' he said. 'It matters little where I am, or
whether they say that I am mad or sane.'

'When we have you over there, nobody shall say a word that is
disagreeable.'

'I only hope that you may not have the trouble of burying me on the
road. You don't know, Stanbury, how ill I am. I cannot eat. If I were
at the bottom of that hill, I could no more walk up it than I could
fly. I cannot sleep, and at night my bed is wet through with
perspiration. I can remember nothing nothing but what I ought to
forget.'

'We'll put you on your legs again when we get you to your own climate.'

'I shall be a poor traveller a poor traveller; but I will do my best.'

When would he start? That was the next question. Trevelyan asked for a
week, and Stanbury brought him down at last to three days. They would
go to Florence by the evening train on Friday, and sleep there. Emily
should come out and assist him to arrange his things on the morrow.
Having finished so much of his business, Stanbury returned to Siena.
They both feared that he might be found on the next day to have
departed from his intention; but no such idea seemed to have occurred
to him. He gave instructions as to the notice to be served on the agent
from the Hospital as to his house, and allowed Emily to go among his
things and make preparations for the journey. He did not say much to
her; and when she attempted, with a soft half-uttered word, to assure
him that the threat of Italian interference, which had come from
Stanbury, had not reached Stanbury from her, he simply shook his head
sadly. She could not understand whether he did not believe her, or
whether he simply wished that the subject should be dropped. She could
elicit no sign of affection from him, nor would he willingly accept
such from her but he allowed her to prepare for the journey, and never
hinted that his purpose might again be liable to change. On the Friday,
Emily with her child, and Hugh with all their baggage, travelled out on
the road to Casalunga, thinking it better that there should be no halt
in the town on their return. At Casalunga, Hugh went up the hill with
the driver, leaving Mrs Trevelyan in the carriage. He had been out at
the house before in the morning, and had given all necessary orders but
still at the last moment he thought that there might be failure. But
Trevelyan was ready, having dressed himself up with a laced shirt, and
changed his dressing-gown for a blue frock-coat, and his brocaded cap
for a Paris hat, very pointed before and behind, and closely turned up
at the sides. But Stanbury did not in the least care for his friend's
dress. 'Take my arm,' he said, 'and we will go down, fair and easy.
Emily would not come up because of the heat.' He suffered himself to be
led, or almost carried down the hill; and three women, and the
coachman, and an old countryman who worked on the farm, followed with
the luggage. It took about an hour and a half to pack the things; but
at last they were all packed, and corded, and bound together with
sticks, as though it were intended that they should travel in that form
to Moscow. Trevelyan the meanwhile sat on a chair which had been
brought out for him from one of the cottages, and his wife stood beside
him with her boy. 'Now then we are ready,' said Stanbury. And in that
way they bade farewell to Casalunga. Trevelyan sat speechless in the
carriage, and would not even notice the child. He seemed to be half
dreaming and to fix his eyes on vacancy. 'He appears to think of
nothing now,' Emily said that evening to Stanbury. But who can tell how
busy and how troubled are the thoughts of a madman!

They had now succeeded in their object of inducing their patient to
return with them to England; but what were they to do with him when
they had reached home with him? They rested only a night at Florence;
but they found their fellow-traveller so weary, that they were unable
to get beyond Bologna on the second day. Many questions were asked of
him as to where he himself would wish to take up his residence in
England; but it was found almost impossible to get an answer. Once he
suggested that he would like to go back to Mrs Fuller's cottage at
Willesden, from whence they concluded that he would wish to live
somewhere out of London. On his first day's journey, he was moody and
silent wilfully assuming the airs of a much-injured person. He spoke
hardly at all, and would notice nothing that was said to him by his
wife. He declared once that he regarded Stanbury as his keeper, and
endeavoured to be disagreeable and sullenly combative; but on the
second day, he was too weak for this, and accepted, without
remonstrance, the attentions that were paid to him. At Bologna they
rested a day, and from thence both Stanbury and Mrs Trevelyan wrote to
Nora. They did not know where she might be now staying, but the
letters, by agreement, were addressed to Gregg's Hotel. It was
suggested that lodgings, or, if possible, a small furnished house,
should be taken in the neighbourhood of Mortlake, Richmond, or
Teddington, and that a telegram as well as letter should be sent to
them at the Paris hotel. As they could not travel quick, there might be
time enough for them in this way to know whither they should go on
their reaching London.

They stayed a day at Bologna, and then they went on again to Turin,
over the mountains to Chambery, thence to Dijon, and on to Paris. At
Chambery they remained a couple of days, fancying that the air there
was cool, and that the delay would be salutary to the sick man. At
Turin, finding that they wanted further assistance, they had hired a
courier, and at last Trevelyan allowed himself to be carried in and out
of the carriages and up and down the hotel stairs almost as though he
were a child. The delay was terribly grievous to Stanbury, and Mrs
Trevelyan, perceiving this more than once, begged him to leave them,
and to allow her to finish the journey with the aid of the courier. But
this he could not do. He wrote letters to his friends at the D. R.
office, explaining his position as well as he could, and suggesting
that this and that able assistant should enlighten the British people
on this and that subject, which would in the course of nature, as
arranged at the D. R. office, have fallen into his hands. He and Mrs
Trevelyan became as brother and sister to each other on their way home
as, indeed, it was natural that they should do. Were they doing right
or wrong in this journey that they were taking? They could not conceal
from themselves that the labour was almost more than the poor wretch
could endure; and that it might be, as he himself had suggested, that
they would be called on to bury him on the road. But that residence at
Casalunga had been so terrible the circumstances of it, including the
solitude, sickness, madness, and habits of life of the wretched hermit,
had been so dangerous the probability of interference on the part of
some native authority so great, and the chance of the house being left
in Trevelyan's possession so small, that it had seemed to him that they
had no other alternative; and yet, how would it be if they were killing
him by the toil of travelling? From Chambery, they made the journey to
Paris in two days, and during that time Trevelyan hardly opened his
mouth. He slept much, and ate better than he had done in the hotter
climate on the other side of the Alps.

They found a telegram at Paris, which simply contained the promise of a
letter for the next day. It had been sent by Nora, before she had gone
out on her search. But it contained one morsel of strange information;
'Lady Milborough is going with me.' On the next day they got a letter,
saying that a cottage had been taken, furnished, between Richmond and
Twickenham. Lady Milborough had known of the cottage, and everything
would be ready then. Nora would herself meet them at the station in
London, if they would, as she proposed, stay a night at Dover. They
were to address to her at Lady Milborough's house, in Eccleston Square.
In that case, she would have a carriage for them at the Victoria
Station, and would go down with them at once to the cottage.

There were to be two days more of weary travelling, and then they were
to be at home again. She and he would have a house together as husband
and wife, and the curse of their separation would, at any rate, be
over. Her mind towards him had changed altogether since the days in
which she had been so indignant, because he had set a policeman to
watch over her. All feeling of anger was over with her now. There is
nothing that a woman will not forgive a man, when he is weaker than she
is herself.

The journey was made first to Dover, and then to London. Once, as they
were making their way through the Kentish hop-fields, he put out his
hand feebly, and touched hers. They had the carriage to themselves, and
she was down on her knees before him instantly. 'Oh, Louis! Oh, Louis!
say that you forgive me!' What could a woman do more than that in her
mercy to a man?

'Yes yes; yes,' he said; 'but do not talk now; I am so tired.'



CHAPTER XCIV - A REAL CHRISTIAN

In the meantime the Rowleys were gone. On the Monday after the
departure of Stanbury for Italy, Lady Rowley had begun to look the
difficulty about Nora in the face, and to feel that she must do
something towards providing the poor girl with a temporary home.
Everybody had now agreed that she was to marry Hugh Stanbury as soon as
Hugh Stanbury could be ready, and it was not to be thought of that she
should be left out in the world as one in disgrace or under a cloud.
But what was to be done? Sir Marmaduke was quite incapable of
suggesting anything. He would make her an allowance, and leave her a
small sum of ready money but as to residence, he could only suggest
again and again that she should be sent to Mrs Outhouse. Now Lady
Rowley was herself not very fond of Mrs Outhouse, and she was aware
that Nora herself was almost as averse to St. Diddulph's as she was to
the Mandarins. Nora already knew that she had the game in her own
hands. Once when in her presence her father suggested the near
relationship and prudent character and intense respectability of Mrs
Outhouse, Nora, who was sitting behind Sir Marmaduke, shook her head at
her mother, and Lady Rowley knew that Nora would not go to St.
Diddulph's. This was the last occasion on which that proposition was
discussed.

Throughout all the Trevelyan troubles Lady Milborough had continued to
shew a friendly anxiety on behalf of Emily Trevelyan. She had called
once or twice on Lady Rowley, and Lady Rowley had of course returned
the visits. She had been forward in expressing her belief that in truth
the wife had been but little if at all to blame, and had won her way
with Lady Rowley, though she had never been a favourite with either of
Lady Rowley's daughters. Now, in her difficulty, Lady Rowley went to
Lady Milborough, and returned with an invitation that Nora should come
to Eccleston Square, either till such time as she might think fit to go
to Monkhams, or till Mrs Trevelyan should have returned, and should be
desirous of having her sister with her. When Nora first heard of this
she almost screamed with surprise, and, if the truth must be told, with
disappointment also.

'She never liked me, mamma.'

'Then she is so much more good-natured.'

'But I don't want to go to her merely because she is good-natured
enough to receive a person she dislikes. I know she is very good. I
know she would sacrifice herself for anything she thought right. But,
mamma, she is such a bore!'

But Lady Rowley would not be talked down, even by Nora, in this
fashion. Nora was somewhat touched with an idea that it would be a fine
independent thing to live alone, if it were only for a week or two,
just because other young ladies never lived alone. Perhaps there was
some half-formed notion in her mind that permission to do so was part
of the reward due to her for having refused to marry a lord. Stanbury
was in some respects a Bohemian, and it would become her, she thought,
to have a little practice herself in the Bohemian line. She had,
indeed, declined a Bohemian marriage, feeling strongly averse to
encounter the loud displeasure of her father and mother but as long as
everything was quite proper, as long as there should be no running
away, or subjection of her name to scandal, she considered that a
little independence would be useful and agreeable. She had looked
forward to sitting up at night alone by a single tallow candle, to
stretching a beefsteak so as to last her for two days' dinners, and
perhaps to making her own bed. Now, there would not be the slightest
touch of romance in a visit to Lady Milborough's house in Eccleston
Square, at the end of July. Lady Rowley, however, was of a different
opinion, and spoke her mind plainly. 'Nora, my dear, don't be a fool. A
young lady like you can't go and live in lodgings by herself. All
manner of things would be said. And this is such a very kind offer! You
must accept it for Hugh's sake. I have already said that you would
accept it.'

