 CHAPTER XIII. THE Honourable Mr. Glasscock. By the end of July, Mrs. Trevelyan, with her sister, was established in the clockhouse 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 Curson Street. As to the quarrel between Trevelyan and his wife, things went from bad to worse. Lady Milbara 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 Milbara 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 Milbara and Trevelyan, and interviews between Lady Milbara 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 affect 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 Osborn, 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 Osborn. But that is just what Lewis doesn't want you to do, Nora had said, filled with anger and dismay. Then let Lewis 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 was best that she should write to Colonel Osborn. Unfortunately there was no ground for hoping that Colonel Osborn 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 Osborn 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 Milbora, 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 damn scoundrel. Lady Milbora 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 Milbora, at once, and have him after me, said Trevelyan. Lady Milbora 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 Milbora spoke of the small town in the west of France, urging as her reason that such a man as Colonel Osborn 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 Milbora 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 Milbora's of the day hate the Colonel Osborn's from the very bottoms of their warm hearts and pure souls, but they respect the Colonel Osborn's 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 Milbora 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 Milbora 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 Manderans, 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 Milbora thought that he might have aspired. Nevertheless, when the girl from the Manderans had been brought home as Mrs. Trevelyan, Lady Milbora 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 Milbora 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. Glasscock was overhead 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. Glasscock 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 English man. Here was a suitor. But it was not to be supposed that such a man as Mr. Glasscock 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 Milbara'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 Milbara, 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. Glasscock himself, nobody knew better than Lady Milbara how very apt fish are to be frightened. But at last Lady Milbara did speak to Mr. Glasscock, 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. Glasscock had already heard of the unfortunate affair in Curson Street. Indeed, everyone 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 Milbara did mention it, explaining that the only person really in fault was that odious destroyer of the peace of family's, Colonel Osborn, of whom Lady Milbara, 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 who knew it from beginning to end, could for a moment doubt. The real victim would be that sweetest of all girls, Nora Rowley. Mr. Glasscock innocently asked why Nora Rowley should be a victim. Don't you understand, Mr. Glasscock, how the most remote connection with a thing of that kind tarnishes a young woman's standing in the world. Mr. Glasscock 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 Milbara, 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. Glasscock got into a cab in Eccleston Square, and had himself driven direct to Curson Street. He himself believed that he was at that moment only doing the thing which he had been 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 Milbara's communication. At any rate, he arrived in Curson Street with his mind fully resolved, and had spent the minutes in the cab considering how he had better performed the business in hand. He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where he found the two sisters, and Mrs. Trevalian, 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 flavors a morning visit. This was so strongly marked that Mrs. Trevalian 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. Glasscock 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. Trevalian, 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. Glasscock'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. Glasscock. She had never acknowledged to herself that there was another man whom she liked better than she liked Mr. Glasscock. 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. Glasscock. 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. Glasscock. 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. Glasscock 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. Glasscock, 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 flattered 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 unmaidently 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. Glasscock was not an Apollo, not an admirable Creighton. 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 Munkums. Oh, Mr. Glasscock, 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. Glasscock, 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 recognize her staff. As 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. Glasscock, 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 anyone 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 at 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 purist. Now, as she stood there thinking of it all, she was nor a 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 marvelously endowed that no worldly blessing would have been wanting. Mr. Glasscock had more than once spoken to her of the glories of Monkums. She thought of Monkums 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-honored 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 load 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 honors. Whereas the Tallow Chandler'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. Travalion 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. Travalion, 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. Glasscock. Then you have refused him, because of Hugh Standbury. 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 statelyness in her gate, 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 Standbury. Was Hugh Standbury worth so great a sacrifice? CHAPTER XIV. THE CLOCKHOUSE AT NUNCOMPUTNEY. 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 Nuncomputney. 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, 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 Curson 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. Glasscock. 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 families. 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 Osborns, 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. Diddilves 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, clearly 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. Diddilves 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 with all. 