 Chapter twenty-five of He Knew He Was Right. Nora Rowley, when she went to bed after her walk to Nidden Park in company with Hugh Stanbury, was full of wrath against him. But she could not own her anger to herself, nor could she even confess to herself, though she was breaking her heart, that there really existed for her the slightest cause of grief. Why had he been so stern to her? Why had he gone out of his way to be uncivil to her? He had called her dainty, meaning to imply by the epithet that she was one of the butterflies of the day, caring for nothing but sunshine and an opportunity of fluttering her silly wings. She had understood well what he meant. Of course he was right to be cold to her if his heart was cold, but he need not have insulted her by his ill-concealed rebukes. Had he been kind to her, he might have rebuked her as much as he liked. She quite appreciated the delightful intimacy of a loving word of counsel from the man she loved, how nice it is, as it were, to play at marriage, and to hear beforehand something of the pleasant weight of gentle marital authority. But there had been nothing of that in his manner to her. He had told her that she was dainty, and had so told at her, as she thought, that she might learn thereby that under no circumstances would he have any other tale to tell her. If he had no other tale, why had he not been silent? Did he think that she was subject to his rebuke merely because she lived under his mother's roof? She would soon show him that her residence at the Clack House gave him no such authority over her. Then, amidst her wrath and despair, she cried herself asleep. While she was sobbing in bed, he was sitting with a short black pipe stuck into his mouth, on the corner of the churchyard wall opposite. Before he had left the house, he and Priscilla had spoken together for some minutes about Mrs. Trevelyan. Of course, she was wrong to see him, said Priscilla. I hesitate to wound her by so saying, because she has been ill-used, though I did tell her so when she asked me. She could have lost nothing by declining his visit. The worst of it is that Trevelyan swears that he will never receive her again if she received him. He must unswear it, said Priscilla. That is all. It is out of the question that a man should take a girl from her home and make her his wife and then throw her off for so little of an offence as this. She might compel him by law to take her back. What would she get by that? Little enough, said Priscilla, and it was little enough she got by marrying him. She would have had bread and meat and raiment without being married, I suppose. But it was a love-match. Yes, and now she is at Nuncomputney, and he is roaming about in London. He has to pay ever so much a year for his love-match, and she is crushed into nothing by it. How long will she have to remain here, Hugh? How can I say? I suppose there is no reason against her remaining as far as you are concerned. For me personally, Nun, were she much worse than I think she is, I should not care in the least for myself, if I thought that we were doing her good, helping to bring her back. She can't hurt me. I am so fixed and dry and established that nothing anybody says will affect me, but Mama doesn't like it. What is it she dislikes? The idea that she is harboring a married woman, of whom people say at least, that she has a lover. Is she to be turned out because people are slanderers? Why should Mama suffer because this woman who is a stranger to her has been imprudent? If she were your wife, Hugh, God forbid, if we were in any way bound to her, of course we would do our duty. But if it makes Mama unhappy, I am sure you will not press it. I think Mrs. Merton has spoken to her. And then Aunt Standbury has written such letters. Who cares for Aunt Jemima? Everybody cares for her, except you and I. And now this man who has been here asking the servant questions has upset her greatly. Even your coming has done so, knowing as she does that you have come, not to see us, but to make inquiries about Mrs. Trevelyan. She is so annoyed by it that she does not sleep. Do you wish her to be taken away at once? Asked Hugh, almost in an angry tone. Certainly not. That would be impossible. We have agreed to take her and must bear with it. And I would not have her moved from this if I thought that if she stayed awhile it might be arranged that she might return from us direct to her husband. I shall try that, of course, now. But if he will not have her, if he be so obstinate, so foolish and so wicked, do not leave her here longer than you can help. Then Hugh explained that Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to be in England in the spring, and that it would be very desirable that the poor woman should not be sent abroad to look for a home before that. If it must be so, it must, said Priscilla. But eight months is a long time. Hugh went out to smoke his pipe on the church wall in a moody, unhappy state of mind. He had hoped to have done so well in regard to Mrs. Trevelyan, till he had met Colonel Osborne he felt sure, almost sure, that she would have refused to see that pernicious troubler of the peace of families. In this he found that he had been disappointed. But he had not expected that Priscilla would have been so much opposed to the arrangement which he had made about the house. And then he had been buoyed up by the anticipation of some delight in meeting Nora Rowley. There was, at any rate, the excitement of seeing her to keep his spirits from flagging. He had seen her, and it had the opportunity of which he had so long been thinking. He had seen her, and it had every possible advantage on his side. What could any man desire better than the privilege of walking home with the girl he loved through country lanes of a summer evening? Had been an hour together, or might have been had he chosen to prolong the interview. But the words which had been spoken between them had had not the slightest interest, unless it were that they had tended to make the interval between him and her wider than ever. He had asked her. He thought that he had asked. Whether it would grieve her to abandon that delicate, dainty mode of life to which she had been accustomed, and she had replied that she would never abandon it of her own accord, of course she had intended him to take her at her word. He blew forth quick clouds of heavy smoke, as he attempted to make himself believe that this was all for the best. What would such a one as he was do with a wife? Or seeing, as he did see, that marriage itself was quite out of the question, how could it be good either for him or her that they should be tied together by a long engagement? Such a future would not at all suit the purpose of his life. In his life absolute freedom would be needed, freedom from unnecessary ties, freedom from unnecessary burdens. His income was most precarious, and he certainly would not make it less so by submission to any closer literary thralldom. And he believed himself to be a bohemian, too much of a bohemian to enjoy a domestic fireside with children and to be free to go where he liked, and when he liked, to think as he pleased, to be driven nowhere by conventional rules, to use his days, Sundays as well as Mondays as he pleased to use them, to turn republican if his mind should take in that way, or Quaker, or Mormon, or Red Indian if he wished it, and in so turning to do no damage to anyone but himself. That was the life which he had planned for himself. His aunt Stanbury had not read his character altogether wrongly, as he thought, when she had once declared that decency and godliness were both distasteful to him. Would it not be destruction to such a one as he was, to fall into an interminable engagement with any girl, let her be ever so sweet? But yet he felt as he sat there, filling pipe after pipe, smoking away till past midnight, that though he could not bear the idea of trammels, though he was totally unfit for matrimony, either present or in prospect, he felt that he had within his breast a double identity, and that that other division of himself would be utterly crushed if it were driven to divest itself of the idea of love. Wence was to come his poetry, the romance of his life, the springs of clear water in which his ignoble thoughts were to be dipped till they should become pure, if love was to be banished altogether from the list of delights that were possible to him. And then he began to speculate on love. That love of which poets wrote, and of which he found that some sparkle was necessary to give light to his life. Was it not the one particle of divine breath given to man, of which he had heard since he was a boy? And how was this love to be come at, and was it to be a thing of reality, or merely an idea? Was it a pleasure to be attained, or a mystery that charmed by the difficulties of the distance, a distance that never could be so past that the thing should really be reached? Was love to be ever a delight, vague as is that feeling of unattainable beauty which far off mountains give, when you know that you can never place yourself amidst their unseen valleys? And if love could be reached, the love of which the poet sing, and of which his own heart was ever singing, what were to be its pleasures? To press a hand, to kiss a lip, to clap a waist, to hear even the low voice of the vanquished confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheek upon your shoulder. What is it all but to have reached the once mysterious valley of your far off mountain, and to have found that it is as other valleys, rocks and stones with a little grass and a thin stream of running water? But beyond that pressure of the hand and that kissing of the lips, beyond that short-lived pressure of the plumage which is common to birds and men, what could love do beyond that? There were children with dirty faces, and household bills, and a wife who must perhaps always darn the stockings, and be sometimes cross. Was love to lead only to this? A dull life with a woman who had lost the beauty from her cheeks and the gloss from her hair, and the music from her voice, and the fire from her eye, and the grace from her step, and whose waist and arm should no longer be able to span? Did the love of the poets lead to that, and that only? Then, through the cloud of smoke, there came upon him some dim idea of self-abnegation, that the mysterious valley among the mountains, the far off prospect of which was so charming to him, which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact, the capacity of carrying more for other human beings than for himself. The beauty of it all was not so much in the thing loved as in the loving. Were she a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless, he said to himself, it might be the same, only she must be a woman. Then he blew off a great cloud of smoke, and went into bed lost amidst poetry, philosophy, love, and tobacco. It had been arranged overnight that he was to start the next morning at half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his breakfast before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. She was one of those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming down to make the tea at any possible hour, at five, at four if it were needed, and who would never want to go to bed again when the ceremony was performed. But when Nora made her appearance, Nora, who had been called dainty, both Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. They could not say why she was there, nor could Nora tell herself. She had not forgiven him. She had no thought of being gentle and loving to him. She declared to herself that she had no wish of saying goodbye to him once again, but yet she was in the room, waiting for him, when he came down to his breakfast. She had been unable