'But she will be going out of town.'

'She will stay till you can go to Monkhams if Emily is not back before
then. She knows all about Emily's affairs; and if she does come back
which I doubt, poor thing Lady Milborough and you will be able to judge
whether you should go to her.' So it was settled, and Nora's Bohemian
Castle in the Air fell into shatters.

The few remaining days before the departure to Southampton passed
quickly, but yet sadly. Sir Marmaduke had come to England expecting
pleasure and with that undefined idea which men so employed always have
on their return home that something will turn up which will make their
going back to that same banishment unnecessary. What Governor of
Hong-Kong, what Minister to Bogota, what General of the Forces at the
Gold Coast, ever left the scene of his official or military labours
without a hope, which was almost an expectation, that a grateful
country would do something better for him before the period of his
return should have arrived? But a grateful country was doing nothing
better for Sir Marmaduke, and an ungrateful Secretary of State at the
Colonial Office would not extend the term during which he could regard
himself as absent on special service. How thankful he had been when
first the tidings reached him that he was to come home at the expense
of the Crown, and without diminution of his official income! He had now
been in England for five months, with a per diem allowance, with his
very cabs paid for him, and he was discontented, sullen, and with
nothing to comfort him but his official grievance, because he could not
be allowed to extend his period of special service more than two months
beyond the time at which those special services were in truth ended!
There had been a change of Ministry in the last month, and he had
thought that a Conservative Secretary of State would have been kinder
to him. 'The Duke says I can stay three months with leave of absence
and have half my pay stopped. I wonder whether it ever enters into his
august mind that even a Colonial Governor must eat and drink.' It was
thus he expressed his great grievance to his wife. 'The Duke,' however,
had been as inexorable as his predecessor, and Sir Rowley, with his
large family, was too wise to remain to the detriment of his pocket. In
the meantime the clerks in the office, who had groaned in spirit over
the ignorance displayed in his evidence before the committee, were
whispering among themselves that he ought not to be sent back to his
seat of government at all.

Lady Rowley also was disappointed and unhappy. She had expected so much
pleasure from her visit to her daughter, and she had received so
little! Emily's condition was very sad, but in her heart of hearts
perhaps she groaned more bitterly over all that Nora had lost, than she
did over the real sorrows of her elder child. To have had the cup at
her lip, and then not to have tasted it! And she had the solace of no
communion in this sorrow. She had accepted Hugh Stanbury as her
son-in-law, and not for worlds would she now say a word against him to
any one. She had already taken him to her heart, and she loved him. But
to have had it almost within her grasp to have had a lord, the owner of
Monkhams, for her son-in-law! Poor Lady Rowley!

Sophie and Lucy, too, were returning to their distant and dull
banishment without any realisation of their probable but unexpressed
ambition. They made no complaint, but yet it was hard on them that
their sister's misfortune should have prevented them from going almost
to a single dance. Poor Sophie and poor Lucy! They must go, and we
shall hear no more about them. It was thought well that Nora should not
go down with them to Southampton. What good would her going do? 'God
bless you, my darling,' said the mother, as she held her child in her
arms.

'Good-bye, dear mamma.'

'Give my best love to Hugh, and tell him that I pray him with my last
word to be good to you.' Even then she was thinking of Lord
Peterborough, but the memory of what might have been was buried deep in
her mind.

'Nora, tell me all about it,' said Lucy.

'There will be nothing to tell,' said Nora.

'Tell it all the same,' said Lucy. 'And bring Hugh out to write a book
of travels about the Mandarins. Nobody has ever written a book about
the Mandarins.' So they parted; and when Sir Marmaduke and his party
were taken off in two cabs to the Waterloo Station, Nora was taken in
one cab to Eccleston Square.

It may be doubted whether any old lady since the world began ever did a
more thoroughly Christian and friendly act that this which was now
being done by Lady Milborough. It was the end of July, and she would
already have been down in Dorsetshire, but for her devotion to this
good deed. For, in truth, what she was doing was not occasioned by any
express love for Nora Rowley. Nora Rowley was all very well, but Nora
Rowley towards her had been flippant, impatient, and, indeed, not
always so civil as a young lady should be to the elderly friends of her
married sister. But to Lady Milborough it had seemed to be quite
terrible that a young girl should be left alone in the world, without
anybody to take care of her. Young ladies, according to her views of
life, were fragile plants that wanted much nursing before they could be
allowed to be planted out in the gardens of the world as married women.
When she heard from Lady Rowley that Nora was engaged to marry Hugh
Stanbury 'You know all about Lord Peterborough, Lady Milborough; but it
is no use going back to that now is it? And Mr Stanbury has behaved so
exceedingly well in regard to poor Louis,' when Lady Milborough heard
this, and heard also that Nora was talking of going to live by herself
in lodgings! she swore to herself, like a goodly Christian woman, as
she was, that such a thing must not be. Eccleston Square in July and
August is not pleasant, unless it be to an inhabitant who is interested
in the fag-end of the parliamentary session. Lady Milborough had no
interest in politics had not much interest even in seeing the social
season out to its dregs. She ordinarily remained in London till the
beginning or middle of July, because the people with whom she lived
were in the habit of doing so but as soon as ever she had fixed the
date of her departure, that day to her was a day of release. On this
occasion the day had been fixed and it was unfixed, and changed, and
postponed, because it was manifest to Lady Milborough that she could do
good by remaining for another fortnight. When she made the offer she
said nothing of her previous arrangements. 'Lady Rowley, let her come
to me. As soon as her friend Lady Peterborough is at Monkhams, she can
go there.'

Thus it was that Nora found herself established in Eccleston Square. As
she took her place in Lady Milborough's drawing-room, she remembered
well a certain day, now two years ago, when she had first heard of the
glories of Monkhams in that very house. Lady Milborough, as
good-natured then as she was now, had brought Mr Glascock and Nora
together, simply because she had heard that the gentleman admired the
young lady. Nora, in her pride, had resented this as interference had
felt that the thing had been done, and, though she had valued the
admiration of the man, had ridiculed the action of the woman. As she
thought of it now she was softened by gratitude. She had not on that
occasion been suited with a husband, but she had gained a friend. 'My
dear,' said Lady Milborough, as at her request Nora took off her hat,
'I am afraid that the parties are mostly over that is, those I go to;
but we will drive out every day, and the time won't be so very long.'

'It won't be long for me, Lady Milborough but I cannot but know how
terribly I am putting you out.'

'I am never put out, Miss Rowley,' said the old lady, 'as long as I am
made to think that what I do is taken in good part.'

'Indeed, indeed it shall be taken in good part,' said Nora 'indeed it
shall.' And she swore a solemn silent vow of friendship for the dear
old woman.

Then there came letters and telegrams from Chambery, Dijon, and Paris,
and the joint expedition in search of the cottage was made to
Twickenham. It was astonishing how enthusiastic and how loving the
elder and the younger lady were together before the party from Italy
had arrived in England. Nora had explained everything about herself how
impossible it had been for her not to love Hugh Stanbury; how essential
it had been for her happiness and self-esteem that she should refuse Mr
Glascock; how terrible had been the tragedy of her sister's marriage.
Lady Milborough spoke of the former subject with none of Lady Rowley's
enthusiasm, but still with an evident partiality for her own rank,
which almost aroused Nora to indignant eloquence. Lady Milborough was
contented to acknowledge that Nora might be right, seeing that her
heart was so firmly fixed; but she was clearly of opinion that Mr
Glascock, being Mr Glascock, had possessed a better right to the prize
in question than could have belonged to any man who had no recognised
position in the world. Seeing that her heart had been given away, Nora
was no doubt right not to separate her hand from her heart; but Lady
Milborough was of opinion that young ladies ought to have their hearts
under better control, so that the men entitled to the prizes should get
them. It was for the welfare of England at large that the eldest sons
of good families should marry the sweetest, prettiest, brightest, and
most lovable girls of their age. It is a doctrine on behalf of which
very much may be said.

On that other matter, touching Emily Trevelyan, Lady Milborough frankly
owned that she had seen early in the day that he was the one most in
fault. 'I must say, my dear,' she said, 'that I very greatly dislike
your friend, Colonel Osborne.'

'I am sure that he meant not the slightest harm no more than she did.'

'He was old enough, and ought to have known better. And when the first
hint of an uneasiness in the mind of Louis was suggested to him, his
feelings as a gentleman should have prompted him to remove himself. Let
the suspicion have been ever so absurd, he should have removed himself.
Instead of that, he went after her into Devonshire.'

'He went to see other friends, Lady Milborough.'

'I hope it may have been so I hope it may have been so. But he should
have cut off his hand before he rang at the door of the house in which
she was living. You will understand, my dear, that I acquit your sister
altogether. I did so all through, and said the same to poor Louis when
he came to me. But Colonel Osborne should have known better. Why did he
write to her? Why did he go to St. Diddulph's? Why did he let it be
thought that that she was especially his friend. Oh dear; oh dear; oh
dear! I am afraid he is a very bad man.'

'We had known him so long, Lady Milborough.'

'I wish you had never known him at all. Poor Louis! If be had only done
what I told him at first, all might have been well. "Go to Naples, with
your wife," I said. "Go to Naples." If he had gone to Naples, there
would have been no journeys to Siena, no living at Casalunga, no
separation. But he didn't seem to see it in the same light. Poor dear
Louis. I wish he had gone to Naples when I told him.'

While they were going backwards and forwards, looking at the cottage at
Twickenham and trying to make things comfortable there for the sick
man, Lady Milborough hinted to Nora that it might be distasteful to
Trevelyan, in his present condition, to have even a sister-in-law
staying in the house with him. There was a little chamber which Nora
had appropriated to herself, and at first it seemed to be taken for
granted that she should remain there at least till the 10th of August,
on which day Lady Peterborough had signified that she and her husband
would be ready to receive their visitor. But Lady Milborough slept on
the suggestion, and on the next morning hinted her disapprobation. 'You
shall take them down in the carriage, and their luggage can follow in a
cab but the carriage can bring you back. You will see how things are
then.'

'Dear Lady Milborough, you would go out of town at once if I left you.'

'And I shall not go out of town if you don't leave me, What difference
does it make to an old woman like me? I have got no lover coming to
look for me, and all I have to do is to tell my daughter-in-law that I
shall not be there for another week or so. Augusta is very glad to have
me, but she is the wisest woman in the world, and can get on very well
without me.'

