 CHAPTER 19 When Mr. Trevelyan had gone through the miserable task of breaking up his establishment in Curson Street, and had seen all his furniture packed, including his books, his pictures, and his pet Italian ornaments, it was necessary that he should go and live somewhere. He was very wretched at this time, so wretched that life was a burden to him. He was a man who loved his wife, to whom his child was very dear, and he was one too, to whom the ordinary comforts of domestic life were attractive and necessary. There are men to whom release from the constraint imposed by family ties will be, at any rate for a time, felt as a release, but he was not such a man. There was no delight to him in being able to dine at his club, and being free to go with her he pleased in the evening. As it was, it pleased him to go no with her in the evenings, and his mornings were equally blank to him. He went so often to Mr. Bydowile that the poor old lawyer became quite tired of the Trevelyan family quarrel. Even Lady Milbra, with all her power of sympathizing, began to feel that she would almost prefer on any morning that her dear young friend, Louis Trevelyan, should not be announced. Nevertheless, she always saw him when he came, and administered comfort according to her light. Of course he would have his wife back before long. That was the only consolation she was able to offer, and she offered it so often that he began gradually to feel that something might be done towards bringing about so desirable an event. After what had occurred they could not live again in Curson Street, nor even in London for a while, but Naples was open to them. Lady Milbra said so much to him of the advantages which always came in such circumstances from going to Naples, that he began to regard such a trip as almost the natural conclusion of his adventure. But then there came that very difficult question. What step should be first taken? Lady Milbra proposed that he should go boldly down to Nuncomputny and make the arrangement. She will only be too glad to jump into your arms, said Lady Milbra. Trevelyan thought that if he went to Nuncomputny his wife might perhaps jump into his arms, but what would come after that? How would he stand then in reference to his authority? Would she own that she had been wrong? Would she promise to behave better in future? He did not believe that she was yet sufficiently broken in spirit to make any such promise. And he told himself again and again that it would be absurd in him to allow her to return to him without such subjection after all that he had gone through in defense of his marital rights. If he were to write to her a long letter, argumentative, affectionate, exhaustive, it might be better. He was inclined to believe of himself that he was good at writing long, affectionate, argumentative, and exhaustive letters, but he would not do even this as yet. He had broken up his house and scattered all his domestic gods to the winds because she had behaved badly to him, and the thing done was too important to allow of her dress being found so easily. So he lived on a wretched life in London. He could hardly endure to show himself at his club, fearing that everyone would be talking of him as the man who was separated from his wife. Perhaps as the man of whose wife Colonel Osbourne was the dear friend. No doubt for a day or two there had been much of such conversation, but it had died away from the club long before his consciousness had become callous. At first he had gone into a lodging in Mayfair, but this had been but for a day or two. After that he had taken a set of furnished chambers in Lincoln's Inn, immediately under those in which Stanbury lived, and thus it came to pass that he and Stanbury were very much thrown together. As Trevelyan would always talk of his wife this was rather a bore, but our friend bore with it, and would even continue to instruct the world through the columns of the D.R., while Trevelyan was descanting on the peculiar cruelty of his own position. I wish to be just and even generous, and I do love her with all my heart, he said one afternoon, when Hugh was very hard at work. It is all very well for gentlemen to call themselves reformers, Hugh was writing, but have these gentlemen ever realized at themselves the meaning of that word? We think that they have never done so, as long as, of course you love her, said Hugh, with his eyes still on the paper, still leaning on his pen, but finding by the cessation of sound that Trevelyan had paused, and therefore knowing that it was necessary that he should speak. As much as ever, said Trevelyan, with energy, as long as they follow such a leader, in such a cause, into whichever lobby he may choose to take them, exactly so, exactly, said Stanbury, just as much as ever. You are not listening to a word, said Trevelyan. I haven't missed a single expression you have used, said Stanbury, but a fellow has to do two things at a time when he's on the daily press. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, said Trevelyan, angrily, getting up, taking his hat, and stalking off to the house of Lady Milborough. In this way he became rather abhor to his friends. He could not divest his mind of the injury which had accrued to him from his wife's conduct, nor could he help talking of the grief with which his mind was laden. And he was troubled with sore suspicions, which, as far as they concerned his wife, had certainly not been merited. It had seemed to him that she had persisted in her intimacy with Colonel Osborne in a manner that was not compatible with that wife-like indifference which she regarded as her duty. Why had she written to him and received letters from him when her husband had plainly told her that any such communication was objectionable? She had done so, and as far as Trevelyan could remember her words, had plainly declared that she would continue to do so. He had sent her away into the most remote retirement he could find for her, but the post was open to her. He had heard much of Mrs. Stanbury and of Priscilla from his friend Hugh, and thoroughly believed that his wife was in respectable hands. But what was to prevent Colonel Osborne from going after her if he chose to do so? And if he did so choose, Mrs. Stanbury could not prevent their meeting. He was wracked with jealousy, and yet he did not cease to declare to himself that he knew his wife too well to believe that she would sin. He could not rid himself of his jealousy, but he tried with all his might to make the man whom he hated the object of it, rather than the woman whom he loved. He hated Colonel Osborne with all his heart. It was a regret to him that the days of dueling were over so that he could not shoot the man, and yet had dueling been possible to him, Colonel Osborne had done nothing that would have justified him in calling his enemy out, or would even have enabled him to do so, with any chance of inducing his enemy to fight. Circumstances, he thought, were cruel to him beyond compare in that he should have been made to suffer so great torment without having any of the satisfaction of revenge. Even Lady Milbra, with all her horror as to the Colonel, could not tell him that the Colonel was amenable to any punishment. He was advised that he must take his wife away and live at Naples because of this man, that he must banish himself entirely if he chose to repossess himself of his wife and child, and yet nothing could be done to the unprincipled rascal by whom all his wrongs and sufferings were occasioned. Thinking it very possible that Colonel Osborne would follow his wife, he had a watch set upon the Colonel. He had found a retired policeman, a most discreet man as he was assured, who, for consideration, undertook the management of interesting jobs of this kind. The man was one Basel, who had not lived without a certain reputation in the police courts. In these days of his madness, therefore, he took Mr. Basel into his pay, and after a while he got a letter from Basel with the Exeter postmark. Colonel Osborne had left London with a ticket for Lesborough. Basel also had taken a place by the same train for that small town. The letter was written in the railway carriage, and, as Basel explained, would be posted by him as he passed through Exeter. A further communication should be made by the next day's post in a letter which Mr. Basel proposed to address to Z.A., Post Office, Waterloo Place. On receiving this first letter, Trevelyan was in an agony of doubt as well as misery. What should he do? Should he go to Lady Milborough or to Standbury, or should he at once follow Colonel Osborne and Mr. Basel to Lesborough? It ended in his resolving at last to wait for the letter which was to be addressed to Z.A. But he spent an interval of horrible suspense and of insane rage. Let the laws say what they might, he would have the man's blood if he found that the man had even attempted to wrong him. Then at last the second letter reached him. Colonel Osborne and Mr. Basel had each of them spent the day in the neighbourhood of Lesborough, not exactly in each other's company, but very near to each other. The Colonel had ordered a gig on the day after his arrival at Lesborough for the village of Cockchaffington, and for all Mr. Basel knew the Colonel had gone to Cockchaffington. Mr. Basel was ultimately inclined to think that the Colonel had really spent his day in going to Cockchaffington. Mr. Basel himself, knowing the wiles of such men as Colonel Osborne, and thinking at first that that journey to Cockchaffington might only be a deep ruse, had walked over to Nuncomputney. There he had had a pint of beer and some bread and cheese at Mrs. Crockett's house, and had asked various questions to which he did not receive very satisfactory answers. But he inspected the clockhouse very minutely, and came to a decided opinion as to the point at which it would be attacked if burglary were the object of the assailants. And he observed the iron gates and the steps and the shape of the trees, and the old pigeonhouse-looking fabric in which the clock used to be placed. There was no knowing when information might be wanted, or what information might not be of use. But he made himself tolerably sure that Colonel Osborne did not visit Nuncomputney on that day, and then he walked back to Lesborough. Having done this, he applied himself to the little memorandum book in which he kept the records of these interesting duties, and entered a claim against his employer for a conveyance to Nuncomputney and back, including Driver and Osler, and then he wrote his letter. After that he had a hot supper with three glasses of brandy and water, and went to bed with a thorough conviction that he had earned his bread on that day. The letter to Z.A. did not give all these particulars, but it did explain that Colonel Osborne had gone off, apparently, to Cockchauffington, and that he, Boswell, had himself visited Nuncomputney. The hawk hasn't been nigh the dove-cott as yet, said Mr. Boswell in his letter, meaning to be both mysterious and facetious. It would be difficult to say whether the wit or the mystery disgusted Trevelyan the most. He had felt that he was defiling himself with dirt when he first went to Mr. Boswell. He knew that he was having recourse to means that were base and low, which could not be other than base or low let the circumstances be what they might. But Mr. Boswell's conversation had not been quite so bad as Mr. Boswell's letters, as it may have been that Mr. Boswell's successful activity was more insupportable than his futile attempts. But nevertheless, something must be done. It could not be that Colonel Osborne should have gone down to the close neighborhood of Nuncomputney without the intention of seeing the lady whom his obtrusive pertinacity had driven to that seclusion. It was terrible to Trevelyan that Colonel Osborne should be there, and not the less terrible because such a one as Mr. Boswell was watching the Colonel on his behalf. Should he go to Nuncomputney himself? And if so, when he got to Nuncomputney, what should he do there? At last, in his suspense and his grief, he resolved that he would tell the whole to Hugh Stanbury. Do you mean, said Hugh, that you have put a policeman on his track? The man was a policeman once. What we call a private detective, I can't say I think you were right. But you see that it was necessary, said Trevelyan. I can't say that it was necessary. To speak out, I can't understand that a wife should be worth watching who requires watching. Is a man to do nothing then? And even now it is not my wife whom I doubt. As for Colonel Osborne, if he chooses to go to Lesborough, why shouldn't he? Nothing that you can do or that Boswell can do can prevent him. He has a perfect right to go to Lesborough. But he has not a right to go to my wife. And if your wife refuses to see him, or having seen him, for a man may force his way in anywhere with a little trouble, if she sends him away with a flea in his ear, as I believe she would, she is so frightfully indiscreet. I don't see what Boswell can do. He has found out at any rate that Osborne is there, said Trevelyan. I am not more fond of dealing with such fellows than you are yourself. But I think it is my duty to know what is going on. What ought I to do now? I should do nothing except dismiss Boswell. You know that that is nonsense, Stanbury. Whatever I did I should dismiss Boswell. Stanbury was now quite in earnest, and as he repeated his suggestion for the dismissal of the policeman, pushed his writing things away from him. If you ask my opinion you know I must tell you what I think. I should get rid of Boswell as a beginning. If you will only think of it, how can your wife come back to you if she learns that you have set a detective to watch her? But I haven't set the man to watch her. Colonel Osborne is nothing to you except as he is concerned with her. This man is now down in her neighborhood, and if she learns that, how can she help feeling it as a deep insult? Of course the man watches her as a cat watches a mouse. But what am I to do? I can't write to the man and tell him