to sleep, and had reasoned with herself as to the absurdity of lying in bed awake when she preferred to be up and out of the house. It was true that she had not been out of her bed at seven any morning since she had been at Nuncomputney, but that was no reason why she should not be more active on this special morning. There was a noise in the house, and she never could sleep when there was a noise. She was quite sure that she was not going down because she wished to see Hugh's Standbury, but she was equally sure that it would be a disgrace to her to be deterred from going down simply because the man was there. So she descended to the parlor, and was standing near the open window when Standbury bustled into the room some quarter of an hour after the proper time. Priscilla was there also, guessing something of the truth, and speculating whether these two young people, should they love each other, would be the better or the worse for such love. There must be marriages, if only that the world might go on in accordance with the Creator's purpose. But as far as Priscilla could see, blessed were they who were not called upon to assist in the scheme. To her eyes all days seemed to be days of wrath, and all times, times of tribulation. And it was all mere vanity and vexation of spirit, to go on and bear it till one was dead, helping others to bear it if such help might be of avail, that was her theory of life. To make it pleasant by eating and drinking and dancing, or even by falling in love, was to her mind a vain crunching of ashes between the teeth. Not to have ill things said of her and of hers, not to be disgraced, not to be rendered incapable of some human effort, not to have actually to starve, such was the extent of her ambition in this world. And for the next, she felt so assured of the goodness of God that she could not bring herself to doubt of happiness in a world that was to be eternal. Her doubt was this, whether it was really the next world which would be eternal. Of eternity she did not doubt, but might there not be many worlds? These things, however, she kept almost entirely to herself. You down, Priscilla had said. Well, yes, I could not sleep when I heard you all moving, and the morning is so fine, and I thought that perhaps you would go out and walk after your brother has gone. Priscilla promised that she would walk, and then the tea was made. Your sister and I are going out for an early walk, said Nora, when she was greeted by Stanbury. Priscilla said nothing, but thought she understood it all. I wish I were going with you, said Hugh. Nora, remembering how very little he had made of his opportunity on the evening before, did not believe him. The eggs and fried bacon were eaten in a hurry, and very little was said. Then there came the moment for parting. The brother and sister kissed each other, and Hugh took Nora by the hand. I hope you make yourself happy here, he said. Oh, yes, if it were only for myself I should want nothing. I will do the best I can with Trevalian. The best will be to make him and everyone understand that the fault is altogether his and not Emily's. The best will be to make each think that there has been no real fault, said Hugh. There should be no talking of faults, said Priscilla, let the husband take his wife back, as he is bound to do. His words occupied hardly a minute in the saying, but during that minute Hugh Stanbury held Nora by the hand. He held it fast. She would not attempt to withdraw it, but neither would she return his pressure by the muscle of a single finger. What right had he to press her hand, or to make any sign of love, any pretense of loving, when he had gone out of his way to tell her that she was not good enough for him? Then he started, and Nora and Priscilla put on their hats and left the house. Let us go to Nidden Park, said Nora. To Nidden Park again? Yes it is so beautiful, and I should like to see it by the morning light, there is plenty of time. So they walked to Nidden Park in the morning, as they had done on the preceding evening. Their conversation at first regarded Trevalian and his wife and the old trouble, but Nora could not keep herself from speaking of Hugh Stanbury. He would not have come, she said, unless Lewis had sent him. He would not have come now, I think. Of course not! Why should he? Before Parliament was hardly over, too, but he won't remain in town now, will he? He says somebody must remain, and I think he will be in London till near Christmas. How disagreeable! But I suppose he doesn't care. It's all the same to a man like him. They don't shut the clubs up, I dare say. Will he come here at Christmas? Either then or for the new year, just for a day or two. We shall be gone then, I suppose, said Nora. That must depend on Mr. Trevalian, said Priscilla. What a life for two women to lead, to depend upon the caprice of a man who must be mad! Do you think that Mr. Trevalian will care for what your brother says to him? I do not know Mr. Trevalian. He is very fond of your brother, and I suppose men friends do listen to each other. They never seem to listen to women. Don't you think that after all they despise women? They look on them as dainty, foolish things. Women despise men, said Priscilla. Not very often, do they? And then women are so dependent on men. A woman can get nothing without a man. I managed to get on somehow, said Priscilla. No, you don't miss Stanbury, if you think of it. You want mutton, and who kills the sheep? But who cooks it? But the men cooks are the best, said Nora, and the men tailors and the men to wait at table, and the men poets and the men painters and the men nurses. All the things that women do, men do better. There are two things they can't do, said Priscilla. What are they? They can't suckle babies, and they can't forget themselves. About the babies, of course not. As for forgetting themselves, I am not quite so sure that I can forget myself. That is just where your brother went down last night. They had, at this moment, reached the top of the steep slope below which the river ran brawling among the rocks, and Nora seated herself exactly where she had sat on the previous evening. I have been down scores of times, said Priscilla. Let us go now. You wouldn't go when Hugh asked you yesterday. I didn't care then, but do come now, if you don't mind the climb. Then they went down the slope and reached the spot from whence Hugh Stanbury had jumped from rock to rock across the stream. You have never been out there, have you, said Nora? On the rocks. Oh, dear, no. I should be sure to fall. But he went, just like a goat. That's one of the things that men can do, I suppose, said Priscilla, but I don't see any great glory in being like a goat. I do. I should like to be able to go, and I think I'll try. It is so mean to be dainty and weak. I don't think it at all dainty to keep dry feet. But he didn't get his feet wet, said Nora, or if he did he didn't mind. I can see at once that I should be giddy and tumble down if I tried it. Of course you would. But he didn't tumble down. He has been doing it all his life, said Priscilla. He can't do it up in London. When I think of myself, Miss Stanbury, I am so ashamed. There is nothing that I can do. I couldn't write an article for a newspaper. I think I could, but I fear no one would read it. They read his, said Nora, or else he wouldn't be paid for writing them. Then they climbed back again up the hill, and during the climbing there were no words spoken. The slope was not much of a hill, was no more than the fall from the low ground of the valley to the course which the river had cut for itself, but it was steep while it lasted, and both the young women were forced to pause for a minute before they could proceed upon their journey. As they walked home, Priscilla spoke of the scenery and of the country, and of the nature of the life which she and her mother and sister had passed at Nuncomputney. Nora said but little till they were just entering the village, and then she went back to the subject of her thoughts. I would sooner, said she, write for a newspaper than do anything else in the world. Why so? Because it is so noble to teach people everything, and then a man who writes for a newspaper must know so many things himself. I believe there are women who do it, but very few. One or two have done it, I know. Go and tell that to Aunt Stanbury, and hear what she will say about such women. I suppose she is very prejudiced. Yes she is, but she is a clever woman. I am inclined to think women had better not write for newspapers. And why not, Nora asked. My reasons would take me a week to explain, and I doubt whether I have them very clear in my own head. In the first place there is that difficulty about the babies. Most of them must get married, you know. But not all, said Nora. No, thank God, not all. And if you are not married you might write for a newspaper. At any rate, if I were you, I should be very proud of my brother. Aunt Stanbury is not at all proud of her nephew, said Priscilla, as they entered the house. CHAPTER XXVI A third party is so objectionable. Hugh Stanbury went in search of Trevalian immediately on his return to London, and found his friend at his rooms in Lincoln's Inn. I have executed my commission, said Hugh, endeavouring to speak of what he had done in a cheery voice. I am much obliged to you, Stanbury, very much, but I do not know that I need trouble you to tell me anything about it. And why not? I have learned it all from that man. What man? From Basel, he has come back, and has been with me, and has learned everything. Look here, Trevalian, when you asked me to go down to Devonshire, you promised me that there should be nothing more about Basel. I expect you to put that rascal, and all that he has told you out of your head altogether. You are bound to do so for my sake, and you will be very wise to do so for your own. I was obliged to see him when he came. Yes, and to pay him I do not doubt. But that is all done, and should be forgotten. I can't forget it. Is it true or untrue that he found that man down there? Is it true or untrue that my wife received Colonel Osborn at your mother's house? Is it true or untrue that Colonel Osborn went down there with the express object of seeing her? Is it true or untrue that they had corresponded? It is nonsense to bid me to forget all this. You might as well ask me to forget that I had desired her neither to write to him nor to see him. If I understand the matter, said Trevalian, you are incorrect in one of your assertions. In which? You must excuse me if I am wrong, Trevalian, but I don't think you ever did tell your wife not to see this man or not to write to him. I never told her I don't understand what you mean. Not in so many words. It is my belief that she has endeavored to obey implicitly every clear instruction that you have given her. You are wrong, absolutely, and altogether wrong, heaven and earth. Do you mean to tell me now, after all that has taken place, that she did not know my wishes? And you call that being dutiful and affectionate? I call it human and reasonable, and I think that it is compatible with duty and affection. Have you consulted her wishes? Always. Consult them now, then, and bid her come back to you. No, never. As far as I can see I will never do so. The moment she is away from me this man goes to her and she receives him. She must have known that she was wrong, and you must know it. I do not think that she is half so wrong as you yourself, said Standbury. To this Trevelyan made no answer, and they both remained silent some minutes. Standbury had a communication to make before he went, but it was one which he wished to delay as long as there was a chance that his friend's heart might be softened—one which he need not make if Trevelyan would consent to receive