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. Diddilves to be very closely allied to fashion, and Mr. Outhouse had never been induced even to dine in the house in Curson 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. Diddilves. 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 was 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 all together with a high hand at this time. When old Mr. Bidowile called upon her, her husband's ancient family lawyer, she told the 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 Curson 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. Bidowile to see that things were properly arranged. But of this her husband and Mr. Bidowile 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. Bidowile 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 their 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. Bidowile 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. Bidowile 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. Trevalian had considered herself to be successful in this interview. The idea of a residence at Nuncomputny had occurred first to Trevalian 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. Bydowile for her own clothes, and for those of our poor boy. Then Stanbury had told him of the clockhouse, and there had been an agreement made between them—an agreement which was then, of course, subject to the approval of the ladies at Nuncomputney. When the suggestion was made to Mrs. Trevelyan, with a proposition that the clockhouse 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. Bydowile explained to her that Nuncomputney 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 Nuncomputney is very pretty. Lovely, said Mr. Bydowile, 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 neighborhood, 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 clockhouse 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 Curson 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. Glasscock 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 be in the wrong. And though it must be doubtless comfortable to go from the cottage to the clockhouse, it would, she said, with much prudence, be very uncomfortable to go back from the clockhouse 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. Trevalian, 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 newcomers 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. Trevalian 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. Trevalian. 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 Nuncamputney is perhaps as pretty as any in England. It is beyond the river Tain, 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. Crockett, then whom no old woman in the public line was ever more generous, more peppery, or more kind, capped two clean bedrooms, 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 dingtees. If you can't eat your victuals without fish, you must go to Exeter, and then you'll get its stinking mayhap. Now Priscilla Stanbury and Mrs. Crockett were great friends, and there had been times of deep want in which Mrs. Crockett'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 Nuncomputney to Princeton, 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 Princeton I walked there and back. So they had called at the stag and antlers, and Mrs. Crockett 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 a very odd language for a woman, said Mrs. Trevelyan. Now Mrs. Crockett 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 daresay 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 near-dwell son. He's away now, and she's all alone. Then after a pause she continued, I daresay 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 and 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. Crockett. 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 clockhouse 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 neighbors 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 brazing the lady out of the cloud, as would have been the case had she herself been strong. Mrs. Trevelyan, who was sharp-sighted 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'm 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. Mama 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 Mama 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. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Ariel Lipshaw in New York City Chapter 15 of He Knew He Was Right This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipshaw He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop Chapter 15 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 adepated, 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 most of them have them 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 women'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 may 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 clockhouse 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. McHugh, and there the matter was very much discussed. The family of the Trevalians was known by name in these parts, and the fact of Mrs. Trevalian 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. McHugh and Mrs. Crumby 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 cannons, and the two Miss Frenches from Hevetry, who had the reputation of hunting unmarried clergymen in couples, seemed to have heard all about it. When Mrs. McHugh and Miss Stanbury, with Mr. and Mrs. Crumby, had seated themselves at their wist 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's Stanbury's mother had gone to the clockhouse, 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 Stanbury's for the last twenty years, and there was Mrs. Ellison of Lesborough, 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. Mama 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. Mama 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. Trevalion 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. Trevalion and her brother Hugh had long been friends. Oh, of Mr. Trevalion, 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 daresay 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 Miss 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. Travellian, said Camilla. I don't believe there really is. Hey, 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 Osbourne, as though her lips were by 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 the 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-honors in 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 10 to 1 that she has been very foolish. But what's a woman to do if her husband beats her? Said Mrs. Crumby. Beat him again, said Mrs. McHugh. And the husband will be sure to have the worst of it, said Mr. Crumby. Well, I declare, if you haven't turned up in honour again, Miss Stanbury. It was your wife that cut it to me, Mr. Crumby. Then they were again at once immersed in the play, and the name