to come away. Osborne is down there and I must do something. Will you go down to Nuncomputny yourself and let me know the truth? After much debating of the subject, Hugh Stanbury said that he would himself go down to Nuncomputny alone. There were difficulties about the DR, but he would go to the office of the newspaper and overcome them. How far the presence of Nora Rowley at his mother's house may have assisted in bringing him to undertake the journey, perhaps need not be accurately stated. He acknowledged to himself that the claims of friendship were strong upon him, and that as he had loudly disapproved of the Basel arrangement, he ought to lend a hand to some other scheme of action. Moreover, having professed his conviction that no improper visiting could possibly take place under his mother's roof, he felt bound to show that he was not afraid to trust to that conviction himself. He declared that he would be ready to proceed to Nuncomputny tomorrow, but only on condition that he might have plenary power to dismiss Basel. There can be no reason why you should take any notice of the man, said Trevelyan. How can I help noticing him when I find him prowling about the place? Of course I shall know who he is. I don't see that you need know anything about him. My dear Trevelyan, you cannot have two ambassadors engaged in the same service without communication with each other, and any communication with Mr. Basel except that of sending him back to London I will not have. The controversy was ended by the writing of a letter from Trevelyan to Basel, which was confided to Stanbury, in which the ex-policeman was thanked for his activity and requested to return to London for the present. As we are now aware that Colonel Osborne is in the neighbourhood, said the letter, my friend Mr. Stanbury will know what to do. As soon as this was settled, Stanbury went to the office of the D.R., and made arrangement as to his work for three days. Jones could do the article on the Irish Church upon a pinch like this, although he had not given much study to the subject as yet, and Petalthwaite, who was great in city matters, would try his hand on the present state of society in Rome, a subject on which it was essential that the D.R. should express itself at once. Having settled these little troubles, Stanbury returned to his friend, and in the evening they dined together at a tavern. And now, Trevelyan, let me know fairly what it is that you wish, said Stanbury. I wish to have my wife back again. Simply that, if she will agree to come back you will make no difficulty. No, not quite simply that. I shall desire that she shall be guided by my wishes as to any intimacy she may form. That is all very well, but is she to give any undertaking? Do you intend to exact any promise from her? It is my opinion that she will be willing enough to come back, and that when she is with you there will be no further cause for quarreling. But I don't think she will bind herself by any exacted promise, and certainly not through a third person. Then say nothing about it. Let her write a letter to me proposing to come, and she shall come. Very well, so far I understand. And now, what about Colonel Osborn? You don't want me to quarrel with him, I suppose? I should like to keep that for myself, said Trevelyan, grimly. If you will take my advice you will not trouble yourself about him, said Stanbury. But as far as I am concerned I am not to meddle or make with him? Of course, continued Stanbury, after a pause, if I find that he is intruding himself in my mother's house I shall tell him that he must not come there. But if you find him installed in your mother's house as a visitor? How then? I do not regard that as possible. I don't mean living there, said Trevelyan, but coming backwards and forwards, going on in habits of intimacy with—with. His voice trembled so as he asked these questions that he could not pronounce the word which was to complete them. With Mrs. Trevelyan you mean? Yes, with my wife. I don't say that it is so, but it may be so. You will be bound to tell me the truth. I will certainly tell you the truth. And the whole truth? Yes, the whole truth. Should it be so I will never see her again, never, and as for him, but never mind. Then there was another short period of silence, during which Stanbury smoked his pipe and sipped his whiskey toddy. You must see, continued Trevelyan, that it is absolutely necessary that I should do something. It is all very well for you to say that you do not like detectives, neither do I like them, but what was I to do? When you condemn me you hardly realize the difficulties of my position. It is the deuce of a nuisance, certainly, said Stanbury, through the cloud of smoke, thinking now not at all of Mrs. Trevelyan, but of Mrs. Trevelyan's sister. It makes a man almost feel that he had better not marry at all, said Trevelyan. I don't see that. Of course there may come troubles. The tiles may fall on your head, you know, as you walk through the streets. As far as I can see, women go straight enough nineteen times out of twenty, but they don't like being what I call looked after. And did I look after my wife more than I ought? I don't mean that. But if I were married, which I never shall be, for I shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income, I fancy I shouldn't look after my wife at all. It seems to me that women hate to be told about their duties. But if you saw your wife, quite innocently, falling into an improper intimacy, taking up with people she ought not to know, doing that in ignorance which could not but compromise yourself, wouldn't you speak a word then? Oh, I might just say, in an offhand way, that Jones was a rascal or a liar or a fool or anything of that sort, but I would never caution her against Jones. By George I believe a woman can stand anything better than that. You have never tried it, my friend. And I don't suppose I ever shall. As for me, I believe Aunt Standbury was right when she said that I was a radical vagabond. I daresay I shall never try the thing myself, and therefore it's very easy to have a theory. But I must be off. Good night, old fellow. I'll do the best I can, and at any rate I'll let you know the truth. There had been a question during the day as to whether Standbury should let his sister know by letter that he was expected. But it had been decided that he should appear at Nuncombe without any previous notification of his arrival. Trevelyan had thought that this was very necessary, and when Standbury had urged that such a measure seemed to imply suspicion, he had declared that in no other way could the truth be obtained. He, Trevelyan, simply wanted to know the facts as they were occurring. It was a fact that Colonel Osborne was down in the neighborhood of Nuncombe Putney, that, at least, had been ascertained. It might very possibly be the case that he would be refused admittance to the clockhouse, that all the ladies there would combine to keep him out. But, so Trevelyan urged, the truth on this point was desired. It was essentially necessary to his happiness that he should know what was being done. Your mother and sister said he cannot be afraid of your coming suddenly among them. Standbury, so urged, had found it necessary to yield, but yet he had felt that he himself was almost acting like a detective policeman, in purposely falling down upon them without a word of announcement, had chance circumstances made it necessary that he should go in such a manner he would have thought nothing of it. It would simply have been a pleasant joke to him. As he went down by the train on the following day, he almost felt ashamed of the part which he had been called upon to perform. CHAPTER XX. SHOWING HOW CURNELL OSBORNE WENT TO COCK CHAFFINGTON. Together with Miss Standbury's first letter to her sister-in-law, a letter had also been delivered to Mrs. Trevelyan. Nora Rowley, as her sister had left the room with this in her hand, had expressed her opinion that it had come from Trevelyan, but it had, in truth, been written by Colonel Osborne. And when that second letter from Miss Standbury had been received at the clockhouse, that in which she, in plain terms, begged pardon for the accusation conveyed in her first letter, Colonel Osborne had started on his deceitful little journey to Cockchappington, and Mr. Boswell, the ex-policeman who had him in hand, had already asked his way to Nuncomputney. When Colonel Osborne learned that Lewis Trevelyan had broken up his establishment in Curson Street, and had sent his wife away into a barbarous retirement in Dartmoor, for such was the nature of the information on the subject which was spread among Trevelyan's friends in London. And when he was made aware also that all this was done on his account, because he was so closely intimate with Trevelyan's wife, and because Trevelyan's wife was, and persisted in continuing to be, so closely intimate with him, his vanity was gratified. Although it might be true, and no doubt was true, that he said much to his friends and to himself of the deep sorrow which he felt that such a trouble should befall his old friend and his old friend's daughter. Nevertheless, as he curled his gray whiskers before the glass, and made the most of such remnant of hair as was left on the top of his head, as he looked to the padding of his coat, and completed a study of the wrinkles beneath his eyes, so that in conversation they might be as little apparent as possible, he felt more of pleasure than of pain in regard to the whole affair. It was very sad that it should be so, but it was human. Had it been in his power to set the whole matter right by a word he would probably have spoken that word. But as this was not possible, as Trevelyan had, in his opinion, made a gross fool of himself, as Emily Trevelyan was very nice, and not the less nice in that she certainly was fond of himself, as great tyranny had been used towards her, and as he himself had still the plea of old family friendship to protect his conscience, to protect his conscience unless he went so far as to make that plea an additional sting to his conscience, he thought that, as a man, he must follow up the matter. Here was a young and fashionable and very pretty woman banished to the wilds of Dartmoor for his sake, and, as far as he could understand, she would not have been so banished had she consented to say, that she would give up her acquaintance with him. In such circumstances as these was it possible that he should do nothing? Various ideas ran through his head. He began to think that if Trevelyan were out of the way he might, might perhaps be almost attempted to make this woman his wife. She was so nice that he almost thought that he might be rash enough for that, although he knew well the satisfaction of being a bachelor. But as the thought suggested itself to him, he was well aware that he was thinking of a thing quite distant from him. The reader is not to suppose that Colonel Osborne meditated any making away with the husband. Our Colonel was certainly not the man for a murder, nor did he even think of running away with his friend's daughter. Though he told himself that he could dispose of his wrinkle satisfactorily, still he knew himself and his powers sufficiently to be aware that he was no longer fit to be the hero of such a romance as that. He acknowledged to himself that there was much labour to be gone through in running away with another man's wife, and that the results, in respect to personal comfort, are not always happy. But what if Mrs. Trevelyan were to divorce herself from her husband on the score of her husband's cruelty? Various horrors were related as to the man's treatment of his wife. By some it was said that she was in the prison on Dartmoor, or if not actually in the prison, an arrangement which the prison discipline might perhaps make difficult, that she was in the custody of one of the prison warders who possessed a prim cottage and a grim wife just outside the prison walls. Colonel Osborne did not himself believe even so much as this, but he did believe that Mrs. Trevelyan had been banished to some inhospitable region, to some dreary, comfortless abode of which, as the wife of a man of fortune, she would have great ground to complain. So thinking he did not probably declare to himself that a divorce should be obtained, and that in such event he would marry the lady, but ideas came across his mind in that direction. Trevelyan was a cruel bluebeard. Emily, as he was studious to call Mrs. Trevelyan, was a dear, injured saint, and as for himself, though he acknowledged to himself that the lambego pinched him now and again, so that he could not rise from his chair with all the alacrity of youth. Yet, when he walked along Palma with his coat properly buttoned, he could not but observe that a great many young women looked at him with admiring eyes. It was thus with no settled scheme that the Colonel went to work, and made inquiries, and ascertained Mrs. Trevelyan's address in Devonshire. When he learned it, he thought that he had done much, though in truth there had been no secrecy in the matter. Scores of people knew Mrs. Trevelyan's address besides the news vendor who supplied her paper, from whose boy Colonel Osborn's servant obtained the information. But when the information had been obtained, it was expedient that it should be used, and therefore Colonel Osborn wrote to the following letter. Acrobats Club, July 31st, 1860 Blank. Dear Emily. Twice the Colonel wrote dearest Emily, and twice he tore the sheet on which the words were written. He longed to be ardent, but still it was so necessary to be prudent. He was not quite sure of the lady. Women sometimes tell their husbands, even when they have quarreled with them. And, although ardent expressions in writing to pretty women are pleasant to male writers, it is not pleasant for a gentleman to be asked what on earth he means by that sort of thing at his time of life. The Colonel gave half an hour to the consideration, and then began the letter, Dear Emily. If prudence be the soul of Valor, may it not be considered also the very