'And as I am the silliest, I cannot.'

'You shall put it in that way if you like it, my dear. Girls in your
position often do want assistance. I dare say you think me very
straight-laced, but I am quite sure Mr Stanbury will be grateful to me.
As you are to be married from Monkhams, it will be quite well that you
should pass thither through my house as an intermediate resting-place,
after leaving your father and mother.' By all which Lady Milborough
intended to express an opinion that the value of the article which Hugh
Stanbury would receive at the altar would be enhanced by the
distinguished purity of the hands through which it had passed before it
came into his possession in which opinion she was probably right as
regarded the price put upon the article by the world at large, though
it may perhaps be doubted whether the recipient himself would be of the
same opinion.

'I hope you know that I am grateful, whatever he may be,' said Nora,
after a pause.

'I think that you take it as it is meant, and that makes me quite
comfortable.'

'Lady Milborough, I shall love you for ever and ever. I don't think I
ever knew anybody so good as you are or so nice.'

'Then I shall be more than comfortable,' said Lady Milborough. After
that there was an embrace, and the thing was settled.





CHAPTER XCV - TREVELYAN BACK IN ENGLAND

Nora, with Lady Milborough's carriage, and Lady Milborough's coach and
footman, and with a cab ready for the luggage close behind the
carriage, was waiting at the railway station when the party from Dover
arrived. She soon saw Hugh upon the platform, and ran to him with her
news. They had not a word to say to each other of themselves, so
anxious were they both respecting Trevelyan. 'We got a bed-carriage for
him at Dover,' said Hugh; 'and I think he has borne the journey pretty
well but he feels the heat almost as badly as in Italy. You will hardly
know him when you see him.' Then, when the rush of passengers was gone,
Trevelyan was brought out by Hugh and the courier, and placed in Lady
Milborough's carriage. He just smiled as his eye fell upon Nora, but he
did not even put out his hand to greet her.

'I am to go in the carriage with him,' said his wife.

'Of course you are and so will I and Louey. I think there will be room:
it is so large. There is a cab for all the things. Dear Emily, I am so
glad to see you.'

'Dearest Nora! I shall be able to speak to you by-and-by, but you must
not be angry with me now. How good you have been.'

'Has not she been good? I don't understand about the cottage. It
belongs to some friend of hers; and I have not been able to say a word
about the rent. It is so nice and looks upon the river. I hope that he
will like it.'

'You will be with us?'

'Not just at first. Lady Milborough thinks I had better not  that he
will like it better. I will come down almost every day, and will stay
if you think he will like it.'

These few words were said while the men were putting Trevelyan into the
carriage. And then another arrangement was made. Hugh hired a second
cab, in which he and the courier made a part of the procession; and so
they all went to Twickenham together. Hugh had not yet learned that he
would be rewarded by coming back alone with Nora in the carriage.

The cottage by the River Thames, which, as far as the party knew, was
nameless, was certainly very much better than the house on the top of
the hill at Casalunga. And now, at last, the wife would sleep once more
under the same roof with her husband, and the separation would be over.
'I suppose that is the Thames,' said Trevelyan; and they were nearly
the only words he spoke in Nora's hearing that evening. Before she
started on her return journey, the two sisters were together for a few
minutes, and each told her own budget of news in short, broken
fragments. There was not much to tell. 'He is so weak,' said Mrs
Trevelyan, 'that he can do literally nothing. He can hardly speak. When
we give him wine, he will say a few words, and his mind seems then to
be less astray than it was. I have told him just simply that it was all
my doing that I have been in fault all through, and every now and then
he will say a word, to shew me that he remembers that I have
confessed.'

'My poor Emily!'

'It was better so. What does it all matter? He had suffered so, that I
would have said worse than that to give him relief. The pride has gone
out of me so, that I do not regard what anybody may say. Of course, it
will be said that I went astray, and that he forgave me.'

'Nobody will say that, dearest; nobody. Lady Milborough is quite aware
how it all was.'

'What does it signify? There are things in life worse even than a bad
name.'

'But he does not think it?'

'Nora, his mind is a mystery to me. I do not know what is in it.
Sometimes I fancy that all facts have been forgotten, and that he
merely wants the childish gratification of being assured that he is the
master. Then, again, there come moments, in which I feel sure that
suspicion is lurking within him, that he is remembering the past, and
guarding against the future. When he came into this house, a quarter of
an hour ago, he was fearful lest there was a mad doctor lurking about
to pounce on him. I can see in his eye that he had some such idea. He
hardly notices Louey though there was a time, even at Casalunga, when
he would not let the child out of his sight.'

'What will you do now?'

'I will try to do my duty that is all.'

'But you will have a doctor?'

'Of course. He was content to see one in Paris, though he would not let
me be present. Hugh saw the gentleman afterwards, and he seemed to
think that the body was worse than the mind.' Then Nora told her the
name of a doctor whom Lady Milborough had suggested, and took her
departure along with Hugh in the carriage.

In spite of all the sorrow that they had witnessed and just left, their
journey up to London was very pleasant. Perhaps there is no period so
pleasant among all the pleasant periods of love-making as that in which
the intimacy between the lovers is so assured, and the coming event so
near, as to produce and to endure conversation about the ordinary
little matters of life what can be done with the limited means at their
mutual disposal; how that life shall be begun which they are to lead
together; what idea each has of the other's duties; what each can do
for the other; what each will renounce for the other. There was a true
sense of the delight of intimacy in the girl who declared that she had
never loved her lover so well as when she told him how many pairs of
stockings she had got. It is very sweet to gaze at the stars together;
and it is sweet to sit out among the haycocks. The reading of poetry
together, out of the same book, with brows all close, and arms all
mingled, is very sweet. The pouring out of the whole heart in written
words, which the writer knows would be held to be ridiculous by any
eyes, and any ears, and any sense, but the eyes and ears and sense of
the dear one to whom they are sent, is very sweet but for the girl who
has made a shirt for the man that she loves, there has come a moment in
the last stitch of it, sweeter than any that stars, haycocks, poetry,
or superlative epithets have produced. Nora Rowley had never as yet
been thus useful on behalf of Hugh Stanbury. Had she done so, she might
perhaps have been happier even than she was during this journey but,
without the shirt, it was one of the happiest moments of her life.
There was nothing now to separate them but their own prudential
scruples and of them it must be acknowledged that Hugh Stanbury had
very few. According to his shewing, he was as well provided for
matrimony as the gentleman in the song, who came out to woo his bride
on a rainy night. In live stock he was not so well provided as the
Irish gentleman to whom we allude; but in regard to all other
provisions for comfortable married life, he had, or at a moment's
notice could have, all that was needed. Nora could live just where she
pleased not exactly in Whitehall Gardens or Belgrave Square; but the
New Road, Lupus Street, Montague Place, the North Bank, or Kennington
Oval, with all their surrounding crescents, terraces, and rows,
offered, according to him, a choice so wide, either for lodgings or
small houses, that their only embarrassment was in their riches. He had
already insured his life for a thousand pounds, and, after paying
yearly for that, and providing a certain surplus for saving, five
hundred a year was the income on which they were to commence the world.
'Of course, I wish it were five thousand for your sake,' he said; 'and
I wish I were a Cabinet Minister, or a duke, or a brewer; but, even in
heaven, you know all the angels can't be archangels.' Nora assured him
that she would be quite content with virtues simply angelic. 'I hope
you like mutton-chops and potatoes; I do,' he said. Then she told him
of her ambition about the beef-steak, acknowledging that, as it must
now be shared between two, the glorious idea of putting a part of it
away in a cupboard must be abandoned. 'I don't believe in beef-
steaks,' he said. 'A beef-steak may mean anything. At our club, a
beef-steak is a sumptuous and expensive luxury. Now, a mutton-chop
means something definite, and must be economical.'

'Then we will have the mutton-chops at home,' said Nora, 'and you shall
go to your club for the beef-steak.'

When they reached Eccleston Square, Nora insisted on taking Hugh
Stanbury up to Lady Milborough. It was in vain that he pleaded that he
had come all the way from Dover on a very dusty day all the way from
Dover, including a journey in a Hansom cab to Twickenham and back,
without washing his hands and face. Nora insisted that Lady Milborough
was such a dear, good, considerate creature, that she would understand
all that, and Hugh was taken into her presence. 'I am delighted to see
you, Mr Stanbury,' said the old lady, 'and hope you will think that
Nora is in good keeping.'

'She has been telling me how very kind you have been to her. I do not
know where she could have bestowed herself if you had not received
her.'

'There, Nora I told you he would say so. I won't tell tales, Mr
Stanbury; but she had all manner of wild plans which I knew you
wouldn't approve. But she is very amiable, and if she will only submit
to you as well as she does to me.'

'I don't mean to submit to him at all, Lady Milborough of course not. I
am going to marry for liberty.'

'My dear, what you say, you say in joke; but a great many young women
of the present day do, I really believe, go up to the altar and
pronounce their marriage vows, with the simple idea that as soon as
they have done so, they are to have their own way in everything. And
then people complain that young men won't marry! Who can wonder at it?'

'I don't think the young men think much about the obedience,' said
Nora.'some marry for money, and some for love. But I don't think they
marry to get a slave.'

'What do you say, Mr Stanbury?' asked the old lady.

'I can only assure you that I shan't marry for money,' said he.

Two or three days after this Nora left her friend in Eccleston Square,
and domesticated herself for awhile with her sister. Mrs Trevelyan
declared that such an arrangement would be comfortable for her, and
that it was very desirable now, as Nora would so soon be beyond her
reach. Then Lady Milborough was enabled to go to Dorsetshire, which she
did not do, however, till she had presented Nora with the veil which
she was to wear on the occasion of her wedding. 'Of course I cannot see
it, my dear, as it is to take place at Monk-hams; but you must write
and tell me the day and I will think of you. And you, when you put on
the veil, must think of me.' So they parted, and Nora knew that she had
made a friend for life.

When she first took her place in the house at Twickenham as a resident,
Trevelyan did not take much notice of her but, after awhile, he would
say a few words to her, especially when it might chance that she was
with him in her sister's absence. He would speak of dear Emily, and
poor Emily, and shake his head slowly, and talk of the pity of it. 'The
pity of it, Iago; oh, the pity of it,' he said once. The allusion to
her was so terrible that she almost burst out in anger, as she would
have done formerly. She almost told him that he had been as wrong
throughout as was the jealous husband in the play whose words he
quoted, and that his jealousy, if continued, was likely to be as
tragical. But she restrained herself, and kept close to her needle
making, let us hope, an auspicious garment for Hugh Stanbury.'she has
seen it now,' he continued;'she has seen it now.' Still she went on
with her hemming in silence. It certainly could not be her duty to
upset at a word all that her sister had achieved. 'You know that she
has confessed?' he asked.