neither of Trevalian nor Osborn was heard, till Miss Stanbury was marking her double under the candlestick. But during all 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 non-computny 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. Crumby's opinion was that it was only a few words. Mrs. Crumby was afraid that she had been a little light. Mrs. McHugh 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 in 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 Whatts's name makes his way down to non-computny, your mother must send her packing if she has any respect either for herself or for Priscilla. He knew he was right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Aria Lipshaw. He knew he was right by Anthony Trollope. CHAPTER XVI. DARTMORE The well-wayed decision of Miss Stanbury, respecting the Stanbury Trevelyan arrangement in non-computny, had been communicated to Dorothy, as the two walked home at night across the close from Mrs. McHugh'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 clockhouse, 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 Osborn should show himself at non-computny, then, for the sake of the family, Miss Stanbury would speak out, and she 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. McHugh's, and Mrs. Trevelyan had hardly been three weeks at non-computny, before the tidings which Miss Stanbury almost expected reached her ears. The Colonel's been at the clockhouse, ma'am, said Martha. Now it was quite understood in the close by this time that the Colonel meant Colonel Osborn. No! I'm told he has, though, ma'am, for sure and certain. Who says so? Giles Hickbody was down at Lesborough and cede him himself, a portly middle-aged man, not one of your young scampish-like lovers. That's the man! Oh, yes! He went over to non-computny as sure as anything, hired Mrs. Clegg's chess 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. Allison, of Lesborough. Writing to that lady a most cautious and guarded letter. At last it became a fact proved to her mind that Colonel Osborn had been at the clockhouse, 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 Lesborough. 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. Crockett's open carriage, and the three young women, Mrs. Trevelyan, Nora, and Priscilla, made a little excursion to Princeton, someone after the fashion of a picnic. At Princeton, in the middle of Dartmoor, about nine miles from Nuncomputney, 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 Princeton, and excite in the hearts of the Devonians of these parts a strong affection for the Dartmoor prison. Of those who visit Princeton comparatively few affect an entrance within the walls of the jail, 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 Princeton, from whatever side it is approached, has the charm of wild and beautiful scenery. The spot itself is ugly enough, 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. Crockett'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. Travellian was in better spirits than she herself had thought to be possible for her in her present condition. Most of us have recognized the fact that a dream 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 drafts 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 ahead, all expense is told. Mrs. Trevalian 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 vigor 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. Crockett had lent them, Nora started off across the moorland alone. The horse had been left to be fed in Princeton, and they had walked back to a bush under which they had rashly left their basket of propander 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 Monkham's. 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 Peterborough's 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. Glasscock 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. She'd 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. Glasscock, 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 Moncombe's 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. Glasscock 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 too had sat still under the shade of a thornbush, 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 plowman'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 began 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 Louis. Louis was the baby. What are you to do when after a year or two his father shall send for him to have him under his own care? Nothing shall separate me from my child, said Mrs. Travellian eagerly. That is easily said, but I suppose the power of doing as he 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. Travellian. 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 two-penny half-penny pride which should be thrown to the winds. The more right you have been hither to, 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. Everyone to himself is the center and pivot of all the world. It's a very poor world that goes round upon my pivot, said Mrs. Travellian. 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. Travellian 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 midday 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. Travellian 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. Travellian, thinking in the first moment of her husband and in the second of Colonel Osbourne. 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. End of CHAPTER XVI. It soon became known to them all as they remained clustered in the hall that Mr. Glasscock was in the house. Mrs. Stanbury came out to them and informed them that he had been at Nuncomputney for the last five hours and that he had asked for Mrs. Travellian 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. Travellian 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. Glasscock had declared that he would take a walk, and in the course of the afternoon had expressed high approval of Mrs. Crockett's culinary skill. When Mrs. Crockett 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 counterskippers, as turns up their little noses at the victuals as is set before them, said Mrs. Crockett. After his dinner, Mr. Glasscock had returned to the clockhouse, 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 Lesborough to-night, said Mrs. Stanbury in a whisper. Of course you must see him before he goes, said Mrs. Travellian to her sister. There had, as was natural, been very much said between the two sisters about Mr. Glasscock. 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. Glasscock 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. Travellian 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. Travellian. 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 in honourable Mr. Glasscock. She had collected from what he had said that he was an old friend of the two ladies. Her conviction was strong in Mr. Glasscock'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 think 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 Mama will feel, such a position, and the man's 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 be 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 helix, 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 Standbury 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 Moncombe's? She saw that that arrangement before the glass could be of no service, and she stepped quickly to the door. 