mainspring or, perhaps, the pivot of love? Dear Emily. I need hardly tell you with what dismay I have heard of all that has taken place in Curson Street. I fear that you must have suffered much and that you are suffering now. It is an inexpressible relief to me to hear that you have your child with you and Nora. But nevertheless, to have your home taken away from you, to be sent out of London, to be banished from all society, and for what? The manner in which the minds of some men work is quite incomprehensible. As for myself, I feel that I have lost the company of a friend whom indeed I can very ill spare. I have a thousand things to say to you, and among them one or two which I feel that I must say, that I ought to say. As it happens, an old school fellow of mine is Vicar of Cockchaffington, a village which I find by the map, is very near to Nuncomputney. I saw him in town last spring, and he then asked me to pay him a visit. There is something in his church which people go to see, and though I don't understand church as much, I shall go and see it. I shall run down on Wednesday, and shall sleep at the inn at Lesborough. I see that Lesborough is a market-town, and I suppose there is an inn. I shall go over to my friend on the Thursday, but shall return to Lesborough. Though a man be ever so eager to see a church doorway, he need not sleep at the parsonage. On the following day I will get over to Nuncomputney, and I hope that you will see me. Considering my long friendship with you, and my great attachment to your father and mother, I do not think that the strictest martinet would tell you that you need hesitate in the matter. I have seen Mr. Trevelyan twice at the club, but he has not spoken to me. Under such circumstances I could not, of course, speak to him. Indeed, I may say that my feelings towards him just at present are of such a nature as to preclude me from doing so with any appearance of cordiality. Dear Emily, believe me now, as always, your affectionate friend, Frederick Osborn. When he read that letter over to himself a second time, he felt quite sure that he had not committed himself. Even if his friend were to send the letter to her husband, it could not do him any harm. He was aware that he might have dilated more on the old friendship between himself and Sir Marmaduke, but he experienced a certain distaste to the mention of things appertaining to years long past. It did not quite suit him in his present frame of mind to speak of his regard in those quasi-paternal terms which he would have used had it satisfied him to represent himself simply as her father's friend. His language, therefore, had been a little doubtful, so that the lady might, if she were so minded, look upon him in that tender light in which her husband had certainly chosen to regard him. When the letter was handed to Mrs. Trevelyan, she at once took it with her up to her own room, so that she might be alone when she read it. The handwriting was quite familiar to her, and she did not choose that even her sister should see it. She had told herself twenty times over that, while living in Uncomputney, she was not living under the guardianship of Mrs. Stanbury. She would consent to live under the guardianship of no one, as her husband did not choose to remain with her and protect her. She had done no wrong, and she would submit to no other authority than that of her legal lord and master. Nor, according to her views of her own position, was it in his power to depute that authority to others. He had caused the separation, and now she must be the sole judge of her own actions. In itself a correspondence between her and her father's old friend was in no degree criminal or even faulty. There was no reason, moral, social or religious, why an old man, over fifty, who had known her all her life should not write to her. But yet she could not say aloud before Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla and her sister that she had received a letter from Colonel Osborne. She felt that the colour had come to her cheek, and that she could not even walk out of the room as though the letter had been a matter of indifference to her. And would it have been a matter of indifference had there been nobody there to see her? Mrs. Trevelyan was certainly not in love with Colonel Osborne. She was not more so now than she had been when her father's friend, purposely dressed for the occasion, had kissed her in the vestry of the church in which she was married and had given her a blessing, which was then intended to be semi-paternal, as from an old man to a young woman. She was not in love with him, never would be, never could be in love with him. Reader, you may believe in her so far as that. But where is the woman who, when she is neglected, thrown over and suspected by the man that she loves, will not feel the desire of some sympathy, some solicitude, some show of regard from another man? This woman's life, too, had not hitherto been of such a nature that the tranquility of the clock-house at Nuncomputney afforded her all that she desired. She had been there now a month, and was almost sick from the want of excitement, and she was full of wrath against her husband. Why had he sent her there to break her heart in a disgraceful retirement when she had never wronged him? From morning to night she had no employment, no amusement, nothing to satisfy her cravings. Why was she to be doomed to such an existence? She had declared that as long as she could have her boy with her she would be happy. She was allowed to have her boy, but she was anything but happy. When she received Colonel Osborn's letter, while she held it in her hand still unopened, she never for a moment thought that that could make her happy. But there was in it something of excitement, and she painted the man to herself in brighter colors now than she had ever given to him in her former portraits. He cared for her. He was gracious to her. He appreciated her talents, her beauty, and her conduct. He knew that she deserved treatment very different from that accorded to her by her husband. Why should she reject the sympathy of her father's oldest friend because her husband was madly jealous about an old man? Her husband had chosen to send her away and to leave her so that she must act on her own judgment. Acting on her own judgment, she read Colonel Osborn's letter from first to last. She knew that he was wrong to speak of coming to Nuncomputny, but yet she thought that she would see him. She had a dim perception that she was standing on the edge of a precipice, on broken ground which might fall under her without a moment's warning, and yet she would not retreat from the danger. Though Colonel Osborn was wrong, very wrong in coming to see her, yet she liked him for coming. Though she would be half afraid to tell her news to Mrs. Stanbury and more than half afraid to tell Priscilla, yet she liked the excitement of the fear. Nora would scold her, but Nora's scolding she thought she could answer. And then it was not the fact that Colonel Osborn was coming down to Devonshire to see her. He was coming as far as Lesborough to see his friend at Cockchappington. And when at Lesborough was it likely that he should leave the neighborhood without seeing the daughter of his old ally? And why should he do so? Was he to be unnatural in his conduct, uncivil and unfriendly, because Mr. Trevelyan had been foolish, suspicious, and insane? So arguing with herself, she answered Colonel Osborn's letter before she had spoken on the subject to anyone in the house, and this was her answer. My dear Colonel Osborn, I must leave it to your own judgment to decide whether you will come to Nuncomputny or not. There are reasons which would seem to make it expedient that you should stay away, even though circumstances are bringing you into the immediate neighborhood. But of these reasons I will leave you to be the judge. I will never let it be said that I myself have had cause to dread the visit of any old friend. Nevertheless, if you stay away I shall understand why you do so. Personally I shall be glad to see you, as I have always been. It seems odd to me that I cannot write in warmer tones to my father's and mother's oldest friend. Of course you will understand that though I shall readily see you if you call, I cannot ask you to stay. In the first place I am not now living in my own house, I am staying with Mrs. Stanbury, and the place is called the Clockhouse. Yours very sincerely, Emily Trevelyan, the Clockhouse, Nuncomputny, Monday. Soon after she had written it, Nora came into her room, and had once asked concerning the letter which she had seen delivered to her sister that morning. It was from Colonel Osborne, said Mrs. Trevelyan. From Colonel Osborne, how very wrong! I don't see that it is wrong at all, because Louis is foolish and mad that cannot make another man wrong for doing the most ordinary thing in the world. I had hoped it had been from Louis, said Nora. Oh, dear no! He is by no means so considerate. I do not suppose I shall hear from him till he chooses to give some fresh order about myself or my child. He will hardly trouble himself to write to me unless he takes up some new freak to show me that he is my master. And what does Colonel Osborne say? He is coming here. Coming here, almost shouted, Nora. Yes, absolutely here. Does it sound to you as if Lucifer himself were about to show his face? The fact is, he happens to have a friend in the neighborhood whom he has long promised to visit, and as he must be at Lesborough he does not choose to go away without the compliment of a call. It will be as much to you as to me. I don't want to see him in the least, said Nora. There is his letter, as you seem to be so suspicious you had better read it. Then Nora read it. And there is a copy of my answer, said Mrs. Trevelyan. I shall keep both because I know so well what ill-natured things people will say. Dear Emily, do not send it, said Nora. Indeed I shall. I will not be frightened by bug-bears, and I will not be driven to confess to any man on earth that I am afraid to see him. Why should I be afraid of Colonel Osborne? I will not submit to acknowledge that there can be any danger in Colonel Osborne. Where I to do so I should be repeating the insult against myself. If my husband wished to guide me in such matters, why did he not stay with me? Then she went out into the village and posted the letter. Nora, meanwhile, was thinking whether she would call in the assistance of Priscilla Stanbury, but she did not like to take any such a step in opposition to her sister. CHAPTER XXI showing how Colonel Osborne went to Nuncomputney. Colonel Osborne was expected at Nuncomputney on the Friday, and it was Thursday evening before either Mrs. Stanbury or Priscilla was told of his coming. Emily had argued the matter with Nora, declaring that she would make the communication herself, and that she would make it when she pleased and how she pleased. Mrs. Stanbury thinks, said she, that I am going to be treated as a prisoner, or that I will not judge myself as to whom I may see or whom I may not see. She is very much mistaken. Nora felt that were she to give information to those ladies in opposition to her sister's wishes, she would express suspicion on her own part by doing so, and she was silent. On that same Thursday Priscilla had written her last defiant letter to her aunt, that letter in which she had cautioned her aunt to make no further accusation without being sure of her facts. To Priscilla's imagination that coming of Lucifer in person of which Mrs. Trevelyan had spoken would hardly have been worse than the coming of Colonel Osborne. When, therefore, Mrs. Trevelyan declared the fact on the Thursday evening, vainly endeavoring to speak of the threatened visit in an ordinary voice, and as of an ordinary circumstance, it was as though a thunderbolt had fallen upon them. Colonel Osborne coming here, said Priscilla, mindful of the Stanbury correspondence, mindful of the evil tongues of the world. And why not, demanded Mrs. Trevelyan, who had heard nothing of the Stanbury correspondence. Oh, dear, oh, dear, ejaculated Mrs. Stanbury, who, of course, was aware of all that had passed between the clockhouse and the house in the close, though the letters had been written by her daughter. Nora was determined to stand up for her sister whatever might be the circumstances of the case. I wish Colonel Osborne were not coming, said she, because it makes a foolish fuss, but I cannot understand how anybody can suppose it to be wrong that Emily should see Papa's very oldest friend in the world. But why is he coming, demanded Priscilla. Because he wants to see an acquaintance at Cockchaffington, said Mrs. Trevelyan, and there was a wonderful church door there. A church fiddle-stick, said Priscilla. The matter was debated throughout all the evening. At one time there was a great quarrel between the ladies, and then there was a reconciliation. The point on which Mrs. Trevelyan stood with the greatest firmness was this, that it did not become her as a married woman whose conduct had always been good, and who was more careful as to that than she was, even of her name, to be ashamed to meet any man. Why should I not see Colonel Osborne, or Colonel anybody else who might call here with the same justification for calling which his old friendship gives him? Priscilla endeavored to explain to her that her husband's known wishes ought to hinder her from doing so. My husband should have remained with me to express his wishes, Mrs. Trevelyan replied. Neither could Mrs. Stanbury nor could Priscilla bring herself to say that the man should not be admitted into the house. In the course of the debate, in the heat of her anger, Mrs. Trevelyan declared that were any such threat held out to her she would leave the house and see Colonel Osborne in the street, or at the inn. No, Emily, no, said Nora. But I will! I will not submit to be treated as a guilty woman, or as a prisoner. They may say what they like, but I won't be shut up. No one has tried to shut you up, said Priscilla. You are afraid of that old woman at