'Pray, pray do not talk about it, Louis.'

'I think you ought to know,' he said. Then she rose from her seat and
left the room. She could not stand it, even though he were mad even
though he were dying!

She went to her sister and repeated what had been said. 'You had better
not notice it,' said Emily. 'It is only a proof of what I told you.
There are times in which his mind is as active as ever it was, but it
is active in so terrible a direction!'

'I cannot sit and hear it. And what am I to say when he asks me a
question as he did just now? He said that you had confessed.'

'So I have. Do none confess but the guilty? What is all that we have
read about the Inquisition and the old tortures? I have had to learn
that torturing has not gone out of the world that is all.'

'I must go away if he says the same thing to me so again.'

'That is nonsense, Nora. If I can bear it, cannot you? Would you have
me drive him into violence again by disputing with him on such a
subject?'

'But he may recover and then he will remember what you have said.'

'If he recovers altogether he will suspect nothing. I must take my
chance of that. You cannot suppose that I have not thought about it. I
have often sworn to myself that though the world should fall around me,
nothing should make me acknowledge that I had ever been untrue to my
duty as a married woman, either in deed, or word, or thought. I have no
doubt that the poor wretches who were tortured in their cells used to
make the same resolutions as to their confessions. But yet, when their
nails were dragged out of them, they would own to anything. My nails
have been dragged out, and I have been willing to confess anything.
When he talks of the pity of it, of course I know what he means. There
has been something, some remainder of a feeling, which has still kept
him from asking me that question. May God, in his mercy, continue to
him that feeling!'

'But you would answer truly?'

'How can I say what I might answer when the torturer is at my nails? If
you knew how great was the difficulty to get him away from that place
in Italy and bring him here; and what it was to feel that one was bound
to stay near him, and that yet one was impotent and to know that even
that refuge must soon cease for him, and that he might have gone out
and died on the road-side, or have done anything which the momentary
strength of madness might have dictated if you could understand all
this, you would not be surprised at my submitting to any degradation
which would help to bring him here.'

Stanbury was often down at the cottage, and Nora could discuss the
matter better with him than with her sister. And Stanbury could learn
more thoroughly from the physician who was now attending Trevelyan what
was the state of the sick man, than Emily could do. According to the
doctor's idea there was more of ailment in the body than in the mind.
He admitted that his patient's thoughts had been forced to dwell on one
subject till they had become distorted, untrue, jaundiced, and perhaps
mono-maniacal; but he seemed to doubt whether there had ever been a
time at which it could have been decided that Trevelyan was so mad as
to make it necessary that the law should interfere to take care of him.
A man so argued the doctor need not be mad because he is jealous, even
though his jealousy be ever so absurd. And Trevelyan, in his jealousy,
had done nothing cruel, nothing wasteful, nothing infamous. In all this
Nora was very little inclined to agree with the doctor, and thought
nothing could be more infamous than Trevelyan's conduct at the present
moment unless, indeed, he could be screened from infamy by that plea of
madness. But then there was more behind. Trevelyan had been so wasted
by the kind of life which he had led, and possessed by nature stamina
so insufficient to resist such debility, that it was very doubtful
whether he would not sink altogether before he could be made to begin
to rise. But one thing was clear. He should be contradicted in nothing.
If he chose to say that the moon was made of green cheese, let it be
conceded to him that the moon was made of green cheese. Should he make
any other assertion equally removed from the truth, let it not be
contradicted. Who would oppose a man with one foot in the grave?

'Then, Hugh, the sooner I am at Monkhams the better,' said Nora, who
had again been subjected to inuendoes which had been unendurable to
her. This was on the 7th of August, and it still wanted three days to
that on which the journey to Monkhams was to be made.

'He never says anything to me on the subject,' said Hugh.

'Because you have made him afraid of you. I almost think that Emily and
the doctor are wrong in their treatment, and that it would be better to
stand up to him and tell him the truth.' But the three days passed
away, and Nora was not driven to any such vindication of her sister's
character towards her sister's husband.



CHAPTER XCVI - MONKHAMS

On the 10th of August Nora Rowley left the cottage by the river-side at
Twickenham, and went down to Monkhams. The reader need hardly be told
that Hugh brought her up from Twickenham and sent her off in the
railway carriage. They agreed that no day could be fixed for their
marriage till something further should be known of Trevelyan's state.
While he was in his present condition such a marriage could not have
been other than very sad. Nora, when she left the cottage, was still
very bitter against her brother-in-law, quoting the doctor's opinion as
to his sanity, and expressing her own as to his conduct under that
supposition.

She also believed that he would rally in health, and was therefore, on
that account, less inclined to pity him than was his wife. Emily
Trevelyan of course saw more of him than did her sister, and understood
better how possible it was that a man might be in such a condition as
to be neither mad nor sane not mad, so that all power over his own
actions need be taken from him; nor sane, so that he must be held to be
accountable for his words and thoughts. Trevelyan did nothing, and
attempted to do nothing, that could injure his wife and child. He
submitted himself to medical advice. He did not throw away his money.
He had no Bozzle now waiting at his heels. He was generally passive in
his wife's hands as to all outward things. He was not violent in
rebuke, nor did he often allude to their past unhappiness. But he still
maintained, by a word spoken every now and then, that he had been right
throughout in his contest with his wife and that his wife had at last
acknowledged that it was so. She never contradicted him, and he became
bolder and bolder in his assertions, endeavouring on various occasions
to obtain some expression of an assent from Nora. But Nora would not
assent, and he would scowl at her, saying words, both in her presence
and behind her back, which implied that she was his enemy. 'Why not
yield to him?' her sister said the day before she went. 'I have
yielded, and your doing so cannot make it worse.'

'I can't do it. It would be false. It is better that I should go away.
I cannot pretend to agree with him, when I know that his mind is
working altogether under a delusion.' When the hour for her departure
came, and Hugh was waiting for her, she thought that it would be better
that she should go, without seeing Trevelyan. 'There will only be more
anger,' she pleaded. But her sister would not be contented that she
should leave the house in this fashion, and urged at last, with tears
running down her cheeks, that this might possibly be the last interview
between them.

'Say a word to him in kindness before you leave us,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. Then Nora went up to her brother-in-law's bed-side, and told
him that she was going, and expressed a hope that he might be stronger
when she returned. And as she did so she put her hand upon the
bed-side, intending to press his in token of affection. But his face
was turned from her, and he seemed to take no notice of her. 'Louis,'
said his wife, 'Nora is going to Monkhams. You will say good-bye to her
before she goes?'

'If she be not my enemy, I will,' said he.

'I have never been your enemy, Louis,' said Nora, 'and certainly I am
not now.'

'She had better go,' he said. 'It is very little more that I expect of
any one in this world but I will recognise no one as my friend who will
not acknowledge that I have been sinned against during the last two
years sinned against cruelly and utterly.' Emily, who was standing at
the bed-head, shuddered as she heard this, but made no reply. Nor did
Nora speak again, but crept silently out of the room and in half a
minute her sister followed her.

'I feared how it would be,' said Nora.

'We can only do our best. God knows that I try to do mine.'

'I do not think you will ever see him again,' said Hugh to her in the
train.

'Would you have had me act otherwise? It is not that it would have been
a lie. I would not have minded that to ease the shattered feelings of
one so infirm and suffering as he. In dealing with mad people I suppose
one must be false. But I should have been accusing her; and it may be
that he will get well, and it might be that he would then remember what
I had said.'

At the station near Monkhams she was met by Lady Peterborough in the
carriage. A tall footman in livery came on to the platform to shew her
the way and to look after her luggage, and she could not fail to
remember that the man might have been her own servant, instead of being
the servant of her who now sat in Lord Peterborough's carriage. And
when she saw the carriage, and her ladyship's great bay horses, and the
glittering harness, and the respectably responsible coachman, and the
arms on the panel, she smiled to herself at the sight of these first
outward manifestations of the rank and wealth of the man who had once
been her lover. There are men who look as though they were the owners
of bay horses and responsible coachmen and family blazons from whose
outward personal appearance, demeanour, and tone of voice, one would
expect a following of liveries and a magnificence of belongings; but Mr
Glascock had by no means been such a man. It had suited his taste to
keep these things in abeyance, and to place his pride in the oaks and
elms of his park rather than in any of those appanages of grandeur
which a man may carry about with him. He could talk of his breed of
sheep on an occasion, but he never talked of his horses; and though he
knew his position and all its glories as well as any nobleman in
England, he was ever inclined to hang back a little in going out of a
room, and to bear himself as though he were a small personage in the
world. Some perception of all this came across Nora's mind as she saw
the equipage, and tried to reflect, at a moment's notice, whether the
case might have been different with her, had Mr Glascock worn a little
of his tinsel outside when she first met him. Of course she told
herself that had he worn it all on the outside, and carried it ever so
gracefully, it could have made no difference.

It was very plain, however, that, though Mr Glascock did not like
bright feathers for himself, he chose that his wife should wear them.
Nothing could be prettier than the way in which Caroline Spalding, whom
we first saw as she was about to be stuck into the interior of the
diligence, at St. Michael, now filled her carriage as Lady
Peterborough. The greeting between them was very affectionate, and
there was a kiss in the carriage, even though the two pretty hats,
perhaps, suffered something. 'We are so glad to have you at last,' said
Lady Peterborough. 'Of course we are very quiet; but you won't mind
that.' Nora declared that no house could be too quiet for her, and then
said something of the melancholy scene which she had just left. 'And no
time is fixed for your own marriage? But of course it has not been
possible. And why should you be in a hurry? We quite understand that
this is to be your home till everything has arranged itself.' There was
a drive of four or five miles before they reached the park gates, and
nothing could be kinder or more friendly than was the new peeress; but
Nora told herself that there was no forgetting that her friend was a
peeress. She would not be so ill-conditioned as to suggest to herself
that her friend patronised her and, indeed, had she done so, the
suggestion would have been false but she could not rid herself of a
certain sensation of external inferiority, and of a feeling that the
superiority ought to be on her side, as all this might have been hers
only that she had not thought it worth her while to accept it. As these
ideas came into her mind, she hated herself for entertaining them; and
yet, come they would. While she was talking about her emblematic
beef-steak with Hugh, she had no regret, no uneasiness, no conception
that any state of life could be better for her than that state in which
an emblematic beef-steak was of vital importance; but she could not
bring her mind to the same condition of unalloyed purity while sitting
with Lady Peterborough in Lord Peterborough's carriage. And for her
default in this respect she hated herself.