his wife back to his house. There was the day's paper lying on the table, and Standbury had taken it up and was reading it, or pretending to read it. I will tell you what I propose to do, said Trevelyan. Well, it is best both for her and for me that we should be apart. I cannot understand how you can be so mad as to say so. You don't understand what I feel, heaven and earth, to have a man coming and going, but never mind. You do not see it, and nothing will make you see it, and there is no reason why you should. I certainly do not see it. I do not believe that your wife cares more for Colonel Osborne, except as an old friend of her father's, than she does for the fellow that sweeps the crossing. It is a matter in which I am bound to tell you what I think. Very well. Now, if you have freed your mind, I will tell you my purpose. I am bound to do so because your people are concerned in it. I shall go abroad. And leave her in England? Certainly. She will be safer here than she can be abroad, unless she should choose to go back with her father to the islands. Do I take the boy? No, I could not permit that. What I intend is this. I will give her eight hundred pounds a year, as long as I have reason to believe that she has no communication, whatever, either by word of mouth or by letter, with that man. If she does, I will put the case immediately into the hands of my lawyer, with instructions to him to ascertain from counsel what severest steps I can take. How I hate that word severe, when applied to a woman. I dare say you do, when applied to another man's wife, but there will be no severity in my first proposition. As for the child, if I approve of the place in which she lives, as I do at present, he shall remain with her for nine months in the year till he is six years old. Then he must come to me, and he shall come to me altogether if she sees or hears from that man. I believe that eight hundred pounds a year will enable her to live with all comfort under your mother's roof." As to that, said Stanbury slowly, I suppose I had better tell you at once that the Nuncamputney arrangement cannot be considered as permanent. Why not? Because my mother is timid and nervous and altogether unused to the world. That unfortunate woman is to be sent away even from Nuncamputney. Understand me, Trevalian. I understand you. I understand you most thoroughly. Nor do I wonder at it in the least. Do not suppose that I am angry with your mother, or with you, or with your sister. I have no right to expect that they should keep her after that man has made his way into their house. I can well conceive that no honest, high-minded lady would do so. It is not that at all. But it is that. How can you tell me that it isn't, and yet you would have me believe that I am not disgraced? As he said this, Trevalian got up, and walked about the room, tearing his hair with his hands. He was, in truth, a wretched man, from whose mind all expectation of happiness was banished, who regarded his own position as one of incurable ignominy, looking upon himself as one who had been made unfit for society by no fault of his own. What was he to do with the wretched woman who could be kept from the evil of her pernicious vanity by no gentle custody, whom no most distant retirement would make safe from the effects of her own ignorance, folly, and obstinacy? When is she to go? He asked, in a low, subpulchral tone, as though these new tidings that had come upon him had been fatal, laden with doom, and finally subversive of all chance, even of tranquility. When you and she may please. That is all very well, but let me know the truth. I would not have your mother's house—contaminated, but may she remain there for a week? Stanbury jumped from his seat with an oath. I tell you what it is, Trevalian. If you speak of your wife in that way, I will not listen to you. It is unmanly and untrue to say that her presence can contaminate any house. That is very fine. It may be chivalrous in you to tell me on her behalf that I am a liar, and that I am not a man. You drive me to it. But what am I to think when you are forced to declare that this unfortunate woman cannot be allowed to remain at your mother's house—a house which has been especially taken with reference to a shelter for her? She has been received, with the idea that she would be discreet. She has been indiscreet, past belief, and she is to be turned out, most deservedly. Heaven and earth, where shall I find a roof for her head? Trevalian as he said this was walking about the room with his hands stretched up toward the ceiling, and as his friend was attempting to make him comprehend that there was no intention on the part of anyone to banish Mrs. Trevalian from the clockhouse—at least for some months to come—not even till after Christmas, unless some satisfactory arrangement could be sooner made. The door of the room was opened by the boy, who called himself a clerk, and who acted as Trevalian's servant in the chambers, and a third person was shown into the room. That third person was Mr. Boswell. As no name was given, Stanbury did not at first know Mr. Boswell, but he had not had his eye on Mr. Boswell for half a minute before he recognized the ex-policeman by the outward attributes and signs of his profession. Oh, is that you, Mr. Boswell? said Trevalian, as soon as the great man had made his bow of salutation. Well, what is it? Mr. Hugh Stanbury, I think, said Boswell, making another bow to the young barrister. That's my name, said Stanbury. Exactly so, Mr. S., the identity is one as I could prove on oath in any court in England. You was on the railway platform at Exeter on Saturday, when we was waiting for the twelve-express bus. Wasn't you now, Mr. S.? What's that to you? Well, as it do happen, it is something to me. And, Mr. S., if you was asked that question in any court in England or before even one of the Metropolitan Beaks, you wouldn't deny it. Why the devil should I deny it? What's all this about, Trevalian? Of course you can't deny it, Mr. S., when I'm down on a fact I am down on it. Nothing else wouldn't do in my profession. Have you anything to say to me, Mr. Boswell? asked Trevalian. Well, I have, just a word. How about your journey to Devonshire? Well, in a way it is about my journey to Devonshire. It's all along of the same job, Mr. Trevalian. You can speak before my friend here, said Trevalian. Boswell had taken a great dislike to Hugh Stanbury, regarding the barrister with a correct instinct as one who was engaged for the time in the same service with himself and who was his rival in that service, when thus instigated to make, as it were, a party of three in this delicate and most confidential matter, and to take his rival into his confidence, he shook his head slowly and looked Trevalian hard in the face. Mr. Stanbury is my particular friend, said Trevalian, and knows well the circumstances of this unfortunate affair. You can say anything before him. Boswell shook his head again. I'd rather not, Mr. Trevalian, said he, indeed I'd rather not. It's something very particular. If you take my advice, said Stanbury, you will not hear him yourself. That's your advice, Mr. S., asked Mr. Boswell. Yes, that's my advice. I'd never have anything to do with such a fellow as you as long as I could help it. I dare say not, Mr. S., I dare say not. We're expensive and we're accurate, neither of which is much in your line, Mr. S., if I understand about it rightly. Mr. Boswell, if you've got anything to tell, tell it, said Trevalian angrily. A third party is so objectionable, pleaded Boswell. Never mind, that is my affair. It is your affair, Mr. Trevalian. There's not a doubt of that. The lady is your wife. Damnation, shouted Trevalian. But the credit, sir, said Boswell, the credit is mine. And here, as Mr. S., has been down interfering with me and doing no versal good, as I'll undertake to prove by evidence before the affair is over. The affair is over, said Stanbury. That's as you think, Mr. S., that's where your information goes to, Mr. S., mine goes a little beyond that, Mr. S. I've means as you can know nothing about, Mr. S., I've irons in the fire, what you're as ignorant on as the babe as isn't born. No doubt you have, Mr. Boswell, said Stanbury. I has. And now, if it be that I must speak before a third party, Mr. Trevalian, I'm ready. It ain't that I'm no ways ashamed. I've done my duty and knows how to do it, and let a council be ever so sharp I never yet was so posed but what I could stand up and hold my own. The Colonel, Mr. Trevalian, got a letter from your lady this morning. I don't believe it, said Stanbury sharply. Very likely not, Mr. S., it ain't in my power to say anything whatever about you believing or not believing. But Mr. T.'s lady has wrote the letter, and the Colonel, he has received it. You don't look after these things, Mr. S., you don't know the ways of them, but it's my business. The lady has wrote the letter, and the Colonel, why, he has received it. Trevalian had become white with rage when Boswell first mentioned this continued correspondence between his wife and Colonel Osborn. It never occurred to him to doubt the correctness of the policeman's information, and he regarded Stanbury's assertion of incredulity as being simply of a peace with his general obstinacy of the matter. At this moment he began to regret that he had called in the assistance of his friend, and that he had not left the affair altogether in the hands of that much more satisfactory, but still more painful agent, Mr. Boswell. He had again seated himself, and for a moment or two remained silent on his chair. It ain't my fault, Mr. Trevalian, continued Boswell, if this little matter ought never to have been mentioned before a third party. It is of no moment, said Trevalian, in a low voice. What does it signify who knows it now? Do not believe it, Trevalian, said Stanbury. Very well, Mr. S., very well, just as you like, don't believe it. Only it's true, and it's my business to find them things out. It's my business, and I find them out. Mr. Trevalian can do as he likes about it. If it's right, why then, it is right. It ain't for me to say nothing about that, but there's the fact. The lady, she has wrote another letter, and the Colonel, why he has received it. There ain't nothing wrong about the post office. If I was to say what was inside of that, Billy, do, why, then I should be proving what I didn't know, and when it came to standing up in court I shouldn't be able to hold my own. But as for the letter, the lady wrote it, and the Colonel, he received it. That will do, Mr. Boswell, said Trevalian. Shall I call again, Mr. Trevalian? No, yes, I'll send to you when I want you, you shall hear from me. I suppose I'd better be keeping my eyes open about the Colonel's place, Mr. Trevalian. For God's sake, Trevalian, do not have anything more to do with this man. That's all very well for you, Mr. S., said Boswell. The lady ain't your wife. Can you imagine anything more disgraceful than all this, said Stanbury? Nothing, nothing, nothing, answered Trevalian. And I am to keep stirring, and be on the move, again suggested Boswell, who prudently required to be fortified by instructions before he devoted his time and talents, even to so agreeable a pursuit as that in which he had been engaged. You shall hear from me, said Trevalian. Very well, very well. I wish you good day, Mr. Trevalian. Mr. S., yours most obedient. There was one other point, Mr. Trevalian. What point, asked Trevalian angrily? If the lady was to join the Colonel. That will do, Mr. Boswell, said Trevalian, again jumping up from his chair. That will do. So saying, he opened the door, and Boswell, with a bow, took his departure. What on earth am I to do? How am I to save her? said the wretched husband, appealing to his friend. Stanbury