Exeter, said Mrs. Trevelyan, for by this time the facts of the Stanbury correspondence had all been elicited in general conversation, and yet you know how uncharitable and malicious she is. We are not afraid of her, said Priscilla. We are afraid of nothing but of doing wrong. And will it be wrong to let an old gentleman come into the house, said Nora, who is nearly sixty and who has known us ever since we were born? If he is nearly sixty, Priscilla, said Mrs. Stanbury, that does seem to make a difference. Mrs. Stanbury herself was only just sixty, and she felt herself to be quite an old woman. They may be devils at eighty, said Priscilla. Colonel Osborne is not a devil at all, said Nora. But Mama is so foolish, said Priscilla. The man's age does not matter in the least. I beg your pardon, my dear, said Mrs. Stanbury, very humbly. At that time the quarrel was raging, but afterwards came the reconciliation. Had it not been for the Stanbury correspondence the fact of Colonel Osborne's threatened visit would have been admitted as a thing necessary, as a disagreeable necessity, but how was the visit to be admitted and passed over in the teeth of that correspondence? Priscilla felt very keenly the peculiar cruelty of her position. Of course Aunt Stanbury would hear of the visit. Indeed, any secrecy in the matter was not compatible with Priscilla's ideas of honesty. Her aunt had apologised humbly for having said that Colonel Osborne had been at Nuncombe. That apology doubtless had been due. Colonel Osborne had not been at Nuncombe when the accusation had been made, and the accusation had been unjust and false. But his coming had been spoken of by Priscilla in her own letters as an occurrence which was quite out of the question. Her anger against her aunt had been for saying that the man had come, not for objecting to such a visit. And now the man was coming, and Aunt Stanbury would know all about it. How great, how terrible, how crushing would be Aunt Stanbury's triumph. I must write and tell her, said Priscilla. I am sure I shall not object, said Mrs. Trevelyan. And Hugh must be told, said Mrs. Stanbury. You may tell all the world if you like, said Mrs. Trevelyan. In this way was settled among them that Colonel Osborne was to be received. On the next morning, Friday morning, Colonel Osborne, doubtless having heard something of Mrs. Crockett from his friend at Cock Chaffington, was up early, and had himself driven over to Nuncombe Putney before breakfast. The ever-watchful Basel was of course at his heels, or rather not at his heels on the first two miles of the journey, for Basel, with painful zeal, had made himself aware of all the facts, and had started on the Nuncombe Putney road half an hour before the Colonel's fly was in motion. And when the fly passed him he was lying discreetly hidden behind an old oak. The driver, however, had caught a glimpse of him as he was topping a hill, and having seen him about on the previous day, and perceiving that he was dressed in decent coat and trousers, and that nevertheless he was not a gentleman, began to suspect that he was somebody. There was a great deal said afterwards about Basel in Mrs. Clegg's yard at Lesborough, but the Lesborough mind was never able to satisfy itself altogether respecting Basel and his mission. As to Colonel Osborne and his mission, the Lesborough mind did satisfy itself with much certainty. The horse was hardly taken from out of Colonel Osborne's fly in Mrs. Crockett's yard when Basel stepped into the village by a path which he had already discovered, and soon busied himself among the tombs in the churchyard. Now, one corner of the churchyard was immediately opposite to the iron gate leading into the clockhouse. "'Dratten,' said the wooden-legged postman, still sitting on his donkey to Mrs. Crockett's osler, if there be in the chap as was here yesterday, when I was a starting, and I see'd an in Lesborough street thick very morning. He, be into art or no good, that an,' said the osler, after that a close watch was kept upon the watcher. In the meantime Colonel Osborne had ordered his breakfast at the stag and antlers, and had asked questions as to the position of the clockhouse. He was altogether ignorant of Mr. Basel, although Mr. Basel had been on his track now for two days and two nights. He had determined, as he came on to Nuncomputney, that he would not be shame-faced about his visit to Mrs. Trevelyan. It is possible that he was not so keen in the matter as he had been when he planned his journey in London, and it may be that he really tried to make himself believe that he had come all the way to the confines of Dartmoor to see the porch of Cockchappington Church. The session in London was over, and it was necessary for such a man as Colonel Osborne that he should do something with himself before he went down to the Scotch Grouse. He had long desired to see something of the most picturesque county in England, and now, as he sat eating his breakfast in Mrs. Crockett's parlor, he almost looked upon his dear Emily as a subsidiary attraction. Oh, that's the clockhouse, he said to Mrs. Crockett. No, I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Danbury. Very respectable lady, so I have heard. Widow of a clergyman. Ah, yes, son up in London. I know him. Always writing books, is he? Very clever, I dare say. But there is a lady, indeed two ladies, whom I do know. Mrs. Trevelyan is there, I think. And Miss Rowley. You, be it Mr. Trevelyan, be you, said Mrs. Crockett, looking at him very hard. No, I am not Mr. Trevelyan. Nor yet the Colonel they do be talking about. Well, yes, I am a Colonel. I don't know why anybody should talk about me. I'll just step out now, however, and see my friends. It's Madame's lover, said Mrs. Crockett to herself, as sure as eggs is eggs. As she said so, Colonel Osborn boldly walked across the village and pulled the bell at the iron gate, while Basel, crouching among the tombs, saw the handle in his hand. There he is, said Priscilla. Everybody in the clockhouse had known that the fly, which they had seen, had brought the Colonel into Nuncombe Putney. Everybody had known that he had breakfasted at the stag and antlers, and everybody now knew that he was at the gate ringing the bell. Into the drawing-room, said Mrs. Danbury, with a fearful, tremulous whisper, to the girl who went across the little garden in front to open the iron gate. The girl felt as though Apollyon were there, and as though she were called upon to admit Apollyon. Mrs. Danbury, having uttered her whisper, hurried away upstairs. Priscilla held her ground in the parlor, determined to be near the scene of action if there might be need, and it must be acknowledged that she peeped from behind the curtain, anxious to catch a glimpse of the terrible man, who's coming to Nuncombe Putney she regarded as so severe a misfortune. The plan of the campaign had all been arranged. Mrs. Trevelyon and Nora together received Colonel Osborne in the drawing-room. It was understood that Nora was to remain there during the whole visit. It is horrible to think that such a precaution should be necessary, Mrs. Trevelyon had said, but perhaps it may be best. There is no knowing what the malice of people may not invent. My dear girls, said the Colonel, I am delighted to see you, and you gave a hand to each. We are not very cheerful here, said Mrs. Trevelyon, as you may imagine. But the scenery is beautiful, said Nora, and the people we are living with are kind and nice. I am very glad of that, said the Colonel. Then there was a pause. And it seemed, for a moment or two, that none of them knew how to begin a general conversation. Colonel Osborne was quite sure by this time that he had come down to Devonshire with the express object of seeing the door of the church at Cock Traffington, and Mrs. Trevelyon was beginning to think that he certainly had not come to see her. Have you heard from your father, since you have been here, asked the Colonel? Then there was an explanation about Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley. Mr. Trevelyon's name was not mentioned, but Mrs. Trevelyon stated that she had explained to her mother all the painful circumstances of her present life. Sir Marmaduke, as Colonel Osborne was aware, was expected to be in England in the spring, and Lady Rowley would, of course, come with him. Nora thought that they might probably now come before that time, but Mrs. Trevelyon declared that it was out of the question that they should do so. She was sure that her father could not leave the islands except when he did so in obedience to official orders. The expense of doing so would be ruinous to him, and what good would he do? In this way there was a great deal of family conversation in which Colonel Osborne was able to take apart, but not a word was said about Mr. Trevelyon. Nor did the Colonel find an opportunity of expressing a spark of that sentiment for the purpose of expressing which he had made this journey to Devonshire. It is not pleasant to make love in the presence of a third person, even when that love is all fair and above board, but it is quite impracticable to do so to a married lady when that married lady's sister is present. No more feudal visit than this of Colonel Osborne's to the Clockhouse was ever made, and yet, though not a word was spoken to which Mr. Trevelyon himself could have taken the slightest exception, the visit, feudal as it was, could not but do an enormous deal of harm. Mrs. Crockett had already guessed that the fine gentleman down from London was the lover of the married lady at the Clockhouse who was separated from her husband. The wooden-legged postman and the Osler were not long in connecting the man among the tombstones with the visitor to the house. Trevelyon, as we are aware, already knew that Colonel Osborne was in the neighborhood, and poor Priscilla Stanbury was now exposed to the terrible necessity of owning the truth to her aunt. The Colonel, when he had sat an hour with his young friends, took his leave, and as he walked back to Mrs. Crockett's and ordered that his fly might be got ready for him, his mind was heavy with the disagreeable feeling that he had made an ass of himself. The whole affair had been a failure. And though he might be able to pass off the porch at Cockchapington among his friends, he could not but be aware himself that he had spent his time, his trouble, and his money for nothing. He became aware as he returned to Lesborough that had he intended to make any pleasant use whatever of his position in reference to Mrs. Trevelyon, the tone of his letter and his whole mode of proceeding should have been less patriarchal, and he should have contrived a meeting without the presence of Nora Rowley. As soon as he had left them, Mrs. Trevelyon went into her own room, and Nora at once rejoined Priscilla. Is he gone? asked Priscilla. Oh yes, he is gone. What would I have given that he had never come? And yet, said Nora, what harm has he done? I wish he had not come because, of course, people will talk, but nothing was more natural than that he should come over to see us when he was so near us. Nora! What do you mean? You don't believe all that, in the neighborhood. I believe he came on purpose to see your sister, and I think that it was a dastardly and most un-gentlemanlike thing to do. I am quite sure you are wrong then, altogether wrong, said Nora. Very well. We must have our own opinions. I am glad you can be so charitable, but he should not have come here, to this house, even though imperative business had brought him into the very village. But men in their vanity never think of the injury they may do to a woman's name. Now I must go and write to my aunt. I am not going to have it said hereafter that I deceived her, and then I shall write to Hugh, oh dear, oh dear! I am afraid we are a great trouble to you. I will not deceive you, because I like you. This is a great trouble to me. I have meant to be so prudent, and with all my prudence I have not been able to keep clear of rocks, and I have been so indignant with Aunt Standbury. Now I must go and eat humble pie. Then she ate humble pie, after the following fashion. Dear Aunt Standbury, after what has passed between us, I think it right to tell you that Colonel Osbourne has been at Nuncomputney and that he called at the clock-house this morning. We did not see him. But Mrs. Trevelyan and Miss Rowley together did see him. He remained here perhaps an hour. I should not have thought it necessary to mention this to you, the matter being one in which you are not concerned, or it not for our former correspondence. When I last wrote I had no idea that he was coming, nor had Mamma, and when you first wrote he was not even expected by Mrs. Trevelyan. The man you wrote about was another gentleman, as I told you before. All this is most disagreeable and tiresome, and would be quite nonsensical, but that circumstances seem to make it necessary. As for Colonel Osbourne I wish he had not been here, but his coming would do no harm, only that it will be talked about. I think you will understand how it is that I feel myself constrained to write to you. I do hope that you will spare Mamma, who is disturbed and harassed when she gets angry letters. If you have anything to say to myself, I don't mind it. Yours truly, Priscilla Stanbury. The clock-house, Friday, August 5th. She wrote also to her brother Hugh, but Hugh himself reached Nuncomputney before the letter reached him. Mr. Boswell watched the Colonel out of the house, and watched him out of the village. When the Colonel was fairly started, Mr. Boswell walked back to Lesborough. The triumph of Ms. Stanbury when she received her niece's letter was certainly very great. So great that in its first flush she could not restrain herself from exhibiting it to Dorothy. Well, well, what do you think, Dolly? About what, Aunt? I don't know who the letter is from. Nobody writes to me now so constant as your sister, Priscilla. The letter is from Priscilla. Colonel Osbourne has been at the clock-house after all. I knew that he would be there. I knew it. I knew it. Dorothy, when she heard