'This is the beginning of the park,' said her friend.

'And where is the house?'

'You can't see the house for ever so far yet; it is two miles off.
There is about a mile before you come to the gates, and over a mile
afterwards. One has a sort of feeling when one is in that one can't get
out it is so big.' In so speaking, it was Lady Peterborough's special
endeavour to state without a boast facts which were indifferent, but
which must be stated.

'It is very magnificent,' said Nora. There was in her voice the
slightest touch of sarcasm, which she would have given the world not to
have uttered but it had been irrepressible.

Lady Peterborough understood it instantly, and forgave it, not
attributing to it more than its true meaning, acknowledging to herself
that it was natural. 'Dear Nora,' she said not knowing what to say,
blushing as she spoke 'the magnificence is nothing; but the man's love
is everything.'

Nora shook herself, and determined that she would behave well. The
effort should be made, and the required result should be produced by
it. 'The magnificence, as an adjunct, is a great deal,' she said; 'and
for his sake, I hope that you enjoy it.'

'Of course I enjoy it.'

'Wallachia's teachings and preachings have all been thrown to the wind,
I hope.'

'Not quite all. Poor dear Wally! I got a letter from her the other day,
which she began by saying that she would attune her correspondence to
my changed condition in life. I understood the reproach so thoroughly!
And, when she told me little details of individual men and women, and
of things she had seen, and said not a word about the rights of women,
or even of politics generally, I felt that I was a degraded creature in
her sight. But, though you laugh at her, she did me good and will do
good to others. Here we are inside Monk-hams, and now you must look at
the avenue.'

Nora was now rather proud of herself. She had made the effort, and it
had been successful; and she felt that she could speak naturally, and
express her thoughts honestly. 'I remember his telling me about the
avenue the first time I ever saw him and here it is. I did not think
then that I should ever live to see the glories of Monkhams. Does it go
all the way like this to the house?'

'Not quite where you see the light at the end the road turns to the
right, and the house is just before you. There are great iron gates,
and terraces, and wondrous paraphernalia before you get up to the door.
I can tell you Monkhams is quite a wonder. I have to shut myself up
every Wednesday morning, and hand the house over to Mrs Crutch, the
housekeeper, who comes out in a miraculous brown silk gown, to shew it
to visitors. On other days, you'll find Mrs Crutch quite civil and
useful but on Wednesdays, she is majestic. Charles always goes off
among his sheep on that day, and I shut myself up with a pile of books
in a little room. You will have to be imprisoned with me. I do so long
to peep at the visitors.'

'And I dare say they want to peep at you.'

'I proposed at first to shew them round myself but Charles wouldn't let
me.'

'It would have broken Mrs Crutch's heart.'

'That's what Charles said. He thinks that Mrs Crutch tells them that
I'm locked up somewhere, and that that gives a zest to the search. Some
people from Nottingham once did break into old Lady Peterborough's
room, and the shew was stopped for a year. There was such a row about
it! It prevented Charles coming up for the county. But he wouldn't have
got in; and therefore it was lucky, and saved money.'

By this time Nora was quite at her ease; but still there was before her
the other difficulty, of meeting Lord Peterborough. They were driven
out of the avenue, and round to the right, and through the iron gate,
and up to the huge front door. There, upon the top step, was standing
Lord Peterborough, with a billycock hat and a very old shooting coat,
and nankeen trousers, which were considerably too short for him. It was
one of the happinesses of his life to dress just as he pleased as he
went about his own place; and it certainly was his pleasure to wear
older clothes than any one else in his establishment. 'Miss Rowley,' he
said, coming forward to give her a hand out of the carriage, 'I am
delighted that you should see Monkhams at last.'

'You see I have kept you to your promise. Caroline has been telling me
everything about it; but she is not quite a complete guide as yet. She
does not know where the seven oaks are. Do you remember telling me of
the seven oaks?'

'Of course I do. They are five miles off at Clatton farm, Carry. I
don't think you have been near Clatton yet. We will ride there
tomorrow.' And thus Nora Rowley was made at home at Monkhams.

She was made at home, and after a week or two she was very happy. She
soon perceived that her host was a perfect gentleman, and as such, a
man to be much loved. She had probably never questioned the fact,
whether Mr Glascock was a gentleman or not, and now she did not analyse
it. It probably never occurred to her, even at the present time, to say
to herself that he was certainly that thing, so impossible of
definition, and so capable of recognition; but she knew that she had to
do with one whose presence was always pleasant to her, whose words and
acts towards her extorted her approbation, whose thoughts seemed to her
to be always good and manly. Of course she had not loved him, because
she had previously known Hugh Stanbury. There could be no comparison
between the two men. There was a brightness about Hugh which Lord
Peterborough could not rival. Otherwise except for this reason it
seemed to her to be impossible that any young woman should fail to love
Lord Peterborough when asked to do so.

About the middle of September there came a very happy time for her,
when Hugh was asked down to shoot partridges in the doing of which,
however, all his brightness did not bring him near in excellence to his
host. Lord Peterborough had been shooting partridges all his life, and
shot them with a precision which excited Hugh's envy. To own the truth,
Stanbury did not shoot well, and was treated rather with scorn by the
gamekeeper; but in other respects he spent three or four of the
happiest days of his life. He had his work to do, and after the second
day over the stubbles, declared that the exigencies of the D. R. were
too severe to enable him to go out with his gun again; but those
rambles about the park with Nora, for which, among the exigencies of
the D. R., he did find opportunity, were never to be forgotten.

'Of course I remember that it might have been mine,' she said, sitting
with him under an old, hollow, withered sloping stump of an oak, which
still, however, had sufficient of a head growing from one edge of the
trunk to give them the shade they wanted; 'and if you wish me to own to
regrets I will.'

'It would kill me, I think, if you did; and yet I cannot get it out of
my head that if it had not been for me your rank and position in life
might have been so so suitable to you.'

'No, Hugh; there you're wrong. I have thought about it a good deal,
too; and I know very well that the cold beef-steak in the cupboard is
the thing for me. Caroline will do very well here. She looks like a
peeress, and bears her honours grandly; but they will never harden her.
I, too, could have been magnificent with fine feathers. Most birds are
equal to so much as that. I fancy that I could have looked the part of
the fine English lady, and could have patronised clergymen's wives in
the country, could have held my own among my peers in London, and could
have kept Mrs Crutch in order; but it would have hardened me, and I
should have learned to think that to be a lady of fashion was
everything.'

'I do not believe a bit of it.'

'It is better as it is, Hugh for me at least. I had always a sort of
conviction that it would be better, though I had a longing to play the
other part. Then you came, and you have saved me. Nevertheless, it is
very nice, Hugh, to have the oaks to sit under.' Stanbury declared that
it was very nice.

But still nothing was settled about the wedding. Trevelyan's condition
was so uncertain that it was very difficult to settle anything. Though
nothing was said on the subject between Stanbury and Mrs Trevelyan, and
nothing written between Nora and her sister, it could not but be
remembered that should Trevelyan die, his widow would require a home
with them. They were deterred from choosing a house by this reflection,
and' were deterred from naming a day also by the consideration that
were they to do so, Trevelyan's state might still probably prevent it.
But this was arranged, that if Trevelyan lived through the winter, or
even if he should not live, their marriage should not be postponed
beyond the end of March. Till that time Lord Peterborough would remain
at Monkhams, and it was understood that Nora's invitation extended to
that period.

'If my wife does not get tired of you, I shall not,' Lord Peterborough
said to Nora. 'The thing is that when you do go we shall miss you so
terribly.' In September, too, there happened another event which took
Stanbury to Exeter, and all needful particulars as to that event shall
be narrated in the next chapter.



CHAPTER XCVII - MRS BROOKE BURGESS

It may be doubted whether there was a happier young woman in England
than Dorothy Stanbury when that September came which was to make her
the wife of Mr Brooke Burgess, the new partner in the firm of Cropper
and Burgess. Her early aspirations in life had been so low, and of late
there had come upon her such a succession of soft showers of success
mingled now and then with slight threatenings of storms which had
passed away that the Close at Exeter seemed to her to have become a
very Paradise. Her aunt's temper had sometimes been to her as the
threat of a storm, and there had been the Gibson marriage treaty, and
the short-lived opposition to the other marriage treaty which had
seemed to her to be so very preferable; but everything had gone at last
as though she had been Fortune's favourite and now had come this
beautiful arrangement about Cropper and Burgess, which would save her
from being carried away to live among strangers in London! When she
first became known to us on her coming to Exeter, in compliance with
her aunt's suggestion, she was timid, silent, and altogether without
self-reliance. Even they who knew her best had never guessed that she
possessed a keen sense of humour, a nice appreciation of character, and
a quiet reticent wit of her own, under that staid and frightened
demeanour. Since her engagement with Brooke Burgess it seemed to those
who watched her that her character had become changed, as does that of
a flower when it opens itself in its growth. The sweet gifts of nature
within became visible, the petals sprang to view, and the leaves spread
themselves, and the sweet scent was felt upon the air. Had she remained
at Nuncombe, it is probable that none would ever have known her but her
sister. It was necessary to this flower that it should be warmed by the
sun of life, and strengthened by the breezes of opposition, and filled
by the showers of companionship, before it could become aware of its
own loveliness. Dorothy was one who, had she remained ever unseen in
the retirement of her mother's village cottage, would have lived and
died ignorant of even her own capabilities for enjoyment. She had not
dreamed that she could win a man's love had hardly dreamed till she had
lived at Exeter that she had love of her own to give back in return.
She had not known that she could be firm in her own opinion, that she
could laugh herself and cause others to laugh, that she could be a lady
and know that other women were not so, that she had good looks of her
own and could be very happy when told of them by lips that she loved.
The flower that blows the quickest is never the sweetest. The fruit
that ripens tardily has ever the finest flavour. It is often the same
with men and women. The lad who talks at twenty as men should talk at
thirty, has seldom much to say worth the hearing when he is forty; and
the girl who at eighteen can shine in society with composure, has
generally given over shining before she is a full-grown woman. With
Dorothy the scent and beauty of the flower, and the flavour of the
fruit, had come late; but the fruit will keep, and the flower will not
fall to pieces with the heat of an evening.