endeavored with all his eloquence to prove that this latter piece of information from the spy must be incorrect. If such a letter had been written by Mrs. Trevalian to Colonel Osborne, it must have been done while he, Stanbury, was staying at the clock-house. This seemed to him to be impossible, but he could hardly explain why it should be impossible. She had written to the man before, and had received him when he came to Nuncomputny. Why was it even improbable that she should have written to him again? Nevertheless, Stanbury felt sure that she had sent no such letter. I think I understand her feelings and her mind, said he, and if so, any such correspondence would be incompatible with her previous conduct. Trevalian only smiled at this, or pretended to smile. He would not discuss the question, but believed implicitly what Basel had told him, in spite of all Stanbury's arguments. I can say nothing further, said Stanbury. No, my dear fellow, there is nothing further to be said, except this, that I will have my unfortunate wife removed from the decent protection of your mother's roof with the least possible delay. I feel that I owe Mrs. Stanbury the deepest apology for having sent such an inmate to trouble her repose. Nonsense! That is what I feel. And I say that it is nonsense. If you had never sent that wretched blagger down to fabricate lies at noncomputny, my mother's repose would have been all right. As it is, Mrs. Trevalian can remain where she is till after Christmas. There is not the least necessity for removing her at once. I only meant to say that the arrangement should not be regarded as altogether permanent. I must go to my work now. Goodbye. Goodbye, Stanbury. Stanbury paused at the door, and then once more turned round. I suppose it is of no use my saying anything further, but I wish you to understand fully that I regard your wife as a woman much ill-used, and I think you are punishing her, and yourself, too, with a cruel severity for an indiscretion of the very slightest kind. CHAPTER 27 Mr. Trevalian's Letter to His Wife Trevalian, when he was left alone, sat for above a couple of hours contemplating the misery of his position and endeavoring to teach himself by thinking what ought to be his future conduct. It never occurred to him, during these thoughts, that it would be well that he should at once take back his wife, either as a matter of duty or of welfare, for himself or for her. He had taught himself to believe that she had disgraced him, and though this feeling of disgrace made him so wretched that he wished that he were dead, he would allow himself to make no attempt at questioning the correctness of his conviction. Though he were to be shipwrecked for ever, even that seemed to be preferable to supposing that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he loved his wife dearly, and in the white heat of his anger endeavored to be merciful to her. When Stanbury accused him of severity, he would not condescend to defend himself, but he told himself then of his great mercy. Was he not as fond of his own boy as any other father, and had he not allowed her to take the child because he had felt that a mother's love was more imperious, more craving in its nature than the love of a father? Had that been severe? And had he not resolved to allow her every comfort which her unfortunate position, the self-imposed misfortune of her position, would allow her to enjoy? She had come to him without a shilling, and yet, bad as her treatment of him had been, he was willing to give enough not only to support her, but her sister also with every comfort. Severe? No. That, at least, was an undeserved accusation. He had been anything but severe. As she might have been, in taking a wife from a home in which she had been unable to learn the discretion of a matron, too trusting he had been, and too generous, but certainly not severe. But of course, as he said to himself, a young man like Stanbury would take the part of a woman with whose sister he was in love. Then he turned his thoughts upon Basel, and there came over him a crushing feeling of ignominy, shame, moral dirt, and utter degradation as he reconsidered his dealings with that ingenious gentleman. He was paying a rogue to watch the steps of a man whom he hated, to pry into the home secrets, to read the letters, to bribe the servants, to record the movements of this rival, this successful rival in his wife's affections. It was a filthy thing, and yet what could he do? Gentlemen of old, his own grandfather or his father, would have taken such a fellow as Colonel Osborne by the throat and have caned him, and afterwards would have shot him, or have stood to be shot. All that was changed now. But it was not his fault that it was changed. He was willing enough to risk his life. Could any opportunity of risking it in this cause be obtained for him? But were he to cudgel Colonel Osborne he would be simply arrested, and he would then be told that he had disgraced himself fowly by striking a man old enough to be his father. How was he to have avoided the employment of some such man as Basel? He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury. And what was the result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attempt to deny that there had been a correspondence and that there had been a visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretended such blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreed in condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wanted facts, not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him, but Basel, either by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He did not doubt but that Basel was right about that letter written only yesterday, and received on that very morning. His wife, who had probably been complaining of her wrongs to Stanbury, must have retired from that conversation to her chamber and immediately have written this letter to her lover. With such a woman as that, what can be done in these days otherwise than by the aid of such a one as Basel? He could not confine his wife in a dungeon. He could not save himself from the disgrace of her misconduct by any rigors of surveillance on his own part. As wives are managed nowadays, he could not forbid to her the use of the post office, could not hinder her from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel who carried on his wickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had given her every chance to amend her conduct, but if she were resolved on disobedience he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts, however, it was necessary that he should know. And now what should he do? How should he go to work to make her understand that she could not write even a letter without his knowing it, and that if she did either write to the man or see him he would immediately take the child from her and provide for her only in such fashion as the law should demand from him? For himself and for his own life he thought that he had determined what he would do. It was impossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamed to enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agony to speak. They who knew him knew also of his disgrace, and no longer asked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and sat alone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuit was open to him. He spent his time in thinking of his wife, and of the disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this he knew was unmanly and shameful, and it was absolutely necessary for him that he should in some way change it. He would go out of England, and would travel, if only he could so dispose of his wife that she might be safe from any possible communication with Colonel Osborn. If that could be affected, nothing that money could do should be spared for her. If that could not be affected he would remain at home and crush her. That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his wife, which was as follows, Dear Emily, I have learned beyond the shadow of a doubt that you have corresponded with Colonel Osborn since you have been at Nuncomputny, and also that you have seen him there. This has been done in direct opposition to my expressed wishes, and I feel myself compelled to tell you that such conduct is disgraceful to you and disgracing to me. I am quite at a loss to understand how you can reconcile to yourself so flagrant a disobedience of my instructions, and so perverse a disregard to the opinion of the world at large. But I do not right now for the sake of finding fault with you. It is too late for me to have any hope that I can do so with good effect, either as regards your credit or my happiness. Nevertheless it is my duty to protect both you and myself from further shame, and I wish to tell you what are my intentions with that view. In the first place I warn you that I keep a watch on you. The doing so is very painful to me, but it is absolutely necessary. You cannot see Colonel Osborn or write to him without my knowing it. I pledge you my word that in either case, that is, if you correspond with him or see him, I will at once take our boy away from you. I will not allow him to remain even with a mother who shall so misconduct herself. Should Colonel Osborn address a letter to you, I desire that you will put it under an envelope addressed to me. If you obey my commands on this head, I will leave our boy with you nine months out of every year till he shall be six years old. Such at least is my present idea, though I will not positively bind myself to adhere to it, and I will allow you eight hundred pounds per year for your own maintenance and that of your sister. I am greatly grieved to find from my friend Mr. Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborn has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs. Stanbury's house. I do not wonder that it should be so. I shall immediately seek for a future home for you, and when I have found one that is suitable I will have you conveyed to it. I must now further explain my purposes, and I must beg you to remember that I am driven to do so by your direct disobedience to my expressed wishes. Should there be any further communication between you and Colonel Osborn, not only will I take your child away from you, but I will also limit the allowance to be made to you to a bare sustenance. In such case I shall put the matter into the hands of a lawyer, and shall probably feel myself driven to take steps towards freeing myself from a connection which will be disgraceful to my name. For myself I shall live abroad during the greater part of the year. London has become to me uninhabitable, and all English pleasures are distasteful. Yours affectionately, Louis Trevelyan. When he had finished this he read it twice, and believed that he had written, if not an affectionate, at any rate a considerate letter. He had no bounds to the pity which he felt for himself in reference to the injury which was being done to him, and he thought that the offers which he was making, both in respect to his child and the money, were such as to entitle him to his wife's warmest gratitude. He hardly recognized the force of the language which he used when he told her that her conduct was quite disgraceful and that she had disgraced his name. He was quite unable to look at the whole question between him and his wife from her point of view. He conceived it possible that such a woman as his wife should be told that her conduct would be watched, and that she should be threatened with the divorce court with an effect that should, upon the whole, be salutary. There be men, and not bad men either, and men neither uneducated or unintelligent or irrational in ordinary matters, who seem to be absolutely unfitted by nature to have the custody or guardianship