this, was dumbfounded. She had rested her defense of her mother and sister on the impossibility of any such visit being admitted. According to her lights, the coming of Colonel Osbourne, after all that had been said, would be like the coming of Lucifer himself. The Colonel was, to her imagination, a horrible roaring lion. She had no idea that the erratic maneuvers of such a beast might be milder and more innocent than the wooing of any turtle dove. She would have asked whether the roaring lion had gone away again, and if so whether he had taken his prey with him, were it not that she was too much frightened at the moment to ask any question, that her mother and sister should have been willfully concerned in such iniquity was quite incredible to her, but yet she did not know how to defend them. But are you quite sure of it, Aunt Standbury? May there not be another mistake? No mistake this time, I think, my dear. Anyway, Priscilla says that he is there. Now, in this there was a mistake. Priscilla had said nothing of the kind. You don't mean that he is staying at the clockhouse, Aunt Standbury. I don't know where he is now. I'm not his keeper, and I'm glad to say I'm not the lady's keeper either. I'm me. It's a bad business. You can't touch pitch and not be defiled, my dear. If your mother wanted the clockhouse I would sooner have taken it for her myself than that all this should have happened, for the family's sake. But Miss Standbury, when she was alone, and when she had read her niece's three letters again and again, began to understand something of Priscilla's honesty, and began also to perceive that there might have been a great difficulty respecting the Colonel for which neither her niece nor her sister-in-law could fairly be held to be responsible. It was, perhaps, the plainest characteristic of all the Standburys that they were never willfully dishonest. Ignorant, prejudiced, and passionate they might be, in her anger Miss Standbury of Exeter could be almost malicious, and her niece at Nuncomputney was very like her aunt. Each could say most cruel things, most unjust things, when actuated by a mistaken consciousness of perfect right on her own side, but neither of them could lie, even by silence. Let an error be brought home to either of them, so as to be acknowledged at home, and the error would be assuredly confessed aloud. And indeed, with differences in the shades, Hugh and Dorothy were of the same nature. They were possessed of sweeter tempers than their aunt and sister, but they were filled with the same eager readiness to believe themselves to be right, and to own themselves to others to be wrong when they had been constrained to make such confession to themselves. The chances of life and something probably of inner nature had made Dorothy mild and obedient, whereas in regard to Hugh the circumstances of his life and disposition had made him obstinate and self-reliant. But in all was to be found the same belief in self, which amounted almost to conceit, the same warmth of affection, and the same love of justice. When Miss Standbury had again perused the correspondence, and had come to see, dimly, how things had gone at Nuncomputney, when the conviction came upon her mind that Priscilla had entertained a horror as to the coming of this kernel equal to that which she herself had felt, when her imagination painted her all that her niece had suffered, her heart was softened somewhat. She had declared to Dorothy that pitch, if touched, would certainly defile, and she had at first intended to send the same opinion, couched in very forcible words, to her correspondence at the clockhouse. They should not continue to go astray for want of being told that they were going astray. It must be acknowledged, too, that there was a certain amount of ignoble wrath in the bosom of Miss Standbury, because her sister-in-law had taken the clockhouse. She had never been told, and had not even condescended to ask Dorothy whether the house was taken and paid for by her nephew on behalf of his mother, or whether it was paid for by Mr. Trevellingen on behalf of his wife. In the latter case, Mrs. Standbury would, she thought, be little more than an upper servant or keeper, as she expressed it to herself. Such an arrangement appeared to her to be quite disgraceful in a Standbury, but yet she believed that such must be the existing arrangement, as she could not bring herself to conceive that Hugh Standbury could keep such an establishment over his mother's head out of money earned by writing for a penny newspaper. There would be a triumph of democracy in this which would vanquish her altogether. She had, therefore, been anxious enough to trample on Priscilla and upon all the affairs of the clockhouse, but yet she had been unable to ignore the nobility of Priscilla's truth. And having acknowledged it to herself, she found herself compelled to acknowledge it aloud. She sat down to think in silence, and it was not till she had fortified herself by her first draft of beer, until she had finished her first portion of bread and cheese that she spoke. I have written to your sister herself this time, she said, I don't know that I ever wrote a line to her before in my life. Poor Priscilla! Dorothy did not mean to be severe on her aunt, either in regard to the letters which had not been written, or to the one letter which now had been written. But Dorothy pitied her sister, whom she felt to be in trouble. Well, I don't know about her being so poor. Priscilla, I'll be bound, thinks as well of herself as any of us do. She'd cut her fingers off before she'd mean to do wrong, said Dorothy. But what does that come to? What's the good of that? It isn't meaning to do right that will save us, for ought I know the radicals may mean to do right. Mr. Beals means to do right, perhaps? But aunt, if everybody did the best they could? Tush, my dear, you are getting beyond your depth. There are such things still, thank God, as spiritual pastors and masters. And trust yourself to them, do what they think right. Now, if ought were known in Exeter of Miss Stanbury, this was known, that if any clergyman volunteered to give to her unasked and uninvited counsel, either ghostly or bodily, that clergyman would be sent from her presence with a wigging which he would not soon forget. The thing had been tried more than once, and the wigging had been complete. There was no more attentive listener in church than Miss Stanbury, and she would now and again appeal to a clergyman on some naughty point. But for the ordinary authority of spiritual pastors and masters, she showed more of abstract reverence than of practical obedience. I'm sure Priscilla does the best she can, said Dorothy, going back to the old subject. Ah, well, yes. What I want to say about Priscilla is this. It is a thousand pities she is so obstinate, so pig-headed, so certain that she can manage everything for herself better than anybody else can for her. Miss Stanbury was striving to say something good of her niece, but found the task to be difficult and distasteful to her. She has managed for Mama ever so many years, and since she took it we have hardly ever been in debt, said Dorothy. She'll do all that, I don't doubt. I don't suppose she cares much for ribbons and false hair for herself. Who, Priscilla? The idea of Priscilla with false hair. I dare say not, I dare say not. I do not think she'd spend her mother's money on things of that kind. Aunt Stanbury, you don't know her. Ah, very well. Perhaps I don't. But come, my dear, you are very hard upon me and very anxious to take your sister's part. And what is it all about? I've just written to her as civil a letter as one woman ever wrote to another. And if I had chosen, I could have, could have— Hmm. Miss Stanbury, as she hesitated for words in which to complete her sentence, reveled in the strength of the vituperation which she could have poured upon her niece's head, had she chosen to write her last letter about Colonel Osbourne in her severe strain. If you have written kindly to her I am so much obliged to you, said Dorothy. The truth is, Priscilla has meant to be right. Meaning won't go for much when the account is taken unless the meaning comes from a proper source. But the poor girl has done as well as she has known how. I believe it is huge fault more than anybody else's. This accusation was not pleasant to Dorothy, but she was too intent just now on Priscilla's case to defend her brother. That man never ought to have been there, and that woman never ought to have been there. There cannot be a doubt about that. If Priscilla were sitting there opposite to me, she would own as much. I am sure she would. Miss Stanbury was quite right if she meant to assert that Priscilla had owned as much to herself. And because I think so, I am willing to forgive her part in the matter. To me, personally, she has always been rude, most uncourteous, and—and—and unlike a younger woman to an older one, and an aunt, and all that, I suppose it is because she hates me. Oh, no, Aunt Stanbury! My dear, I suppose it is. Why else should she treat me in such a way? But I do believe of her that she would rather eat an honest dry crust than dishonest cake and ale. She would rather starve than pick up a crumb that was dishonest, said Dorothy, fairly bursting out into tears. I believe it. I do believe it. There, what more can I say? Clockhouse indeed. What matter what house you live in so that you can pay the rent of it honestly? But the rent is paid honestly, said Dorothy, amidst her sobs. It's paid, I don't doubt. I dare say the woman's husband and your brother see to that among them. Oh, that my boy Hugh, as he used to be, should have brought us all to this. But there's no knowing what they won't do among them. Reform indeed. Murder, sacrilege, adultery, treason, atheism—that's what reform means, besides every kind of nastiness under the sun. In which latter category Miss Stanbury intended especially to include bad printer's ink and paper made of straw. The reader may as well see the letter which was as civil a letter as ever one woman wrote to another, so that the collection of the Stanbury correspondence may be made perfect. The Close, August 6th, 1860 Blank. My dear niece, your letter has not astonished me nearly as much as you expected it would. I am an older woman than you, and though you will not believe it, I have seen more of the world. I knew that the gentleman would come after the lady. Such gentlemen always do go after their ladies. As for yourself, I can see all that you have done, and pretty nearly hear all that you have said as plain as a pike staff. I do you the credit of believing that the plan is none of your making. I know who made the plan, and a very bad plan it is. As to my former letters and the other man, I understand all about it. You were very angry that I should accuse you of having this man at the house, and you were right to be angry. I respect you for having been angry. But what does all that say as to his coming, now that he has come? If you will consent to take an old woman's advice, get rid of the whole boiling of them. I say it in firm love and friendship, for I am, your affectionate aunt, Jemima Stanbury. The special vaunted courtesy of this letter consisted, no doubt, in the expression of respect which it contained, and in that declaration of affection with which it terminated. The epithet was one which Ms. Stanbury would by no means use promiscuously in writing to her nearest relatives. She had not intended to use it when she commenced her letter to Priscilla. But the respect of which she had spoken had glowed, and had warmed itself into something of temporary love. And feeling at the moment that she was an affectionate aunt, Ms. Stanbury had so put herself down in her letter. Having done such a deed she felt that Dorothy, though Dorothy knew nothing about it, thought in her gratitude to listen patiently to anything that she might now choose to say against Priscilla. But Dorothy was in truth very miserable, and in her misery wrote a long letter that afternoon to her mother, which, however, it will not be necessary to place entire among the Stanbury records, begging that she might be informed as to the true circumstances of the case. She did not say a word of censure in regard either to her mother or sister, but she expressed an opinion in the mildest words which she could use, that if anything had happened which had compromised their names since the residence at the clockhouse, she, Dorothy, had better go home and join them, the meaning of which was that it would not become her to remain in the house in the close if the house in the close would be disgraced by her presence. Poor Dorothy had taught herself to think that the iniquity of roaring lions spread itself very widely. In the afternoon she made some such proposition to her aunt in ambiguous terms. Go home, said Miss Stanbury. Now? If you think it best, Aunt Stanbury. And put yourself in the middle of all this iniquity and abomination. I don't suppose you want to know the woman. No, indeed. Or the man. Oh, Aunt Stanbury! It's my belief that no decent gentleman in Exeter would look at you again if you were to go and live among them at Nuncomputney while all this is going on. No, no. Let one of you be saved out of it at least. Aunt Stanbury had more than once made use of expressions which brought the faintest touch of gentle pink up to her niece's cheeks. We must do Dorothy the justice of saying that she had never dreamed of being looked at by any gentleman, whether decent or indecent. Her life at Nuncomputney had been of such a nature that though she knew that other girls were looked at and even made love to and that they got married and had children, no dim vision of such a career for herself had ever presented itself to her eyes. She had known very well that her mother and sister and herself were people apart, ladies and yet so extremely poor that they could only maintain their rank by the most rigid seclusion. To live and work unseen was what the world had ordained for her. Then her call to Exeter had come upon her, and she had conceived