'How marvellously your bride has changed since she has been here,' said
Mrs MacHugh to Miss Stanbury. 'We thought she couldn't say boo to a
goose at first; but she holds her own now among the best of 'em.'

'Of course she does why shouldn't she? I never knew a Stanbury yet that
was a fool.'

They are a wonderful family, of course,' said Mrs MacHugh; 'but I think
that of all of them she is the most wonderful. Old Barty said something
to her at my house yesterday that wasn't intended to be kind.'

'When did he ever intend to be kind?'

'But he got no change out of her. "The Burgesses have been in Exeter a
long time," she said, "and I don't see why we should not get on at any
rate as well as those before us." Barty grunted and growled and slunk
away. He thought she would shake in her shoes when he spoke to her.'

'He has never been able to make a Stanbury shake in her shoes yet,'
said the old lady.

Early in September, Dorothy went to Nuncombe Putney to spend a week
with her mother and sister at the cottage. She had insisted on this,
though Priscilla had hinted, somewhat unnecessarily, that Dorothy, with
her past comforts and her future prospects, would find the
accommodation at the cottage very limited. 'I suppose you and I, Pris,
can sleep in the same bed, as we always did,' she said, with a tear in
each eye. Then Priscilla had felt ashamed of herself, and had bade her
come.

'The truth is, Dolly,' said the elder sister, 'that we feel so unlike
marrying and giving in marriage at Nuncombe, that I'm afraid you'll
lose your brightness and become dowdy, and grim, and misanthropic, as
we are. When mamma and I sit down to what we call dinner, I always feel
that there is a grace hovering in the air different to that which she
says.'

'And what is it, Pris?'

'"Pray, God, don't quite starve us, and let everybody else have
indigestion." We don't say it out loud, but there it is; and the spirit
of it might damp the orange blossoms.'

She went of course, and the orange blossoms were not damped. She had
long walks with her sister round by Niddon and Ridleigh, and even as
far distant as Cockchaffington, where much was said about that wicked
Colonel as they stood looking at the porch of the church. 'I shall be
so happy,' said Dorothy, 'when you and mother come to us. It will be
such a joy to me that you should be my guests.'

'But we shall not come.'

'Why not, Priscilla?'

'I know it will be so. Mamma will not care for going, if I do not go.'

'And why should you not come?'

'For a hundred reasons, all of which you know, Dolly. I am stiff,
impracticable, ill-conditioned, and very bad at going about visiting. I
am always thinking that other people ought to have indigestion, and
perhaps I might come to have some such feeling about you and Brooke.'

'I should not be at all afraid of that.'

'I know that my place in the world is here, at Nuncombe Putney. I have
a pride about myself, and think that I never did wrong but once when I
let mamma go into that odious Clock House. It is a bad pride, and yet
I'm proud of it. I hav'n't got a gown fit to go and stay with you, when
you become a grand lady in Exeter. I don't doubt you'd give me any sort
of gown I wanted.'

'Of course I would. Ain't we sisters, Pris?'

'I shall not be so much your sister as he will be your husband.
Besides, I hate to take things. When Hugh sends money, and for mamma's
sake it is accepted, I always feel uneasy while it lasts, and think
that that plague of an indigestion ought to come upon me also. Do you
remember the lamb that came when you went away? It made me so sick.'

'But, Priscilla isn't that morbid?'

'Of course it is. You don't suppose I really think it grand. I am
morbid. But I am strong enough to live on, and not get killed by the
morbidity. Heaven knows how much more there may be of it forty years,
perhaps, and probably the greater portion of that absolutely alone.'

'No you'll be with us then if it should come.'

'I think not, Dolly. Not to have a hole of my own would be intolerable
to me. But, as I was saying, I shall not be unhappy. To enjoy life, as
you do, is I suppose out of the question for me. But I have a
satisfaction when I get to the end of the quarter and find that there
is not half-a-crown due to any one. Things get dearer and dearer, but I
have a comfort even in that. I have a feeling that I should like to
bring myself to the straw a day.' Of course there were offers made of
aid offers which were rather prayers and plans suggested of what might
be done between Brooke and Hugh; but Priscilla declared that all such
plans were odious to her. 'Why should you be unhappy about us?' she
continued. 'We will come and see you at least I will perhaps once in
six months, and you shall pay for the railway ticket; only I won't
stay, because of the gown.'

'Is not that nonsense, Pris?'

'Just at present it is, because mamma and I have both got new gowns for
the wedding. Hugh sent them, and ever so much money to buy bonnets and
gloves.'

'He is to be married himself soon down at a place called Monkhams. Nora
is staying there.'

'Yes with a lord,' said Priscilla. 'We sha'n't have to go there, at any
rate.'

'You liked Nora when she was here?'

'Very much though I thought her self-willed. But she is not worldly,
and she is conscientious. She might have married that lord herself if
she would. I do like her. When she comes to you at Exeter, if the
wedding gown isn't quite worn out, I shall come and see her. I knew she
liked him when she was here, but she never said so.'

'She is very pretty, is she not? He sent me her photograph.'

'She is handsome rather than pretty. I wonder why it is that you two
should be married, and so grandly married, and that I shall never,
never have any one to love.'

'Oh, Priscilla, do not say that. If I have a child will you not love
it?'

  'It will be your child not mine. Do you suppose that I complain. I
  know that it is right. I know that you ought to be married and I ought
  not. I know that there is not a man in Devonshire who would take me,
  or a man in Devonshire whom I would accept. I know that I am quite
  unfit for any other kind of life than this. I should make any man
  wretched, and any man would make me wretched. But why is it so? I
  believe that you would make any man happy.'

'I hope to make Brooke happy.'

'Of course you will, and therefore you deserve it. We'll go home now,
dear, and get mamma's things ready. for the great day.'

On the afternoon before the great day all the visitors were to come,
and during the forenoon old Miss Stanbury was in a great fidget.
Luckily for Dorothy, her own preparations were already made, so that
she could give her time to her aunt without injury to herself. Miss
Stanbury had come to think of herself as though all the reality of her
life had passed away from her. Every resolution that she had formed had
been broken. She had had the great enemy of her life, Barty Burgess, in
the house with her upon terms that were intended to be amicable, and
had arranged with him a plan for the division of the family property.
Her sister-in-law, whom in the heyday of her strength she had chosen to
regard as her enemy, and with whom even as yet there had been no
reconciliation, was about to become her guest, as was also Priscilla
whom she had ever disliked almost as much as she had respected. She had
quarrelled utterly with Hugh in such a manner as to leave no possible
chance of a reconciliation and he also was about to be her guest. And
then, as to her chosen heir, she was now assisting him in doing the
only thing, as to which she had declared that if he did do it, he
should not be her heir. As she went about the house, under an idea that
such a multiplicity of persons could not be housed and fed without
superhuman exertion, she thought of all this, and could not help
confessing to herself that her life had been very vain. It was only
when her eyes rested on Dorothy, and she saw how supremely happy was
the one person whom she had taken most closely to her heart, that she
could feel that she had done anything that should not have been left
undone. 'I think I'll sit down now, Dorothy,' she said, 'or I sha'n't
be able to be with you tomorrow.'

'Do, aunt. Everything is all ready, and nobody will be here for an hour
yet. Nothing can be nicer than the rooms, and nothing ever was done so
well before. I'm only thinking how lonely you'll be when we're gone.'

'It'll be only for six weeks.'

'But six weeks is such a long time.'

'What would it have been if he had taken you up to London, my pet? Are
you sure your mother wouldn't like a fire in her room, Dorothy?'

'A fire in September, aunt?'

'People live so differently. One never knows.'

'They never have but one fire at Nuncombe, aunt, summer or winter.'

'That's no reason they shouldn't be comfortable here.' However, she did
not insist on having the fire lighted.

Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla came first, and the meeting was certainly
very uncomfortable. Poor Mrs Stanbury was shy, and could hardly speak a
word. Miss Stanbury thought that her visitor was haughty, and, though
she endeavoured to be gracious, did it with a struggle. They called
each other ma'am, which made Dorothy uneasy. Each of them was so dear
to her, that it was a pity that they should glower at each other like
enemies. Priscilla was not at all shy; but she was combative, and, as
her aunt said of her afterwards, would not keep her prickles in. 'I
hope, Priscilla, you like weddings,' said Miss Stanbury to her, not
knowing where to find a subject for conversation.

'In the abstract I like them,' said Priscilla. Miss Stanbury did not
know what her niece meant by liking weddings in the abstract, and was
angry.

'I suppose you do have weddings at Nuncombe Putney sometimes,' she
said.

'I hope they do,' said Priscilla, 'but I never saw one. Tomorrow will
be my first experience.'

'Your own will come next, my dear,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I think not,' said Priscilla. 'It is quite as likely to be yours,
aunt.' This, Miss Stanbury thought, was almost an insult, and she said
nothing more on the occasion.

Then came Hugh and the bridegroom. The bridegroom, as a matter of
course, was not accommodated in the house, but he was allowed to come
there for his tea. He and Hugh had come together; and for Hugh a
bedroom had been provided. His aunt had not seen him since he had been
turned out of the house, because of his bad practices, and Dorothy had
anticipated the meeting between them with alarm. It was, however, much
more pleasant than had been that between the ladies. 'Hugh,' she said
stiffly, 'I am glad to see you on such an occasion as this.'

'Aunt,' he said, 'I am glad of any occasion that can get me an entrance
once more into the dear old house. I am so pleased to see you.' She
allowed her hand to remain in his a few moments, and murmured something
which was intended to signify her satisfaction. 'I must tell you that I
am going to be married myself, to one of the dearest, sweetest, and
loveliest girls that ever were seen, and you must congratulate me.'

'I do, I do; and I hope you may be happy.'

'We mean to try to be; and some day you must let me bring her to you,
and shew her. I shall not be satisfied, if you do not know my wife.'
She told Martha afterwards that she hoped that Mr Hugh had sown his
wild oats, and that matrimony would sober him. When, however, Martha
remarked that she believed Mr Hugh to be as hardworking a young man as
any in London, Miss Stanbury shook her head sorrowfully. Things were
being very much changed with her; but not even yet was she to be
brought to approve of work done on behalf of a penny newspaper.