of others. A woman in the hands of such a man can hardly save herself or him from endless trouble. It may be that between such a one and his wife, events shall flow on so evenly that no ruling, no constraint is necessary, that even the giving of advice is never called for by the circumstances of the day. If the man be happily forced to labor daily for his living till he be weary, and the wife be laden with many ordinary cares, the routine of life may run on without storms. But for such a one, if he be without work, the management of a wife will be a task full of peril. The lesson may be learned at last. He may, after years, come to perceive how much and how little of guidance the partner of his life requires at his hands, and he may be taught how that guidance should be given. But in the learning of the lesson there will be sorrow and gnashing of teeth. It was so now with this man. He loved his wife. To a certain extent he still trusted her. He did not believe that she would be faithless to him after the fashion of women who are faithless altogether. But he was jealous of authority, fearful of slights, self-conscious, afraid of the world, and utterly ignorant of the nature of a woman's mind. He carried the letter with him in his pocket throughout the next morning, and in the course of the day he called upon Lady Milbara. Though he was obstinately bent on acting in accordance with his own views, yet he was morbidly desirous of discussing the grievousness of his position with his friends. He went to Lady Milbara, asking for her advice, but desirous simply of being encouraged by her to do that which he was resolved to do on his own judgment. Down! After her! To Nuncompatny! said Lady Milbara, holding up both her hands. Yes, he has been there, and she has been weak enough to see him. My dear Louis, take her to Naples at once, at once! It is too late for that now, Lady Milbara. Too late! Oh no! She has been foolish, indiscreet, disobedient, what she will of that kind. But Louis, don't send her away. Don't send your young wife away from you. Those whom God has joined together, let no man put us under. I cannot consent to live with a wife, with whom neither my wishes nor my word have the slightest effect. I may believe of her what I please, but think what the world will believe. I cannot disgrace myself by living with a woman who persists in holding intercourse with a man whom the world speaks of as her lover. Take her to Naples, said Lady Milbara, with all the energy of which she was capable. I can take her nowhere, nor will I see her, till she has given proof that her whole conduct towards me has been altered. I have written a letter to her, and I have brought it. Will you excuse me if I ask you to take the trouble to read it? Then he handed Lady Milbara the letter, which she read very slowly and with much care. I don't think I would, would, would, would what, demanded Trevelyan. Don't you think that what you say is a little, just a little, prone to make, to make the breach perhaps wider? No, Lady Milbara, in the first place, how can it be wider? You might take her back, you know, and then if you could only get to Naples. How can I take her back while she is corresponding with this man? She wouldn't correspond with him at Naples. Trevelyan shook his head and became cross. His old friend would not at all do as old friends are expected to do when called upon for advice. I think, said he, that what I have proposed is both just and generous. But Louis, why should there be any separation? She has forced it upon me. She is headstrong and will not be ruled. But this about disgracing you, do you think that you must say that? I think I must, because it is true. If I do not tell her the truth, who is there that will do so? It may be bitter now, but I think that it is for her welfare. Dear, dear, dear, I want nothing for myself, Lady Milbara. I am sure of that, Louis. My whole happiness was in my home. No man cared less for going out than I did. My child and my wife were everything to me. I don't suppose that I was ever seen at a club in the evening once throughout a season. And she might have had anything that she liked, anything. It is hard, Lady Milbara, is it not? Lady Milbara, who had seen the angry brow, did not dare to suggest Naples again. But yet, if any word might be spoken to prevent this utter wreck of a home, how good a thing it would be. He had got up to leave her, but she stopped him by holding his hand. For better for worse, Louis, remember that. Why has she forgotten it? She is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone, and for the boy's sake, think of your boy, Louis, do not send that letter. Sleep on it, Louis, and think of it. I have slept on it. There is no promise in it of forgiveness after a while. It is written as though you intended that she should never come back to you. That shall be as she behaves herself. But tell her so. Let there be some one bright spot in what you say to her, on which her mind may fix itself. If she be not altogether hardened, that letter will drive her to despair. That travailion would not give up the letter, nor indicate by a word that he would reconsider the question of its propriety. He escaped as soon as he could from Lady Milborough's room, and almost declared as he did so that he would never enter her doors again. She had utterly failed to see the matter in the proper light. When she talked of Naples, she must surely have been unable to comprehend the extent of the ill usage to which he, the husband, had been subjected. How was it possible that he should live under the same roof with a wife who claimed to herself the right of receiving visitors of whom he disapproved? A visitor, a gentleman, one whom the world called her lover. He gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist as he thought of his old friend's ignorance of the very first law in a married man's code of laws. But yet when he was out in the streets he did not post his letter at once, but thought of it throughout the whole day, trying to prove the weight of every phrase that he had used. Once or twice his heart almost relented, once he had the letter in his hand that he might tear it, but he did not tear it. He put it back into his pocket and thought again of his grievance. Surely it was his first duty in such an emergency to be firm. It was certainly a wretched life that he was leading. In the evening he went all alone to an eating-house for his dinner, and then, sitting with a miserable glass of sherry before him, he again read and reread the epistle which he had written. Every harsh word that it contained was in some sort pleasant to his ear. She had hit him hard, and should he not hit her again? And then was it not his bounden duty to let her know the truth? Yes, it was his duty to be firm. So he went out and posted the letter. CHAPTER XXVIII. Great Tribulation. Trevelyan's letter to his wife fell like a thunderbolt among them at Nuncomputny. Mrs. Trevelyan was altogether unable to keep it to herself. Indeed she made no attempt at doing so. Her husband had told her that she was to be banished from the clockhouse, because her present hostess was unable to endure her misconduct, and, of course, she demanded the reasons of the charge that was thus brought against her. When she first read the letter, which she did in the presence of her sister, she towered in her passion. Disgraced him? I have never disgraced him! It is he that has disgraced me! Correspondence! Yes, he shall see it all! Unjust, ignorant, foolish man! He does not remember that the last instructions he really gave me were to bid me see Colonel Osborne. Take my boy away! Yes. Of course I am a woman and must suffer. I will write to Colonel Osborne, and will tell him the truth, and will send my letter to Lewis. He shall know how he has ill-treated me. I will not take a penny of his money, not a penny. Maintain you! I believe he thinks that we are beggars. Leave this house because of my conduct? What can Mrs. Stanbury have said? What can any of them have said? I will demand to be told. Free himself from the connection. Oh, Nora! Nora, that it should come to this, that I should be thus threatened to have been as innocent as a baby. If it were not for my child, I think that I should destroy myself." Nora said what she could to comfort her sister, insisting chiefly on the promise that the child should not be taken away. There was no doubt as to the husband's power in the mind of either of them, and so, as regarded herself, Mrs. Trevelyan would have defied her husband, let his power be what it might, yet she acknowledged to herself that she was in some degree restrained by the fear that she would find herself deprived of her only comfort. We must just go where he bids us, till Papa comes, said Nora, and when Papa is here what help will there be then? He will not let me go back to the islands, with my boy. For myself I might die, or get out of his way anywhere. I can see that. Priscilla Standbury is right when she says that no woman should trust herself to any man. Disgraced! That I should live to be told by my husband that I had disgraced him, by a lover! There was some sort of agreement made between the two sisters as to the manner in which Priscilla should be interrogated, respecting the sentence of banishment which had been passed. They both agreed that it would be useless to make inquiry of Mrs. Standbury. If anything had really been said to justify the statement made in Mr. Trevelyan's letter, it must have come from Priscilla, and have reached Trevelyan through Priscilla's brother. They both of them had sufficiently learned the ways of the house to be sure that Mrs. Standbury had not been the person active in the matter. They went down, therefore, together, and found Priscilla seated at her desk in the parlor. Mrs. Standbury was also in the room, and it had been presumed between the sisters that the interrogations should be made in that lady's absence. But Mrs. Trevelyan was too hot in the matter for restraint, and she at once opened out her budget of grievance. "'I have a letter from my husband,' she said, and then paused, but Priscilla, seeing from the fire in her eyes that she was much moved, made no reply, but turned to listen to what might further be said. "'I do not know why I should trouble you with his suspicions,' continued Mrs. Trevelyan, or read to you what he says about Colonel Osborne. As she spoke she was holding her husband's letter open in her hands. "'There is nothing in it that you do not know. He says I have corresponded with him. So I have, and he shall see the correspondence. He says that Colonel Osborne visited me. He did come to see me and Nora.' "'As any other old man might have done,' said Nora, "'it was not likely that I should openly confess myself to be afraid to see my father's old friend. But the truth is, my husband does not know what a woman is.' She had begun by declaring that she would not trouble her friend with any statement of her husband's complaints against her, but now she had made her way to the subject, and could hardly refrain herself. Priscilla understood this, and thought that it would be wise to interrupt her by a word that might bring her back to her original purpose. "'Is there anything,' said she, "'which we can do to help you?' "'To help me. No. God only can help me. But Lewis informs me that I am to be turned out of this house, as you demand that we should go.' "'Who says that?' exclaimed Mrs. Stanbury. "'My husband. Listen, this is what he says. I am greatly grieved to hear from my friend Mr. Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborne has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs. Stanbury's house. Is that true? Is that true?' In her general mode of carrying herself, and of enduring the troubles of her life, Mrs. Trevelyan was a strong woman. But now her grief was too much for her, and she burst out into tears. "'I am the most unfortunate woman that ever was born,' she sobbed out through her tears. "'I never said that you were to go,' said Mrs. Stanbury. "'But your son has told Mr. Trevelyan that we must go,' said Nora, who felt that her sense of injury against you, Stanbury, was greatly increased by what had taken place. To her mind he was the person most important in the matter. Why had he desired that they should be sent away from the clock-house? She was very angry with him, and declared to herself that she hated him with all her heart. For this man she had sent away that other lover, a lover who had really loved her, and she had even confessed that it was so. "'There is a misunderstanding about this,' said Priscilla. "'It must be with your brother, then,' said Nora. "'I think not,' said Priscilla. "'I think that it has been with Mr. Trevelyan.' Then she went on to explain, with much difficulty, but still with a slow distinctness that was peculiar to her, what had really taken place. "'We have endeavored,' she said, "'to show you, my mother and I, that we have not misjudged you. But it is certainly true that I told my brother that I did not think the arrangement a good one, quite as a permanence. It was very difficult, and her cheeks were red as she spoke, and her lips faltered. It was an exquisite pain to her to have to give the pain which her words would convey, but there was no help for it, as she said to herself more than once at the time, there was nothing to be done, but to tell the truth.' "'I never said so,' blurted out Mrs. Standbury, with her usual weakness. "'No, mother, it was my saying. In discussing what was best for us all, with you I told him, what I have just now explained.' "'Then, of course, we must go,' said Mrs. Trevelyan, who had gulped down her sobs and was resolved to be firm, to give way to no more tears, to bear all without sign of womanly weakness. "'You will stay with us till your father comes,' said Priscilla. "'Of course you will,' said Mrs. Standbury. "'You and Nora, we have got to be such friends now.' "'No,' said Mrs. Trevelyan, as to friendship for me it is out of the question. We must pack up Nora, and go somewhere, heaven knows where.' Nora was now sobbing. "'Why, your brother, should want to turn us out, after he has sent us here.' "'My brother wants nothing of the kind,' said Priscilla. "'Your sister has no better friend than my brother.' "'It will be better, Nora, to discuss the matter no further,' said Mrs. Trevelyan. "'We must go away, somewhere, and the sooner the better. To be an unwelcome guest is always bad, but to be unwelcome for such a reason as this is terrible.' "'There is no reason,' said Mrs. Standbury. "'Indeed, there is none.' "'Mrs. Trevelyan will understand us better when she is less excited,' said Priscilla. "'I am not surprised that she should be indignant now. I can only say again that we hope you will stay with us till Sir Marmaduke Rowley shall be in England.' "'That is not what your brother means,' said Nora. "'Nor is it what I mean,' said Mrs. Trevelyan. "'Norra, we had better go to our own room. I suppose I must write to my husband. Indeed, of course I must, that I may send him, the correspondence. I fear I cannot walk out into the street, Mrs. Standbury, and make you quit of me till I hear from him, and if I were to go to an inn at once people would speak evil of me, and I have no money.' "'My dear, how can you think of such a thing,' said Mrs. Standbury. "'But you may be quite sure that we shall be gone within three days, or four at the furthest. Indeed I will pledge myself not to remain longer than that, even though I should have to go to the poor house. Here I, nor my sister, will stay in any family, to contaminate it. Come, Nora.' And so speaking she sailed out of the room, and her sister followed her. "'Why did you say anything about it? Oh, dear, oh, dear, why did you speak to Hugh? See what you have done!' "'I am sorry that I did speak,' replied Priscilla slowly. "'Sorry, of course you are sorry, but what good is that? But mother, I do not think that I was wrong. I feel sure that the real fault in all this is with Mr. Trevelyan, as it has been all through. He should not have written to her as he has done. I suppose Hugh did tell him. No doubt, and I told Hugh, but not after the fashion in which he has told her. I blame myself mostly for this, that we ever consented to come to this house. We had no business here. Who is to pay the rent?' Hugh insisted upon taking it. Yes, and he will pay the rent, and we shall be a drag upon him, as though he had been fool enough to have a wife and a family of his own. And what good have we done? We had not strength enough to say that that wicked man should not see her when he came, for he is a wicked man. If we had done that, she would have been as bad then as she is now. Mother, we had no business to meddle either with her badness or her goodness. What had we to do with the wife of such a one as Mr. Trevelyan, or with any woman who was separated from her husband?' It was Hugh who thought we should be of service to them. Yes, and I do not blame him. He is in a position to be of service to people. He can do work and earn money, and has a right to think and to speak. We have a right to think only for ourselves, and we should not have yielded to him. How are we to get back again out of this house to our cottage?' They are pulling the cottage down, Priscilla. To some other cottage, mother, do not feel while we are living here that we are pretending to be what we are not. After all, Aunt Standbury was right, though it was not her business to meddle with us. We should never have come here. That poor woman now regards us as her bitter enemies. I meant to do for the best, said Mrs. Standbury. The fault was mine, mother. But you meant it for the best, my dear. Meaning for the best is trash. I don't know that I did mean it for the best. While we were at the cottage, we paid our way, and were honest. What is it people say of us now? They can't say any harm. They say that we are paid by the husband to keep his wife, and paid again by the lover to betray the husband. Priscilla! Yes, it is shocking enough. But that comes of people going out of their proper course. We were too humble and low to have a right to take any part in such a matter. How true it is that while one crouches on the ground, one can never fall. The matter was discussed in the clockhouse all day, between Mrs. Standbury and Priscilla, and between Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora, in their rooms and in the garden. But nothing could come of such discussions. No change could be made till further instructions should have been received from the angry husband, nor could any kind of argument be even invented by Priscilla, which might be efficacious in inducing the two ladies to remain at the clockhouse, even should Mr. Trevelyan allow them to do so. They all felt the intolerable injustice, as it appeared to them, of their subjection to the caprice of an unreasonable and ill-conditioned man. But to all of them it seemed plain enough that in this matter the husband must exercise his own will, at any rate till Sir Marmaduke should be in England. There were many difficulties throughout the day. Mrs. Trevelyan would not go down to dinner, sending word that she was ill, and that she would, if she were allowed, have some tea in her own room. And Nora said that she would remain with her sister. Priscilla went to them more than once, and late in the evening they all met in the parlor. But any conversation seemed to be impossible, and Mrs. Trevelyan, as she went up to her room at night, again declared that she would rid the house of her presence as soon as possible. One thing, however, was done on that melancholy day. Mrs. Trevelyan wrote to her husband, and enclosed Colonel Osborn's letter to herself, and a copy of her reply. The reader will hardly require to be told that no such further letter had been written by her, as that of which Basel had given information to her husband, men whose business it is to detect hidden and secret things, are very apt to detect things which have never been done. What excuse can a detective make even to himself for his own existence if he can detect nothing? Mr. Basel was an active-minded man, who gloried in detecting, and who, in the special spirit of his trade, had taught himself to believe that all around him were things secret and hidden, which would be within his power of unraveling if only the slightest clue were put in his hand. He lived by the crookednesses of people, and therefore was convinced that straight doings in the world were quite exceptional. Things dark and dishonest, fights fought and races run that they might be lost, plants and crosses, women false to their husbands, sons false to their fathers, daughters to their mothers, servants to their masters. Affairs always secret, dark, foul and fraudulent, were to him the normal condition of life. It was to be presumed that Mrs. Trevelyan should continue to correspond with her lover, that old Mrs. Stanbury should betray her trust by conniving at the lover's visit, that everyone concerned should be steeped to the hips in lies and iniquity. When, therefore, he found at Colonel Osborn's rooms that the Colonel had received a letter with the Lesborough Postmark addressed in the handwriting of a woman, he did not scruple to declare that Colonel Osborn had received, on that morning, a letter from Mr. Trevelyan's lady. And in sending to her husband what she called with so much bitterness, the correspondence, Mrs. Trevelyan had to enclose simply the copy of one sheet note from herself. But she now wrote again to Colonel Osborn, and enclosed to her husband not a copy of what she had written, but the note itself. It was as follows. Nuncomputny, Wednesday, August 10th. My dear Colonel Osborn, my husband has desired me not to see you or to write to you or to hear from you again. I must therefore beg you to enable me to obey him, at any rate till papa comes to England. Yours truly, Emily Trevelyan. And then she wrote to her husband, and in the writing of this letter there was much doubt, much labour, and many changes. We will give it as it was written when completed. I have received your letter, and will obey your commands to the best of my power. In order that you may not be displeased by any further unavoidable correspondence between me and Colonel Osborn, I have written to him a note which I now send to you. I send it that you may forward it. If you do not choose to do so, I cannot be answerable either for his seeing me or for his writing to me again. I send also copies of all the correspondence I have had with Colonel Osborn since you turned me out of your house. When he came to call on me, Nora remained with me while he was here. I blush while I write this, not for myself, but that I should be so suspected as to make such a statement necessary. You say that I have disgraced you and myself. I have done neither. I am disgraced, but it is you that have disgraced me. I have never spoken a word or done a thing as regards you, of which I have caused to be ashamed. I have told Mrs. Stanbury that I and Nora will leave her house as soon as we can be made to know where we are to go. I beg that this may be decided instantly, as else we must walk out into the street without a shelter. For what has been said I cannot remain here. My sister bids me say that she will relieve you of all burden respecting herself as soon as possible. She will probably be able to find a home with my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse, till papa comes from England. As for myself, I can only say that till he comes I shall do exactly what you order. CHAPTER