that she was henceforth to be the humble companion of a very imperious old aunt. Her aunt indeed was imperious, but did not seem to require humility in her companion. All the good things that were eaten and drunk were divided between them with the strictest impartiality. Dorothy's cushion and hassock in the church and in the cathedral were the same as her aunt's. Her bedroom was made very comfortable for her. Her aunt never gave her any orders before company, and always spoke of her before the servants as one whom they were to obey and respect. Gradually Dorothy came to understand the meaning of this, but her aunt would sometimes say things about young men which she did not quite understand. Could it be that her aunt supposed that any young man would come and wish to marry her? Her, Dorothy's Standbury? She herself had not quite so strong an aversion to men in general as that which Priscilla felt, but she had not as yet found that any of those whom she had seen at Exeter were peculiarly agreeable to her. Before she went to bed that night, her aunt said a word to her which startled her more than she had ever been startled before. On that evening, Miss Standbury had a few friends to drink tea with her. There were Mr. and Mrs. Crumbie, and Mrs. McHugh, of course, and the charitans from Althington, and the Miss Apjons from Hellion Villa, and old Mr. Powell all the way from Halden, and two of the Wrights from their house in the northern hay, and Mr. Gibson. But the Miss French's from Heavitry were not there. Why don't you have the Miss French's aunt, Dorothy had asked? Father the Miss French's, I'm not bound to have them every time. There's Camilla has been and got herself a band box on the back of her head a great deal bigger than the place inside where her brains ought to be. But the band box at the back of Camilla French's head was not the sole cause of the omission of the two sisters from the list of Miss Standbury's visitors on this occasion. The party went off very much as usual. There were two wist tables for Miss Standbury could not bear to cut out. At other houses than her own, when there was cutting out, it was quite understood that Miss Standbury was to be allowed to keep her place. I'll go away and sit out there by myself if you like, she would say, but she was never thus banished, and at her own house she usually contrived that there should be no system of banishment. She would play dummy wist, preferring it to the forehanded game, and when hard driven and with a meat opponent, would not even despise double dummy. It was told of her and of Mrs. McHugh that they had played double dummy for a whole evening together, and they who were given to Calumny had declared that the candles on that evening had been lighted very early. On the present occasion a great many six penny points were scored, and much tea and cake were consumed. Mr. Gibson never played wist, nor did Dorothy. That young John Wright and Mary Chariton should do nothing but talk to each other was a thing of course, as they were to be married in a month or two. Then there was Ida Chariton, who could not very well be left at home, and Mr. Gibson made himself pleasant to Dorothy and Ida Chariton, instead of making himself pleasant to the two Miss Frenches. Gentlemen in provincial towns quite understand that, from the nature of social circumstances in the provinces, they should always be ready to be pleasant at least to a pair at a time. At a few minutes before twelve they were all gone, and then came the shock. Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr. Gibson? Think of him, Aunt Stanbury? Yes, think of him, think of him, I suppose you know how to think. He seems to me always to preach very drawing sermons. Oh, bother his sermons, I don't care anything about his sermons now. He is a very good clergyman, and the Dean thinks very much about him. I am glad of that, Aunt Stanbury. Then came the shock. Don't you think it would be a very good thing if you were to become Mrs. Gibson? It may be presumed that Miss Stanbury had assured herself that she could not make progress with Dorothy by beating about the bush. There was an inaptitude in her niece to comprehend the advantages of the situations, which made some direct explanation absolutely necessary. Dorothy stood half smiling, half crying, when she heard the proposition. Her cheeks suffused with that pink color, and with both her hands extended with surprise. I've been thinking about it ever since you've been here, said Miss Stanbury. I think he likes Miss French, said Dorothy in a whisper. Which of them? I don't believe he likes them at all. Maybe if they go on long enough they may be able to toss up for him, but I don't think it of him. Of course they're after him, but he'll be too wise for them, and he's more of a fool than I take him to be if he don't prefer you to them. Dorothy remained quite silent. To such an address as this it was impossible that she should reply a word. It was incredible to her that any man should prefer herself to either of the young women in question, but she was too much confounded for the expression even of her humility. At any rate you're wholesome, and pleasant and modest, said Miss Stanbury. Dorothy did not quite like being told that she was wholesome, but nevertheless she was thankful to her aunt. I'll tell you what it is, continued Miss Stanbury. I hate all mysteries especially with those I love. I've saved two thousand pounds, which I've put you down for in my will. Now, if you and he can make it up together, I'll give you the money at once. There's no knowing how often an old woman may alter her will, but when you've got a thing you've got it. Mr. Gibson would know the meaning of a bird in the hand as well as anybody. Now those girls at Hevetree will never have above a few hundreds each, and not that while their mother lives. Dorothy made one little attempt at squeezing her aunt's hand, wishing to thank her aunt for this affectionate generosity, but she had hardly accomplished the squeeze when she desisted, feeling strangely averse to any acknowledgement of such a boon as that which had been offered to her. And now, good night, my dear. If I did not thank you a very sensible young woman, I should not trust you by saying all this. Then they parted, and Dorothy soon found herself alone in her bedroom. To have a husband of her own, a perfect gentleman too and a clergyman, and to go to him with a fortune. She believed that two thousand pounds represented nearly a hundred a year. It was a large fortune in those parts, according to her understanding of Lady's fortunes, and that she, the humblest of the humble, should be selected for so honorable a position. She had never quite known, quite understood as yet whether she had made good her footing in her aunt's house in a manner pleasant to her aunt. More than once or twice she had spoken even of going back to her mother, and things had been said which had almost made her think that her aunt had been angry with her. But now, after a month or two of joint residence, her aunt was offering to her two thousand pounds and a husband. But was it within her aunt's power to offer to her the husband? Mr. Gibson had always been very civil to her. She had spoken more to Mr. Gibson than to any other man in Exeter. But it had never occurred to her for a moment that Mr. Gibson had any special liking for her. Was it probable that he would ever entertain any feeling of that kind for her? It certainly had occurred to her before now that Mr. Gibson was sometimes bored by the Miss French's, but then gentlemen do get bored by Lady's. And at last she asked herself another question. Had she any special liking for Mr. Gibson? As far as she understood such matters everything was blank there. Thinking of that other question, she went to sleep. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw in New York City. Chapter 23 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 23. Colonel Osborn and Mr. Bosel return to London. Hugh Stanbury went down on the Saturday by the early Express to Exeter on his road to Lesborough. He took his ticket through to Lesborough, not purposing to stay at Exeter, but from the exigencies of the various trains it was necessary that he should remain for half an hour at the Exeter station. This took place on the Saturday, and Colonel Osborn's visit to the clockhouse had been made on the Friday. Colonel Osborn had returned to Lesborough, had slept again at Mrs. Clegg's house, and returned to London on the Saturday. It so happened that he also was obliged to spend half an hour at the Exeter station, and that his half hour and Hugh Stanbury's half hour were one and the same. They met therefore as a matter of course upon the platform. Stanbury was the first to see the other, and he found that he must determine on the spur of the moment what he would say and what he would do. He had received no direct commission from Trevelyan as to his meeting with Colonel Osborn. Trevelyan had declared that, as to the matter of quarreling, he meant to retain the privilege of doing that for himself. But Stanbury had quite understood that this was only the vague expression of an angry man. The Colonel had taken a glass of sherry, and had lighted a cigar, and was quite comfortable, having thrown aside for a time that consciousness of the futility of his journey which had perplexed him, when Stanbury accosted him. What! Mr. Stanbury, how do you do? Fine day, isn't it? Are you going up or down? I'm going to see my own people at Nuncomputney, a village beyond Lesborough, said Hugh. Ah, indeed. Colonel Osborn, of course, perceived it once that as this man was going to the house at which he had just been visiting, it would be better that he should himself explain what he had done. If he were to allow this mention of Nuncomputney to pass without saying that he himself had been there, he would be convicted of at least some purpose of secrecy in what he had been doing. Very strange, said he. I was at Nuncomputney myself yesterday. I know you were, said Stanbury. And how did you know it? There had been a tone of anger in Stanbury's voice which Colonel Osborn had at once appreciated, and which made him assume a similar tone. As they spoke, there was a man standing in a corner close by the book stall, with his eye upon them, and that man was Basel, the ex- policeman, who was doing his duty with sedulous activity by seeing the Colonel back to London. Now Basel did not know Hugh Stanbury, and was angry with himself that he should be so ignorant. It is the pride of a detective ex- policeman to know everybody that comes in his way. Well, I had been so informed. My friend Trevelian knew that you were there, or that you were going there. I don't care who knew that I was going there, said the Colonel. I won't pretend to understand how that may be, Colonel Osborn, but I think you must be aware, after what took place in Curson Street, that it would have been better that you should not have attempted to see Mrs. Trevelian, whether you have seen her I do not know. What business is it of yours, Mr. Stanbury, whether I have seen that lady or not? Unhappily for me, her husband has made it my business. Very unhappily for you, I should say. And the lady is staying at my mother's house. I presume the lady is not a prisoner in your mother's house, and that your mother's hospitality is not so restricted but that her guest may see an old friend under her roof. This Colonel Osborn said with an assumed look of almost righteous indignation, which was not at all lost upon Basel. They had returned back towards the bookstore, and Basel, with his eyes fixed on a copy of the DR, which he had just bought, was straining his ears to the utmost to catch what was being said. You best know whether you have seen her or not. I have seen her. Then I shall take leave to tell you, Colonel Osborn, that you have acted in a most unfriendly way, and have done that which must tend to keep an affectionate husband apart from his wife. Sir, I don't at all understand this kind of thing addressed to me. The father of the lady you are speaking of has been my most intimate friend for thirty years. After all, the Colonel was a mean man when he could take pride in his youth, and defend himself on the score of his age in one and the same proceeding. I have nothing further to say, replied Stanbury. You have said too much already, Mr. Stanbury. I think not, Colonel Osborn. You have, I fear, done an incredible deal of mischief by going to Nuncompetny. And after all that you have heard on the subject, you must have known that it would be mischievous. I cannot understand how you can force yourself about a man's wife against the man's expressed wish. Sir, I didn't force myself upon anybody. Sir, I went down to see an old friend, and a remarkable piece of antiquity. And when another old friend was in the neighborhood close by, one of the oldest friends I have in the world, wasn't I to go and see her? God bless my soul! What business is it of yours? I never heard such impudence in my life. Let the charitable reader suppose that Colonel Osborn did not know that he was lying, that he really thought, when he spoke, that he had gone down to Lesborough to see the remarkable piece of antiquity. Good morning, said Hugh Stanbury, turning on his heels and walking away. Colonel Osborn shook himself, inflated his cheeks, and blew forth the breath out of his mouth, put his thumbs up to the armholes of his waistcoat, and walked about the platform as though he thought it to be incumbent on him to show that he was somebody—somebody that ought not to be insulted—somebody, perhaps, whom a very pretty woman might prefer to her own husband, in spite of a small difference in age. He was angry, but not quite so much angry as proud. And he was safe, too. He thought that he was safe. When he should come to account for himself and his actions to his old friend Sir Marmaduke, he felt that he would be able to show that he had been, in all respects, true to friendship. Sir Marmaduke had unfortunately given his daughter to a jealous, disagreeable fellow, and the fault all lay in that. As