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, there was a procession from
Miss Stanbury's house into the Cathedral, which was made entirely on
foot indeed, no assistance could have been given by any carriage, for
there is a back entrance to the Cathedral, near to the Lady Chapel,
exactly opposite Miss Stanbury's house. There were many of the
inhabitants of the Close there, to see the procession, and the
cathedral bells rang out their peals very merrily. Brooke, the
bridegroom, gave his arm to Miss Stanbury, which was, no doubt, very
improper as he should have appeared in the church as coming from some
quite different part of the world. Then came the bride, hanging on her
brother, then two bridesmaids friends of Dorothy's, living in the town;
and, lastly, Priscilla with her mother, for nothing would induce
Priscilla to take the part of a bridesmaid. 'You might as well ask an
owl to sing to you,' she said. 'And then all the frippery would be
thrown away upon me.' But she stood close to Dorothy, and when the
ceremony had been performed, was the first, after Brooke, to kiss her.

Everybody acknowledged that the bride was a winsome bride. Mrs MacHugh
was at the breakfast, and declared afterwards that Dorothy Burgess as
she then was pleased to call her was a girl very hard to be
understood.'she came here,' said Mrs MacHugh, 'two years ago, a plain,
silent, shy, dowdy young woman, and we all said that Miss Stanbury
would be tired of her in a week. There has never come a time in which
there was any visible difference in her, and now she is one of our city
beauties, with plenty to say to everybody, with a fortune in one pocket
and her aunt in the other, and everybody is saying what a fortunate
fellow Brooke Burgess is to get her. In a year or two she'll be at the
top of everything in the city, and will make her way in the county
too.'

The compiler of this history begs to add his opinion to that of
'everybody,' as quoted above by Mrs MacHugh. He thinks that Brooke
Burgess was a very fortunate fellow to get his wife.



CHAPTER XCVIII - ACQUITTED

During this time, while Hugh was sitting with his love under the oak
trees at Monkhams, and Dorothy was being converted into Mrs Brooke
Burgess in Exeter Cathedral, Mrs Trevelyan was living with her husband
in the cottage at Twickenham. Her life was dreary enough, and there was
but very little of hope in it to make its dreariness supportable. As
often happens in periods of sickness, the single friend who could now
be of service to the one or to the other was the doctor. He came daily
to them, and with that quick growth of confidence which medical
kindness always inspires, Trevelyan told to this gentleman all the
history of his married life and all that Trevelyan told to him he
repeated to Trevelyan's wife. It may therefore be understood that
Trevelyan, between them, was treated like a child.

Dr. Nevill had soon been able to tell Mrs Trevelyan that her husband's
health had been so shattered as to make it improbable that he should
ever again be strong either in body or in mind. He would not admit,
even when treating his patient like a child, that he had ever been mad,
and spoke of Sir Marmaduke's threat as unfortunate. 'But what could
papa have done?' asked the wife.

'It is often, no doubt, difficult to know what to do: but threats are
seldom of avail to bring a man back to reason. Your father was angry
with him, and yet declared that he was mad. That in itself was hardly
rational. One does not become angry with a madman.'

One does not become angry with a madman; but while a man has power in
his hands over others, and when he misuses that power grossly and
cruelly, who is there that will not be angry? The misery of the insane
more thoroughly excites our pity than any other suffering to which
humanity is subject; but it is necessary that the madness should be
acknowledged to be madness before the pity can be felt. One can
forgive, or, at any rate, make excuses for any injury when it is done;
but it is almost beyond human nature to forgive an injury when it is
a-doing, let the condition of the doer be what it may. Emily Trevelyan
at this time suffered infinitely. She was still willing to yield in all
things possible, because her husband was ill because perhaps he was
dying; but she could no longer satisfy herself with thinking that all
that she had admitted all that she was still ready to admit had been
conceded in order that her concessions might tend to soften the
afflictions of one whose reason was gone. Dr. Nevill said that her
husband was not mad and indeed Trevelyan seemed now to be so clear in
his mind that she could not doubt what the doctor said to her. She
could not think that he was mad and yet he spoke of the last two years
as though he had suffered from her almost all that a husband could
suffer from a wife's misconduct. She was in doubt about his health. 'He
may recover,' the doctor said; 'but he is so weak that the slightest
additional ailment would take him off.' At this time Trevelyan could
not raise himself from his bed, and was carried, like a child, from one
room to another. He could eat nothing solid, and believed himself to be
dying. In spite of his weakness, and of his savage memories in regard
to the past he treated his wife on all ordinary subjects with
consideration. He spoke much of his money, telling her that he had not
altered, and would not alter, the will that he had made immediately on
his marriage. Under that will all his property would be hers for her
life, and would go to their child when she was dead. To her this will
was more than just it was generous in the confidence which it placed in
her; and he told his lawyer, in her presence, that, to the best of his
judgment, he need not change it. But still there passed hardly a day in
which he did not make some allusion to the great wrong which he had
endured, throwing in her teeth the confessions which she had made and
almost accusing her of that which she certainly never had confessed,
even when, in the extremity of her misery at Casalunga, she had thought
that it little mattered what she said, so that for the moment he might
be appeased. If he died, was he to die in this belief? If he lived, was
he to live in this belief? And if he did so believe, was it possible
that he should still trust her with his money and with his child?

'Emily,' he said one day, 'it has been a terrible tragedy, has it not?'
She did not answer his question, sitting silent as it was her custom to
do when he addressed her after such fashion as this. At such times she
would not answer him; but she knew that he would press her for an
answer. 'I blame him more than I do you,' continued Trevelyan
'infinitely more. He was a serpent intending to sting me from the first
not knowing perhaps how deep the sting would go.' There was no question
in this, and the assertion was one which had been made so often that
she could let it pass. 'You are young, Emily, and it may be that you
will marry again.

'Never,' she said, with a shudder. It seemed to her then that marriage
was so fearful a thing that certainly she could never venture upon it
again.

'All I ask of you is, that should you do so, you will be more careful
of your husband's honour.'

'Louis,' she said, getting up and standing close to him, 'tell me what
it is that you mean.' It was now his turn to remain silent, and hers to
demand an answer. 'I have borne much,' she continued, 'because I would
not vex you in your illness.'

'You have borne much?'

'Indeed and indeed, yes. What woman has ever borne more!'

'And I?' said he.

'Dear Louis, let us understand each other at last. Of what do you
accuse me? Let us, at any rate, know each other's thoughts on this
matter, of which each of us is ever thinking.'

'I make no new accusation.'

'I must protest then against your using words which seem to convey
accusation. Since marriages were first known upon earth, no woman has
ever been truer to her husband than I have been to you.'

'Were you lying to me then at Casalunga when you acknowledged that you
had been false to your duties?'

'If I acknowledged that, I did lie. I never said that; but yet I did
lie believing it to be best for you that I should do so. For your
honour's sake, for the child's sake, weak as you are, Louis, I must
protest that it was so. I have never injured you by deed or thought.'

'And yet you have lied to me! Is a lie no injury and such a lie! Emily,
why did you lie to me! You will tell me tomorrow that you never lied,
and never owned that you had lied.'

Though it should kill him, she must tell him the truth now. 'You were
very ill at Casalunga,' she said, after a pause.

'But not so ill as I am now. I could breathe that air. I could live
there. Had I remained I should have been well now but what of that?'

'Louis, you were dying there. Pray, pray listen to me. We thought that
you were dying; and we knew also that you would be taken from that
house.'

'That was my affair. Do you mean that I could not keep a house over my
head?' At this moment he was half lying, half sitting, in a large easy
chair in the little drawing-room of their cottage, to which he had been
carried from the adjoining bed-room. When not excited, he would sit for
hours without moving, gazing through the open window, sometimes with
some pretext of a book lying within the reach of his hand; but almost
without strength to lift it, and certainly without power to read it.
But now he had worked himself up to so much energy that he almost
raised himself up in his chair, as he turned towards his wife. 'Had I
not the world before me, to choose a house in?'

'They would have put you somewhere, and I could not have reached you.'

'In a madhouse, you mean. Yes if you had told them.'

'Will you listen, dear Louis? We knew that it was our duty to bring you
home; and as you would not let me come to you, and serve you, and
assist you to come here where you are safe unless I owned that you had
been right, I said that you had been right.'

'And it was a lie you say now?'

'All that is nothing. I can not go through it; nor should you. There is
the only question. You do not think that I have been? I need not say
the thing. You do not think that?' As she asked the question, she knelt
beside him, and took his hand in hers, and kissed it.'say that you do
not think that, and I will never trouble you further about the past.'

'Yes that is it. You will never trouble me!' She glanced up into his
face and saw there the old look which he used to wear when he was at
Willesden and at Casalunga; and there had come again the old tone in
which he had spoken to her in the bitterness of his wrath the look and
the tone, which had made her sure that he was a madman. 'The craft and
subtlety of women passes everything!' he said. 'And so at last I am to
tell you that from the beginning it has been my doing. I will never say
so, though I should die in refusing to do it.'

After that there was no possibility of further conversation, for there
came upon him a fit of coughing, and then he swooned; and in
half-an-hour he was in bed, and Dr. Nevill was by his side. 'You must
not speak to him at all on this matter,' said the doctor. 'But if he
speaks to me?' she asked. 'Let it pass,' said the doctor. 'Let the
subject be got rid of with as much ease as you can. He is very ill now,
and even this might have killed him.' Nevertheless, though this seemed
to be stern, Dr. Nevill was very kind to her, declaring that the
hallucination in her husband's mind did not really consist of a belief
in her infidelity, but arose from an obstinate determination to yield
nothing. 'He does not believe it; but he feels that were he to say as
much, his hands would be weakened and yours strengthened.'

'Can he then be in his sane mind?'

'In one sense all misconduct is proof of insanity,' said the doctor.
'In his case the weakness of the mind has been consequent upon the
weakness of the body.'

Three days after that Nora visited Twickenham from Monkhams in
obedience to a telegram from her sister. 'Louis,' she said, 'had become
so much weaker, that she hardly dared to be alone with him. Would Nora
come to her?' Nora came of course, and Hugh met her at the station, and
brought her with him to the cottage. He asked whether he might see
Trevelyan, but was told that it would be better that he should not. He
had been almost continually silent since the last dispute which he had
with his wife; but he had given little signs that he was always
thinking of the manner in which he had been brought home by her from
Italy, and of the story she had told him of her mode of inducing him to
come. Hugh Stanbury had been her partner in that struggle, and would
probably be received, if not with sullen silence, then with some
attempt at rebuke. But Hugh did see Dr. Nevill, and learned from him
that it was hardly possible that Trevelyan should live many hours. 'He
has worn himself out,' said the doctor, 'and there is nothing left in
him by which he can lay hold of life again.' Of Nora her brother-in-law
took but little notice, and never again referred in her hearing to the
great trouble of his life. He said to her a word or two about Monkhams,
and asked a question now and again as to Lord Peterborough whom,
however, he always called Mr Glascock; but Hugh Stanbury's name was
never mentioned by him. There was a feeling in his mind that at the
very last he had been duped in being brought to England, and that
Stanbury had assisted in the deception. To his wife he would whisper
little petulant regrets for the loss of the comforts of Casalunga, and
would speak of the air of Italy and of Italian skies and of the Italian
sun, as though he had enjoyed at his Sienese villa all the luxuries
which climate can give, and would have enjoyed them still had he been
allowed to remain there. To all this she would say nothing. She knew
now that he was failing quickly, and there was only one subject on
which she either feared or hoped to hear him speak. Before he left her
for ever and ever would he tell her that he had not doubted her faith?