XXIX MR. AND MS. OUTHOUSE Both Mr. Outhouse and his wife were especially timid in taking upon themselves the cares of other people. Not on that account is it to be supposed that they were bad or selfish. They were both given much to charity, and bestowed both in time and money more than is ordinarily considered necessary, even from persons in their position. But what they gave, they gave away from their own quiet hearth. Had money been wanting to the daughters of his wife's brother, Mr. Outhouse would have opened such small coffer as he had with a free hand. But he would have much preferred that his benevolent should be used in a way that would bring upon him no further responsibility, and no questionings from people whom he did not know and could not understand. The reverent Olafant Outhouse had been rector of St. Diddilfs in the East for the last fifteen years, having married the sister of Sir Marmaduke Rowley, then simply Mr. Rowley, with a colonial appointment in Jamaica of a hundred and twenty pounds per annum, twelve years before his promotion, while he was a curate in one of the populous borough parishes. He had thus been a London clergyman all his life, but he knew almost as little of London society as though he had held a cure in a Westmoreland valley. He had worked hard, but his work had been altogether among the poor. He had no gift of preaching, and had acquired neither reputation nor popularity. But he could work, and having been transferred because of that capability to the temporary curacy of St. Diddilfs, out of one diocese into another, he had received the living from the bishop's hands when it became vacant. A dreary place was the parsonage of St. Diddilfs in the East for the abode of a gentleman. Mr. Outhouse had not, in his whole parish, a parishioner with whom he could consort. The greatest men around him were the publicans, and the most numerous were men employed in and around the docks. Dredgers of mud, navies employed on suburban canals, excavators, loaders and unloaders of cargo, cattle-drivers, whose driving, however, was done mostly on board ship. Such and such like were the men who were the fathers of the families of St. Diddilfs in the East. And there was there, not far removed from the muddy estuary of a little stream that makes its black way from the Essex Marshes among the houses of the poorest of the poor into the Thames, a large commercial establishment for turning the carcasses of horses into manure. Mr. Flowsom and Burt were in truth the great people of St. Diddilfs in the East, but the closeness of their establishment was not an additional attraction to the parsonage. They were liberal, however, with their money, and Mr. Outhouse was disposed to think, custom perhaps having made the establishment less objectionable to him than it was at first, that St. Diddilfs in the East would be more of a pandemonium than it now was, if by any sanitary law Messers Flowsom and Burt were compelled to close their doors. Non-olet, he would say, with a grim smile, when the charitable check of the firm would come punctually to hand on the first Saturday after Christmas. But such a house as his would be, as he knew, but a poor residence for his wife's nieces. Indeed, without positively saying that he was unwilling to receive them, he had, when he first heard of the breaking up of the house in Curson Street, shown that he would rather not take upon his shoulders so great a responsibility. He and his wife had discussed the matter between them, and had come to the conclusion that they did not know what kind of things might have been done in Curson Street. They would think no evil, they said, but the very idea of a married woman with a lover was dreadful to them. It might be that their niece was free from blame. They hoped so. And even though her sin had been of ever so deep a dye, they would take her in, if it were indeed necessary. But they hoped that such help from them might not be needed. They both knew how to give counsel to a poor woman, how to rebuke a poor man, how to comfort, encourage, or to upbraid the poor. Practice had told them how far they might go with some hope of doing good. And at what stage of demoralization no good from their hands was any longer within the scope of fair expectation. But all this was among the poor. With what words to encourage such a one as their niece, Mrs. Trevelyan? To encourage her or to rebuke her, as her conduct might seem to make necessary, they both felt that they were altogether ignorant. To them Mrs. Trevelyan was a fine lady. To Mr. Outhouse, Sir Marmaduke had ever been a fine gentleman, given much to worldly things, who cared more for wist and a glass of wine than for anything else. And he thought that he had a good excuse for never going to church in England, because he was called upon, as he said, to show himself in the Governor's pew always once on Sundays, and frequently twice, when he was at the seat of his government. Sir Marmaduke manifestly looked upon church as a thing in itself notoriously disagreeable. To Mr. Outhouse it afforded the great events of the week, and Mrs. Outhouse would declare that to hear her husband preach was the greatest joy of her life. It may be understood, therefore, that though the family connection between the Rowleys and the Outhouses had been capped up with a semblance of affection, it had never blossomed forth into cordial friendship. When, therefore, the clergyman of St. Diddalfs received a letter from his niece Nora, begging him to take her into his parsonage till Sir Marmaduke should arrive in the course of the spring, and hinting also a wish that her uncle Olafant should see Mr. Trevelyan, and if possible arranged that his other niece should also come to the parsonage, he was very much perturbed in spirit. There was a long consultation between him and his wife before anything could be settled, and it may be doubted whether anything would have been settled, had not Mr. Trevelyan himself made his way to the parsonage, on the second day of the family conference. Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse had both seen the necessity of sleeping upon the matter. They had slept upon it, and the discourse between them on the second day was so doubtful in its tone that more sleeping would probably have been necessary had not Mr. Trevelyan appeared and compelled them to a decision. "'You must remember that I make no charge against her,' said Trevelyan, after the matter had been discussed for about an hour. "'Then why should she not come back to you?' said Mr. Outhouse timidly. "'Someday she may, if she will be obedient. But it cannot be now. She has set me at defiance, and even yet it is too clear from the tone of her letter to me that she thinks that she has been right to do so. How could we live together in amity when she addresses me as a cruel tyrant?' "'Why did she go away at first?' asked Mrs. Outhouse. "'Because she would compromise my name by an intimacy which I did not approve. But I do not come here to defend myself, Mrs. Outhouse. You probably think that I have been wrong. You are her friend, and to you I will not even say that I have been right. What I want you to understand is this. She cannot come back to me now. It would not be for my honor that she should do so. "'But sir, would it not be for your welfare, as a Christian?' asked Mr. Outhouse. "'You must not be angry with me. If I say that I will not discuss that just now, I did not come here to discuss it.' "'It is very sad for our poor niece,' said Mrs. Outhouse. "'It is very sad for me,' said Trevelyan gloomily. "'Very sad, indeed. My home is destroyed. My life is made solitary. I do not even see my own child. She has her boy with her and her sister. I have nobody. "'I can't understand for the life of me why you should not live together just like any other people,' said Mrs. Outhouse, whose woman's spirit was arising in her bosom. When people are married they must put up with something, at least most always. This,' she added, lest it might be for a moment imagined that she had had any cause for complaint with her Mr. Outhouse. "'Pray excuse me, Mrs. Outhouse, but I cannot discuss that. The question between us is this. Can you consent to receive your two nieces till their fathers' return, and if so, in what way shall I defray the expense of their living? You will of course understand that I willingly undertake the expense not only of my wife's maintenance and of her sister's also, but that I will cheerfully allow anything that may be required, either for their comfort or recreation.' "'I cannot take my nieces into my house as lodgers,' said Mr. Outhouse. "'No, not as lodgers, but of course you can understand that it is for me to pay for my own wife. I know I owe you an apology for mentioning it. But how else could I make my request to you?' "'If Emily and Nora come here they must come as our guests,' said Mrs. Outhouse. "'Certainly,' said the clergyman, and if I am told they are in want of a home they shall find one here till their father comes. But I am bound to say that as regards the elder I think her home should be elsewhere.' "'Of course it should,' said Mrs. Outhouse. "'I don't know anything about the law, but it seems to me very odd that a young woman should be turned out in this way. You say she has done nothing?' "'I will not, argue the matter,' said Trevelyan. "'That's all very well, Mr. Trevelyan,' said the lady, but she's my own niece, and if I don't stand up for her I don't know who will. I never heard such a thing in my life as a wife being sent away after such a fashion as that. We wouldn't treat a cookmaid so. That we wouldn't. As for coming here she shall come if she pleases, but I shall always say that it's the greatest shame I ever heard of.' Nothing came of this visit at last. The lady grew in her anger, and Mr. Trevelyan in his own defense was driven to declare that his wife's obstinate intimacy with Colonel Osbourne had almost driven him out of his senses. Before he left the parsonage he was brought even to tears by his own narration of his own misery, whereby Mr. Outhouse was considerably softened, although Mrs. Outhouse became more and more stout in the defense of her own sex. But nothing at last came of it. Trevelyan insisted on paying for his wife wherever she might be placed, and when he found that this would not be permitted to him at the parsonage, he was very anxious to take some small furnished house in the neighborhood, in which the two sisters might live for the next six months under the wings of their uncle and aunt. But even Mr. Outhouse was moved to pleasantry by this suggestion, as he explained the nature of the tenements which were common at St. Diddalf's. Two rooms front and back they might have for about five in six pence a week in a house with three other families. But perhaps that is not exactly what you'd like, said Mr. Outhouse. The interview ended with no result, and Mr. Trevelyan took his leave, declaring to himself that he was worse off than the foxes who have holes in which to lay their heads. But it must be presumed that his sufferings in this respect were to be by attorney, as it was for his wife and not for himself that the necessary hole was now required. As soon as he was gone Mrs. Outhouse answered Nora's letter, and without meaning to be explicit, explained pretty closely what had taken place. The spare bedroom at the parsonage was ready to receive either one or both of the sisters till Sir Marmaduke should be in London, if one or both of them should choose to come. And though there was no nursery at the parsonage, for Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse had been blessed with no children, still room should be made for the little boy. But they must come as visitors, as our own nieces, said Mrs. Outhouse, and she went on to say that she