for Hugh Stanbury, he would simply despise Hugh Stanbury and have done with it. Mr. Boswell, though he had worked hard in the cause, had heard but a word or two. Eavesdroppers seldom do hear more than that. A porter had already told him who was Hugh Stanbury, that he was Mr. Hugh Stanbury, and that his aunt lived at Exeter. And Boswell, knowing that the lady about whom he was concerned was living with a Mrs. Stanbury at the house he had been watching, put two and two together with his natural cleverness. God bless my soul! What business is it of yours? Those words were nearly all that Boswell had been able to hear, but even those sufficiently indicated a quarrel. The lady was living with Mrs. Stanbury, having been so placed by her husband, and young Stanbury was taking the lady's part. Boswell began to fear that the husband had not confided in him with that perfect faith which he felt to be essentially necessary to the adequate performance of the duties of his great profession. A sudden thought, however, struck him. Something might be done on the journey up to London. He at once made his way back to the ticket window and exchanged his ticket, second class for first class. It was a noble deed, the expense falling all upon his own pocket, for in the natural course of things he would have charged his employers with the full first-class fare. He had seen Colonel Osborn seat himself in a carriage, and within two minutes he was occupying the opposite place. The Colonel was aware that he had noticed the man's face lately, but did not know where. Very fine summer weather, sir, said Boswell. Very fine, said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper. They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir. The answer to this was no more than a grunt, but Boswell was not offended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, in and out of office, and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and was all before him. A very nice little secluded village is non-computny, said Boswell, as the train was leaving the Salisbury station. At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had got in, and Boswell was alone with the Colonel. I daresay, said the Colonel, who by this time had relinquished his shield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretend to compose himself, as soon as he heard Boswell's voice. He had been looking at Boswell, and though he had not discovered the man's trade, had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers. A thing to be avoided, by one engaged, as he had been himself, on a special and secret mission. Saw you there? Calling at the clockhouse, said Boswell. Very likely, said the Colonel, throwing his head well back into the corner, shutting his eyes and uttering a slight preliminary snore. Very nice family of ladies at the clockhouse, said Boswell. The Colonel answered him by a more developed snore. Particularly Mrs. T., said Boswell. The Colonel could not stand this. He was so closely implicated with Mrs. Trevelyan at the present moment, that he could not omit to notice and address so made to him. What the devil is that to you, sir? said he, jumping up and confronting Boswell in his wrath. But policemen have always this advantage in their difficulties, that they know to a fraction what the wrath of men is worth and what it can do. Sometimes it can dismiss a policeman and sometimes break his head. Sometimes it can give him a long and troublesome job, and sometimes it may be wrath to the death. But in nineteen out of twenty cases it is not a fearful thing, and the policeman knows well when he need not fear it. On the present occasion, Boswell was not at all afraid of Colonel Osborn's wrath. Well, sir, not much indeed if you come to that. Only you was there, sir. Of course I was there, said the Colonel. And a very nice young gentleman as Mr. Stanbury, said Boswell. To this Colonel Osborn made no reply, but again had resort to his newspaper in the most formal manner. He's going down to his family, no doubt, continued Boswell. He may be going to the devil for what I know, said the Colonel, who could not restrain himself. I suppose they're all friends of Mrs. T's, asked Boswell. Sir, said the Colonel, I believe that you're a spy. No, Colonel, no, no, no, I'm no spy. I wouldn't demean myself to be such. A spy is a man as has no profession and nothing to justify his looking into things. Things must be looked into, Colonel, or how's a man to know where he is, or how's a lady to know where she is. But as for spies, except in the way of evidence, I don't think nothing of them. Soon after this, two more passengers entered the train, and nothing more was said between Boswell and the Colonel. The Colonel, as soon as he reached London, went home to his lodgings, and then to his club, and did his best to enjoy himself. On the following Monday he intended to start for Scotland, but he could not quite enjoy himself, because of Boswell. He felt that he was being watched, and there is nothing that any man hates so much as that, especially when a lady is concerned. Colonel Osborn knew that his visit to Nankamputney had been very innocent, but he did not like the feeling that even his innocence had been made the subject of observation. Boswell went away at once to Trevelyan, whom he found at his chambers. He himself had had no very deep-laid scheme in his addresses to Colonel Osborn. He had begun to think that very little would come of the affair, especially after Hugh Stanbury had appeared upon the scene, and had felt that there was nothing to be lost by presenting himself before the eyes of the Colonel. It was necessary that he should make a report to his employer, and the report might be made a little more full after a few words with the man whom he had been looking into. Well, Mr. Trevelyan, he said, seating himself on a chair close against the wall, and holding his hat between the knees. I've seen the parties, and know pretty much all about it. All I want to know, Mr. Boswell, is whether Colonel Osborn has been at the clockhouse. He has been there, Mr. Trevelyan. There is no earthly doubt about that. From hour to hour I can tell you pretty nearly where he's been since he left London. Then Boswell took out his memorandum book. I don't care about all that, said Trevelyan. I dare say not, sir, but it may be wanted all the same. Any gentleman acting in our way can't be too particular, can't have too many facts. The smallest little tiddly things—and Boswell, as he said this, seem to enjoy immensely the flavour of his own epithet. The smallest little tiddly things do so often turn up trumps when you get your evidence into court. I'm not going to get any evidence into court. Maybe not, sir. A gentleman and lady is always best out of court as long as things can hang on anyway, but sometimes things won't hang on no way. Trevelyan, who was conscious that the employment of Boswell was discreditable, and whose affairs in Devonshire were now in the hands of, at any rate, a more honourable ally, was at present mainly anxious to get rid of the ex-policeman. I have no doubt you've been very careful, Mr. Boswell, said he. There isn't no one in the business could be more so, Mr. Trevelyan. And you have found out what it was necessary that I should know. Colonel Osborn did go to the clockhouse. Was let in at the front door on Friday the 5th by Sarah French, the housemaid, at 10.37 a.m., and was let out again by the same young woman at 11.41 a.m. Perhaps you'd like to have a copy of the entry, Mr. Trevelyan. No, no, no. It doesn't matter. Of course it'll be with me when it's wanted. Who was with him exactly at that time, I can't say. There is things, Mr. Trevelyan, one can't see. But I don't think as he saw neither Mrs. Stanbury nor Miss Stanbury, not to speak to. I did just have one word, promiscuous, with Sarah French, after he was gone. Whether the other young lady was with him or not, and if so for how long, I can't say. There is things, Mr. Trevelyan, which one can't see. How Trevelyan hated the man as he went on with his odious details, details not one of which possessed the slightest importance. It's all right, I daresay, Mr. Basel, and now about the account. Quite so, Mr. Trevelyan, but there was one question, just one question. What question, said Trevelyan, almost angrily? And there's another thing I must tell you too, Mr. Trevelyan. I come back to town in the same carriage with the Colonel. I thought it better. You did not tell him who you were. No, Mr. Trevelyan, I didn't tell him that. I didn't think he'd say if you was to ask him that I told him much of anything. No, Mr. Trevelyan, I didn't tell him nothing. I don't often tell folks much till the time comes. But I thought it better, and I did have a word or two with the gent. Just a word or two. He's not so very downy, isn't the Colonel, for one that's been at it so long, Mr. Trevelyan. I daresay not. But if you could just let me have the account, Mr. Basel. The account? Oh yes, that is necessary, ain't it? These sort of inquiries do come a little expensive, Mr. Trevelyan, because time goes for so much. And when one has to be down on a thing sharp, you know, and sure, so that counsel on the other side can't part you from it, though he shakes you like a dog does a rat? And one has to get oneself up ready for all that, you know, Mr. Trevelyan, as I was saying, one can't count one's shillings when one has such a job as this in hand. Clench your nail, that's what I say, be it even so. Clench your nail, that's what you've got to do. I daresay we shant quarrel about the money, Mr. Basel. Oh dear no, I find I never has any words about the money. But there's that one question. There's a young Mr. Stanbury has gone down, as knows all about it. What's he up to? He's my particular friend, said Trevelyan. Oh, he do know all about it then. We'd needn't talk about that, if you please, Mr. Basel. Because there was words between him and the Colonel upon the platform, and very angry words, the young man went at the Colonel quite open-mouthed, savage-like. It's not the way such things should be done, Mr. Trevelyan, and though of course it's not for me to speak, she's your lady. Still, when you has got a thing of this kind in hand, one head is better than a dozen. As for myself, Mr. Trevelyan, I never wouldn't look at a case, not if I knew it, unless I was to have it all to myself. But of course there was no bargain, and so I says nothing. After considerable delay, the bill was made out on the spot. Mr. Basel, copying down the figures painfully from his memorandum book, with his head much inclined on one side. Trevelyan asked him, almost in despair, to name the one sum. But this Basel declined to do, saying that right was right. He had a scale of pilfering of his own, to which he had easily reconciled his conscience, and beyond that he prided himself on the honesty of his accounts. At last the bill was made out, was paid, and Basel was gone. Trevelyan, when he was alone, threw himself back on a sofa, and almost wept in despair. To what a depth of degradation had he not been reduced. As Hugh Stanbury went over to Lesborough, and from thence to Nuncomputney, he thought more of himself and Nora Rowley than he did of Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan. As to Mrs. Trevelyan and Colonel Osborne, he felt that he knew everything that it was necessary that he should know. The man had been there, and had seen Mrs. Trevelyan. Of that there could be no doubt. That Colonel Osborne had been wickedly indifferent to the evil consequences of such a visit, and that all the women concerned had been most foolish in permitting him to make it, was his present conviction. But he did not for a moment doubt that the visit had in itself been of all things the most innocent. Trevelyan had sworn that if his wife received the man at Nuncomputney he would never see her again. She had seen him, and this oath would be remembered, and there would be increased difficulties. But these difficulties, whatever they might be, must be overcome. When he had told himself this, then he allowed his mind to settle itself on Nora Rowley. Hitherto he had known Miss Rowley only as a fashionable girl living with the wife of an intimate friend of his own in London. He had never been staying in the same house with her. Circumstances had never given to him the opportunity of assuming the manner of an intimate friend, justifying him in giving advice, and authorizing him to assume that semi-paternal tone, which is by far the easiest preliminary to love-making. When a man can tell a young lady what she ought to read, what she ought to do, and whom she ought to know, nothing can be easier than to assure her that, of all her duties, her first duty is to prefer himself to all the world. And any young lady who has consented to receive lessons from such a teacher will generally be willing to receive this special lesson among others. But Stanbury had hitherto had no such opportunities. In London Miss Rowley had been a fashionable young lady living in Mayfair, and he had been, well, anything but a fashionable young man. Nevertheless, he had seen her often, had sat by her very frequently, was quite sure that he loved her dearly, and had perhaps some self-flattering idea in his mind that had he stuck to his honorable profession as a barrister, and were he possessed of some comfortable little fortune of his own, he might perhaps have been able, after due siege operations, to make this charming young woman his own. Things were quite changed now. For the present Miss Rowley certainly could not be regarded as a fashionable London young lady, the house in which he would see her was, in some sort, his own. He would be sleeping under the same roof with her, and would have all the advantages which such a position could give him. He would have no difficulty now in asking, if he should choose to ask, and he thought that she might be somewhat softer, somewhat more likely to yield at Nuncombe Putney than she would have been in London. She was at Nuncombe in weak circumstances, to a certain degree friendless, with none of the excitement