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 am 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—that— I understand you, Mr. Glasscock. 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 Monkums 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. Glasscock, what can I say? She replied, I will tell 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 someone 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 emotion 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 the 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's 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. Travalion 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. Glasscock 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. Glasscock 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 gray 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. Travalion had told her, while Nora and Mr. Glasscock 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 realize 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 be 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 despise 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 recognized 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 someone 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 colors 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 to-morrow, 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 shore 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. Glasscock 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 Curson Street, no renewed power of entering the ballrooms 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 retraction 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 those who saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her a wretched woman. 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 recognized 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. Glasscock'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 too 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 crossed 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. Glasscock. 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 anyone 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 sympathize with you. No one has ever a right to be false, and if you are repenting of 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 sympathize 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 non-computny at about eight in the morning, carried that there 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 demeanor 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 haul should find a refuge in the less exacting service of the government. The one-legged man who rode his donkey into non-computny 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. Trevalian, 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. Trevalian, 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. Mama, this is for you, said Priscilla. It is from Aunt Stanbury. I know her handwriting. From your aunt's? 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, Mama, 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 neighbors. This is what she has thought fit to write to you, Mama. Then Priscilla read her aunt's letter, which was as follows. The Close, Exeter, July 31st, 1860 Blank 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 was 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 begrudget 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 eavesdropping 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 someone to trample on, someone of the name to patronize. She shan't trample on you and me, mama. 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 Standbury. Priscilla herself would write this answer, and herself would sign it. There was some difference of opinion on this point, as Mrs. Standbury 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 1st, 1860 Blank Dear Aunt Standbury, 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 mama 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 Standbury. P.S. Another gentleman did call here, not to see Mrs. Trevelyan, but I suppose mama'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 Osbourne's visit to Nuncombe, as to make her feel it to be incumbent on her to interfere. After much consideration, Miss Standbury 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 mama won't let there be anything wrong, she had said. And you don't call this wrong, said Miss Standbury, in a tone of indignation. But perhaps mama 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 Standbury. I am quite sure mama 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 Standbury had read and reread the very short reply which her niece had written, she became at first pale with dismay, and then red with renewed vigor 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 specifically asked for Mrs. Trevelyan. And who had at once been known to Mrs. Clegg, at the Lesborough Inn, to be Mrs. Trevelyan's lover. Miss Standbury 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 man, and a lanniner, and one as it be up to anything, but not a youngan, no, not just a youngan, certainly. 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 Standbury sending him down to Lesborough to learn the very name of the gentleman, and by his coming back with that of the honourable George Glasscock written on a piece of paper. They says now as he was ardor the other young woman, said Giles Hickbody. Then it was the confusion of Miss Standbury complete. It was late when Giles returned from Lesborough, and nothing could be done that night. It was too late to write a letter for the next morning's post. Miss Standbury, 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. Standbury. 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 poo-pooed 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 overhasty about your mother and this man. I am sorry for it, and must beg everybody's pardon. I knew Mama 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 Standbury. 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 3, 1860 Blank Dear Sister Standbury, 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 Standbury. Mrs. Standbury, 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 sympathizing 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. Standbury 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, 1860 Blank Dear Aunt Standbury, 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 Standbury. Impudent Vixen, said Miss Standbury 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 Standbury's tone have been changed, had she known that at that very moment Colonel Osborne was eating his breakfast at Mrs. Crockett's Inn in Nuncomputney.