She had long discussions with Nora on the matter, as though all the
future of her life depended on it. It was in vain that Nora tried to
make her understand that if hereafter the spirit of her husband could
know anything of the troubles of his mortal life, could ever look back
to the things which he had done in the flesh, then would he certainly
know the truth, and all suspicion would be at an end. And if not, if
there was to be no such retrospect, what did it matter now, for these
few last hours before the coil should be shaken off, and all doubt and
all sorrow should be at an end? But the wife, who was soon to be a
widow, yearned to be acquitted in this world by him to whom her guilt
or her innocence had been matter of such vital importance. 'He has
never thought it,' said Nora.

'But if he would say so! If he would only look it! It will be all in
all to me as long as I live in this world.' And then, though they had
determined between themselves in spoken words never to regard him again
as one who had been mad, in all their thoughts and actions towards him
they treated him as though he were less responsible than an infant. And
he was mad mad though every doctor in England had called him sane. Had
he not been mad he must have been a fiend or he could not have
tortured, as he had done, the woman to whom he owed the closest
protection which one human being can give to another.

During these last days and nights she never left him. She had done her
duty to him well, at any rate since the time when she had been enabled
to come near him in Italy. It may be that in the first days of their
quarrel, she had not been regardful, as she should have been, of a
husband's will that she might have escaped this tragedy by submitting
herself to the man's wishes, as she had always been ready to submit
herself to his words. Had she been able always to keep her neck in the
dust under his foot, their married life might have been passed without
outward calamity, and it is possible that he might still have lived.
But if she erred, surely she had been scourged for her error with
scorpions. As she sat at his bedside watching him, she thought of her
wasted youth, of her faded beauty, of her shattered happiness, of her
fallen hopes. She had still her child but she felt towards him that she
herself was so sad a creature, so sombre, so dark, so necessarily
wretched from this time forth till the day of her death, that it would
be better for the boy that she should never be with him. There could be
nothing left for her but garments dark with woe, eyes red with weeping,
hours sad from solitude, thoughts weary with memory. And even yet if he
would only now say that he did not believe her to have been guilty, how
great would be the change in her future life!

Then came an evening in which he seemed to be somewhat stronger than he
had been. He had taken some refreshment that had been prepared for him,
and, stimulated by its strength, had spoken a word or two both to Nora
and to his wife. His words had been of no especial interest alluding to
some small detail of his own condition, such as are generally the
chosen topics of conversation with invalids. But he had been pronounced
to be better, and Nora spoke to him cheerfully, when he was taken into
the next room by the man who was always at hand to move him. His wife
followed him, and soon afterwards returned, and bade Nora good night.
She would sit by her husband, and Nora was to go to the room below,
that she might receive her lover there. He was expected out that
evening, but Mrs Trevelyan said that she would not see him. Hugh came
and went, and Nora took herself to her chamber. The hours of the night
went on, and Mrs Trevelyan was still sitting by her husband's bed. It
was still September, and the weather was very warm. But the windows had
been all closed since an hour before sunset. She was sitting there
thinking, thinking, thinking. Dr. Nevill had told her that the time now
was very near. She was not thinking now how very near it might be, but
whether there might yet be time for him to say that one word to her.

'Emily,' he said, in the lowest whisper.

'Darling!' she answered, turning round and touching him with her hand.

'My feet are cold. There are no clothes on them.'

She took a thick shawl and spread it double across the bottom of the
bed, and put her hand upon his arm. Though it was clammy with
perspiration, it was chill, and she brought the warm clothes up close
round his shoulders. 'I can't sleep,' he said. 'If I could sleep, I
shouldn't mind.' Then he was silent again, and her thoughts went
harping on, still on the same subject. She told herself that if ever
that act of justice were to be done for her, it must be done that
night. After a while she turned round over him ever so gently, and saw
that his large eyes were open and fixed upon the wall.

She was kneeling now on the chair close by the bed-head, and her hand
was on the rail of the bedstead supporting her. 'Louis,' she said, ever
so softly.

'Well.'

'Can you say one word for your wife, dear, dear, dearest husband?'

'What word?'

'I have not been a harlot to you have I?'

'What name is that?'

'But what a thing, Louis! Kiss my hand, Louis, if you believe me.' And
very gently she laid the tips of her fingers on his lips. For a moment
or two she waited, and the kiss did not come. Would he spare her in
this the last moment left to him either for justice or for mercy? For a
moment or two the bitterness of her despair was almost unendurable. She
had time to think that were she once to withdraw her hand, she would be
condemned for ever and that it must be withdrawn. But at length the
lips moved, and with struggling ear she could hear the sound of the
tongue within, and the verdict of the dying man had been given in her
favour. He never spoke a word more either to annul it or to enforce it.

Some time after that she crept into Nora's room. 'Nora,' she said,
waking the sleeping girl, 'it is all over.'

'Is he dead?'

'It is all over. Mrs Richards is there. It is better than an hour since
now. Let me come in.' She got into her sister's bed, and there she told
the tale of her tardy triumph. 'He declared to me at last that he
trusted me,' she said almost believing that real words had come from
his lips to that effect. Then she fell into a flood of tears, and after
a while she also slept.



CHAPTER XCIX - CONCLUSION

At last the maniac was dead, and in his last moments he had made such
reparation as was in his power for the evil that he had done. With that
slight touch of his dry fevered lips he had made the assertion on which
was to depend the future peace and comfort of the woman whom he had so
cruelly misused. To her mind the acquittal was perfect; but she never
explained to human ears not even to those of her sister the manner in
which it had been given. Her life, as far as we are concerned with it,
has been told. For the rest, it cannot be but that it should be better
than that which was passed. If there be any retribution for such
sufferings in money, liberty, and outward comfort, such retribution she
possessed for all that had been his, was now hers. He had once
suggested what she should do, were she ever to be married again; and
she felt that of such a career there could be no possibility. Anything
but that! We all know that widows' practices in this matter do not
always tally with wives' vows; but, as regards Mrs Trevelyan, we are
disposed to think that the promise will be kept. She has her child, and
he will give her sufficient interest to make life worth having.

Early in the following spring Hugh Stanbury was married to Nora Rowley
in the parish church of Monkhams at which place by that time Nora found
herself to be almost as much at home as she might have been under other
circumstances. They had prayed that the marriage might be very private
but when the day arrived there was no very close privacy. The parish
church was quite full, there were half-a-dozen bridesmaids, there was a
great breakfast, Mrs Crutch had a new brown silk gown given to her,
there was a long article in the county gazette, and there were short
paragraphs in various metropolitan newspapers. It was generally thought
among his compeers that Hugh Stanbury had married into the aristocracy,
and that the fact was a triumph for the profession to which he
belonged. It shewed what a Bohemian could do, and that men of the press
in England might gradually hope to force their way almost anywhere. So
great was the name of Monkhams! He and his wife took for themselves a
very small house near the Regent's Park, at which they intend to remain
until Hugh shall have enabled himself to earn an additional two hundred
a-year. Mrs Trevelyan did not come to live with them, but kept the
cottage near the river at Twickenham. Hugh Stanbury was very averse to
any protracted connection with comforts to be obtained from poor
Trevelyan's income, and told Nora that he must hold her to her promise
about the beef-steak in the cupboard. It is our opinion that Mr and Mrs
Hugh Stanbury will never want for a beef-steak and all comfortable
additions until the inhabitants of London shall cease to require
newspapers on their breakfast tables.

Brooke and Mrs Brooke established themselves in the house in the Close
on their return from their wedding tour, and Brooke at once put himself
into intimate relations with the Messrs. Croppers, taking his fair
share of the bank work. Dorothy was absolutely installed as mistress in
her aunt's house with many wonderful ceremonies, with the unlocking of
cupboards, the outpouring of stores, the giving up of keys, and with
many speeches made to Martha. This was all very painful to Dorothy, who
could not bring herself to suppose it possible that she should be the
mistress of that house, during her aunt's life. Miss Stanbury, however,
of course persevered, speaking of herself as a worn-out old woman,
with one foot in the grave, who would soon be carried away and put out
of sight. But in a very few days things got back into their places, and
Aunt Stanbury had the keys again. 'I knew how it would be, miss,' said
Martha to her young mistress, 'and I didn't say nothing, 'cause you
understand her so well.'

Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla still live at the cottage, which, however,
to Priscilla's great disgust, has been considerably improved and
prettily furnished. This was done under the auspices of Hugh, but with
funds chiefly supplied from the house of Brooke, Dorothy, and Co.
Priscilla comes into Exeter to see her sister, perhaps, every other
week; but will never sleep away from home, and very rarely will eat or
drink at her sister's table. 'I don't know why, I don't' she said to
Dorothy, 'but somehow it puts me out. It delays me in my efforts to
come to the straw a day.' Nevertheless, the sisters are dear friends.

I fear that in some previous number a half promise was made that a
husband should be found for Camilla French. That half-promise cannot be
treated in the manner in which any whole promise certainly would have
been handled. There is no husband ready for Cammy French. The reader,
however, will be delighted to know that she made up her quarrel with
her sister and Mr Gibson, and is now rather fond of being a guest at Mr
Gibson's house. On her first return to Exeter after the Gibsons had
come back from their little Cornish rustication, Camilla declared that
she could not and would not bring herself to endure a certain dress of
which Bella was very fond and as this dress had been bought for Camilla
with special reference to the glories of her anticipated married life,
this objection was almost natural. But Bella treated it as absurd, and
Camilla at last gave way.

It need only further be said that though Giles Hickbody and Martha are
not actually married as yet men and women in their class of life always
moving towards marriage with great precaution it is quite understood
that the young people are engaged, and are to be made happy together at
some future time.









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