of society around her, with no elder sons buzzing about her and filling her mind, if not her heart, with the glories of luxurious primogeniture. Hugh Stanbury certainly did not dream that any special elder son had as yet been so attracted as to have made a journey to Nuncombe Putney on Nora's behalf. But should he on this account, because she would be, as it were, without means of defence from its attack, should he therefore take advantage of her weakness? She would, of course, go back to her London life after some short absence, and would again, if free, have her chance among the favoured ones of the earth. What had he to offer to her? He had taken the clockhouse for his mother, and it would be quite as much as he could do, when Mrs. Trevelyan should have left the village, to keep up that establishment and maintain himself in London. Quite as much as he could do, even though the favours of the DR should flow upon him with their fullest tides. In such circumstances, would it be honourable in him to ask a girl to love him, because he found her defenceless in his mother's house? If there baint another for Nuncombe, said Mrs. Clegg's osler to Mrs. Clegg's boots, as Stanbury was driven off in a gig. That be young Stanbury, a going off home. They be all a going for the clockhouse, since the old woman took to thick their house, there be folk are coming in a going every day like. It's along of the madame that they keeps their dick, said the boots. I didn't care if there'd be madames always, they're the best as is going for trade anyhow, said the osler. What the osler said was true. When there comes to be a feeling that a woman's character is in any way tarnished, there comes another feeling that everybody on the one side may charge double, and that everybody on the other side must pay double for everything. Hugh Stanbury could not understand why he was charged a shilling a mile, instead of nine pence, for the gig to Nuncombe Putney. He got no satisfactory answer, and had to pay the shilling. The truth was, that Giggs to Nuncombe Putney had gone up, since a lady, separated from her husband, with a colonel running after her, had been taken in at the clockhouse. Here's Hugh, said Priscilla, hurrying to the front door, and Mrs. Stanbury hurried after her. Her son Hugh was the apple of her eye, the best son that ever lived, generous, noble, a thorough man, almost a god. Dear, dear, oh dear, who'd have expected it? God bless you, my boy, why didn't you write? Priscilla, what is there in the house that he can eat? Plenty of bread and cheese, said Priscilla, laughing, with her hand inside of her brother's arm. For though Priscilla hated all other men, she did not hate her brother Hugh. If you wanted things nice to eat directly you got here, you ought to have written. I shall want my dinner like any other Christian, in due time, said Hugh, and how is Mrs. Trevelyan, and how is Miss Rowley? He soon found himself in company with those two ladies, and experienced some immediate difficulty in explaining the cause of his sudden coming, but this was soon put aside by Mrs. Trevelyan. When did you see my husband? she asked. I saw him yesterday. He was quite well. Colonel Osborne has been here, she said. I know that he has been here. I met him at the station at Exeter. Perhaps I should not say so, but I wish he had remained away. We all wish it, said Priscilla. Then Nora spoke. But what could we do, Mr. Standbury? It seemed so natural that he should call when he was in the neighborhood. We have known him so long, and how could we refuse to see him? I will not let anyone think that I am afraid to see any man on earth, said Mrs. Trevelyan. If he had ever in his life said a word that he should not have said, a word that would have been an insult, of course it would have been different, but the notion of it is preposterous. Why should I not have seen him? I think he was wrong to come, said Hugh. Of course he was wrong, wickedly wrong, said Priscilla. Standbury, finding that the subject was openly discussed between them, declared plainly the mission that had brought him to Nuncombe. Trevelyan heard that he was coming, and asked me to let him know the truth. Now you can tell him the truth, said Mrs. Trevelyan, with something of indignation in her tone, as though she thought that Standbury had taken upon himself a task of which he ought to be ashamed. But Colonel Osborn came specially to pay a visit to Cock Chaffington, said Nora, and not to see us. Lewis ought to know that. Nora, how can you demean yourself to care about such trash? said Mrs. Trevelyan. Who cares why he came here? His visit to me was a thing of course. If Mr. Trevelyan disapproves of it, let him say so, and not send secret messengers. Am I a secret messenger? said Hugh Standbury. There has been a man here, inquiring of the servants, said Priscilla. So that odious Basel had made his foul mission known to them, Standbury, however, thought it best to say nothing of Basel, not to acknowledge that he had ever heard of Basel. I am sure Mrs. Trevelyan does not mean you, said Priscilla. I do not know what I mean, said Mrs. Trevelyan. I am so harassed and fevered by these suspicions that I am driven, nearly mad. Then she left the room for a minute, and returned with two letters. There, Mr. Standbury, I got that note from Colonel Osborn, and wrote to him that reply. You know all about it now. Can you say that I was wrong to see him? I am sure that he was wrong to come, said Hugh. Wickedly wrong, said Priscilla, again. You can keep the letters and show them to my husband, said Mrs. Trevelyan. Then he will know all about it. But Standbury declined to keep the letters. He was to remain the Sunday at Nuncomputney, and return to London on the Monday. There was, therefore, but one day on which he could say what he had to say to Nora Rowley. When he came down to breakfast on the Sunday morning, he had almost made up his mind that he had nothing to say to her. As for Nora, she was in a state of mind much less near to any fixed purpose. She had told herself that she loved this man, had indeed done so in the clearest way, by acknowledging the fact of her love to another suitor, by pleading to that other suitor the fact of her love as an insuperable reason why he should be rejected. There was no longer any doubt about it to her. When Priscilla had declared that Hugh Standbury was at the door, her heart had gone into her mouth. Involuntarily she had pressed her hands to her sides and had held her breath. Why had he come there? Had he come there for her? Oh, if he had come there for her, and if she might dare to forget all the future, how sweet, sweetest of all things in heaven or earth might be an August evening with him among the lanes. But she too had endeavored to be very prudent. She had told herself that she was quite unfit to be the wife of a poor man, that she would only be a burden round his neck and not an aid to him. And in so telling herself, she had told herself also that she had been a fool not to accept Mr. Glasscock. She should have dragged out from her heart the image of this man, who had never even whispered a word of love in her ears, and should have constrained herself to receive with affection a man in loving whom there ought to be no difficulty. But when she had been repeating those lessons to herself, Hugh Standbury had not been in the house. Now he was there. And what must be her answer if he should whisper that word of love? She had an idea that it would be treason in her to disown the love she felt, if questioned concerning her heart by the man to whom it had been given. They all went to church on the Sunday morning, and up to that time Nora had not been a moment alone with the man. It had been decided that they should die in early and then ramble out, when the evening would be less hot than the day had been, to a spot called Nidden Park. This was nearly three miles from Nuncombe, and was a beautiful wild slope of ground, full of ancient, blighted, blasted, but still half-living oaks, oaks that still brought forth leaves, overlooking a bend of the river Tain. Park, in the usual sense of the word, there was none, nor did they who lived round Nuncombe Putney know whether Nidden Park had ever been enclosed. But of all the spots in that lovely neighborhood Priscilla Standbury swore that it was the loveliest, and as it had never yet been seen by Mrs. Trevelyan or her sister, it was determined that they would walk there on this August afternoon. There were four of them, and as was natural, they fell into parties of two and two. But Priscilla walked with Nora, and Hugh Standbury walked with his friend's wife. Nora was talkative but demure in her manner, and speaking now and again as though she were giving words and not thoughts. She felt that there was something to hide, and was suffering from disappointment that their party should not have been otherwise divided. Had Hugh spoken to her, and asked her to be his wife, she could not have accepted him, because she knew that they were both poor, and that she was not fit to keep a poor man's house. She had declared to herself most plainly that that must be her course. But yet she was disappointed, and talked on with the knowledge that she had something to conceal. When they were seated beneath an old, riven, withered oak, looking down upon the river, they were still divided in the same way. In seating herself, she had been very anxious not to disarrange that arrangement, almost equally anxious not to seem to adhere to it with any special purpose. She was very careful that there should be nothing seen in her manner that was in any way special, but in the meantime she was suffering an agony of trouble. He did not care for her in the least. She was becoming sure of that. She had given all her love to a man who had none to give her in return. As she thought of this, she almost longed for the offer of that which she knew she could not have accepted had it been offered to her. But she talked on about the scenery, about the weather, descanting on the pleasure of living where such loveliness was within reach. Then there came a pause for a moment. Nora, said Priscilla, I do not know what you are thinking about, but it is not of the beauty of Nidden Park. Then there came a faint sound as of a hysterical sob, and then a gurgle in the throat, and then a pretense at laughter. I don't believe I am thinking of anything at all, said Nora. After which Hugh insisted on descending to the bank of the river, but as the necessity of reclimbing the slope was quite manifest, none of the girls would go with him. Come, Miss Rowley, said he, will you not show them that a lady can go up and down a hill as well as a man? I had rather not go up and down the hill, said she. Then he understood that she was angry with him, and in some sort surmised the cause of her anger. Not that he believed that she loved him, but it seemed possible to him that she resented the absence of his attention. He went down, and scrambled out on the rocks into the bed of the river, while the girls above looked down upon him, watching the leaps that he made. Priscilla and Mrs. Trevelyan called to him, bidding him beware, but Nora called not at all. He was whistling as he made his jumps, but still he heard their voices, and knew that he did not hear Nora's voice. He poised himself on the edge of a rock in the middle of the stream, and looked up the river and down the river, turning himself carefully on his narrow foothold, but he was thinking only of Nora. Could there be anything nobler than to struggle on with her, if only she would be willing? But then she was young, and should she yield to such a request from him, she would not know what she was yielding. He turned again, jumping from rock to rock till he reached the bank, and then made his way again up to the withered oak. You would not have repented it if you had come down with me, he said to Nora. I am not so sure of that, she answered. When they started to return, she stepped on gallantly with Priscilla. But Priscilla was stopped by some chance, having some word to say to her brother, having some other word to say to Mrs. Trevelyan. Could it be that her austerity had been softened, and that in kindness she contrived that Nora should be left some yards behind them with her brother? Whether it were kindness or an unkind error, so it was. Nora, when she perceived what Destiny was doing for her, would not interfere with Destiny. If he chose to speak to her, she would hear him and would answer him. She knew very well what answer she would give him. She had her answer quite ready at her fingers' ends. There was no doubt about her answer. They had walked half a mile together, and he had spoken of nothing but the scenery. She had endeavored to appear to be excited. Oh, yes, the scenery of Devonshire was delightful. She hardly wanted anything more to make her happy, if only this misery respecting her sister could be set right. And you, you yourself, said he, do you mean that there is nothing you want in leaving London? Not much, indeed. It sometimes seemed to me that that kind of life was very pleasant to you. What kind of life, Mr. Stanbury? The life that you were living, going out, being admired, and having the rich and dainty all around you. I don't dislike people because they are rich, she said. No, nor do I, and I despise those who affect to dislike them. But all cannot be rich. Nor all dainty, as you choose to call them. But they who have once been dainty, as I call them, never like to divest themselves of their daintiness. You have been one of the dainty, Miss Rowley. Have I? Certainly. I doubt whether you would be happy if you thought that your daintyness had departed from you. I hope, Mr. Stanbury, that nothing nice and pleasant has departed from me. If I have ever been dainty, dainty I hope I may remain. I will never, at any rate, give it up of my own accord. Why, she said this, she could never explain to herself. She had certainly not intended to rebuff him when she had been saying it. But he spoke not a word to her further as they walked home, either of her motive life, or of his own.