would have nothing to do with the quarrel between Mr. Trevelyan and his wife. All such quarrels were very bad, but as to this quarrel she could take no part either one side or the other. Then she stated that Mr. Trevelyan had been at the parsonage, but that no arrangement had been made, because Mr. Trevelyan had insisted on paying for their board and lodging. This letter reached Nuncomputny before any reply was received by Mrs. Trevelyan from her husband. This was on the Saturday morning, and Mrs. Trevelyan had pledged herself to Mrs. Danbury that she would leave the clockhouse on the Monday. Of course there was no need that she should do so. Both Mrs. Danbury and Priscilla would now have willingly consented to their remaining till Sir Marmaduke should be in England. But Mrs. Trevelyan's high spirit revolted against this, after all that had been said. She thought that she should hear from her husband on the morrow, but the post on Sunday brought no letter from Trevelyan. On the Saturday they had finished packing up, so certain was Mrs. Trevelyan that some instructions as to her future destiny would be sent to her by her Lord. At last they decided on the Sunday that they would both go at once to St. Diddolph's, or perhaps it would be more correct to say that this was the decision of the elder sister. Nora would willingly have yielded to Priscilla's entreaties and have remained, but Emily declared that she could not and would not stay in the house. She had a few pounds, what would suffice for her journey, and as Mr. Trevelyan had not thought proper to send his orders to her she would go without them. Mrs. Outhouse was her aunt and her nearest relative in England. Upon whom else could she lean in this time of her great affliction? A letter, therefore, was written to Mrs. Outhouse, saying that the whole party, including the boy and nurse, would be at St. Diddolph's on the Monday evening, and the last cord was put to the boxes. I suppose that he is very angry, Mrs. Trevelyan said to her sister, but I do not feel that I care about that now. He shall have nothing to complain of in reference to any gaiety on my part. I will see no one, I will have no correspondence, but I will not remain here after what he has said to me, let him be ever so angry. I declare as I think of it, it seems to me that no woman was ever so cruelly treated as I have been. Then she wrote one further line to her husband. Not having received any orders from you, and having promised Mrs. Stanbury that I would leave this house on Monday, I go with Nora to my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse, to-morrow, E.T. On the Sunday evening the four ladies drank tea together, and they all made an effort to be civil, and even affectionate to each other. Mrs. Trevelyan had at last allowed Priscilla to explain how it had come to pass that she had told her brother that it would be better both for her mother and for herself that the existing arrangements should be brought to an end, and there had come to be an agreement between them that they should all part in amity. But the conversation on the Sunday evening was very difficult. I am sure we shall always think of you both with the greatest kindness, said Mrs. Stanbury. As for me, said Priscilla, your being with us has been a delight that I cannot describe. Only it has been wrong. I know too well, said Mrs. Trevelyan, that in our present circumstances we are unable to carry delight with us anywhere. You hardly understand what our life has been, said Priscilla, but the truth is that we had no right to receive you in such a house as this. It has not been our way of living, and it cannot continue to be so. It is not wonderful that people should talk of us. Had it been called your house it might have been better. And what will you do now, asked Nora? Get out of this place as soon as we can. It is often hard to go back to the right path, but it may always be done, or at least attempted. It seems to me that I take misery with me wherever I go, said Mrs. Trevelyan. My dear, it has not been your fault, said Mrs. Stanbury. I do not like to blame my brother, said Priscilla, because he has done his best to be good to us all, and the punishment will fall heaviest upon him, because he must pay for it. He should not be allowed to pay a shilling, said Mrs. Trevelyan. Then the morning came, and at seven o'clock the two sisters, with the nurse and child, started for Lesborough Station in Mrs. Crockett's open carriage, the luggage having been sent on in a cart. There were many tears shed, and anyone looking at the party would have thought that very dear friends were being torn asunder. Mother, said Priscilla, as soon as the parlor door was shut and the two were alone together. We must take care that we never are brought again into such a mistake as that. They who protect the injured should be strong themselves. It was true that most ill-natured things had been said at Lesborough and at Nuncombe Putney about Mrs. Stanbury and the visitors at the clockhouse, and that these ill-natured things had spread themselves to Exeter. Mrs. Ellison of Lesborough, who was not the most good-natured woman in the world, had told Mrs. Merton of Nuncombe that she had been told that the Colonel's visit to the lady had been made by express arrangement between the Colonel and Mrs. Stanbury. Mrs. Merton, who was very good-natured, but not the wisest woman in the world, had declared that any such conduct on the part of Mrs. Stanbury was quite impossible. What does it matter which it is? Priscilla or her mother, Mrs. Ellison had said, these are the facts. Mrs. Trevelyan has been sent there to be out of the way of this Colonel, and the Colonel immediately comes down and sees her at the clockhouse, but when people are very poor they do get driven to do almost anything. Mrs. Merton, not being very wise, had conceived it to be her duty to repeat this to Priscilla, and Mrs. Ellison, not being very good-natured, had conceived it to be hers to repeat it to Mrs. McHugh at Exeter, and then Basel's coming had been known. Yes, Mrs. McHugh, a policeman in Mufti down at Nuncombe. I wonder what our friend in the close here will think about it. I have always said you know that if she wanted to keep things straight at Nuncombe she should have opened her purse strings. From all which it may be understood, that Priscilla Standbury's desire to go back to their old way of living had not been without reason. It may be imagined that Miss Standbury of the close did not receive with equanimity the reports which reached her, and of course when she discussed the matter either with Martha or with Dorothy she fell back upon her own early appreciation of the folly of the clockhouse arrangement. Nevertheless she had called Mrs. Ellison very bad names when she learned from her friend Mrs. McHugh what reports were being spread by the lady from Lesborough. Mrs. Ellison. Yes, we all know Mrs. Ellison, the bitterest tongue in Devonshire and the falsest. There are some people at Lesborough who would be well pleased if she paid her way there as well as those poor women do at Nuncombe. I don't think much of what Mrs. Ellison says. But it is bad about the policeman, said Mrs. McHugh. Of course it's bad, it's all bad. I'm not saying that it's not bad. I'm glad I've got this other young woman out of it. It's all that young man's doing. If I had a son of my own I'd sooner follow him to the grave than hear him call himself a radical. Then, on a sudden, there came to the close news that Mrs. Trebellion and her sister were gone. On the very Monday on which they went, Priscilla sent a note on to her sister, in which no special illusion was made to Aunt Stanbury, but which was no doubt written with the intention that the news should be communicated. Gone are they? As it is past wishing that they hadn't come, it's the best thing they could do now. And who is to pay the rent of the house now they have gone? As this was a point on which Dorothy was not prepared to trouble herself at present, she made no answer to the question. Dorothy at this time was in a state of very great perturbation on her own account. The reader may perhaps remember that she had been much startled by a proposition that had been made to her in reference to her future life. Her aunt had suggested to her that she should become Mrs. Gibson. She had not as yet given any answer to that proposition, and had indeed found it to be quite impossible to speak about it at all. But there can be no doubt that the suggestion had opened out to her altogether new views of life. Up to a moment of her aunt's speech to her, the idea of her becoming a married woman had never presented itself to her. In her humility it had not occurred to her that she should be counted as one among the candidates for matrimony. Priscilla had taught her to regard herself. Indeed they had both so regarded themselves, as born to eat and drink, as little as might be, and then to die. Now when she was told that she could, if she pleased, become Mrs. Gibson, she was almost lost in a world of new and confused ideas. Since her aunt had spoken, Mr. Gibson himself had dropped a hint or two, which seemed to her to indicate that he also must be in the secret. There had been a party, with a supper, at Mrs. Crumbies, at which both the Miss French's had been present. But Mr. Gibson had taken her, Dorothy Stanbury, out to supper, leaving both Camilla and Arabella behind him in the drawing-room. During the quarter of an hour afterwards, in which the ladies were alone while the gentlemen were eating and drinking, both Camilla and Arabella continued to wreak their vengeance. They asked questions about Mrs. Trevelyan, and suggested that Mr. Gibson might be sent over to put things right. But Miss Stanbury had heard them, and had fallen upon them with a heavy hand. There's a good deal expected of Mr. Gibson, my dears, she said, which it seems to me Mr. Gibson is not inclined to perform. It is quite indifferent to us what Mr. Gibson may be inclined to perform, said Arabella. I'm sure we shan't interfere with Miss Dorothy. As this was said quite out loud before all the other ladies, Dorothy was overcome with shame, but her aunt comforted her when they were again at home. Laws, my dear, what does it matter? When you're Mrs. Gibson, you'll be proud of it all. Was it then really written in the Book of the Fates that she, Dorothy Stanbury, was to become Mrs. Gibson? Poor Dorothy began to feel that she was called upon to exercise an amount of thought and personal decision to which she had not been accustomed. Hitherto, in the things which she had done, or left undone, she had received instructions which she could obey. Had her mother and Priscilla told her positively not to go to her aunt's house, she would have remained at nuncombe without complaint. Had her aunt, since her coming, given her orders as to her mode of life, enjoined, for instance, additional church attendances, or desired her to perform menial services in the house, she would have obeyed from custom without a word. But when she was told that she was to marry Mr. Gibson, it did seem to her to be necessary to do something more than obey. Did she love Mr. Gibson? She tried hard to teach herself to think that she might learn to love him. He was a nice-looking man enough, with sandy hair and a head rather bald, with thin lips and a narrow nose, who certainly did preach drawing sermons, but of whom everybody said that he was a very excellent clergyman. He had a house and an income, and all Exeter had long since decided that he was a man who would certainly marry. He was one of those men of whom it may be said that they have no possible claim to remain unmarried. He was fair game, and unless he surrendered himself to be bagged before long, would subject himself to just and loud complaint. The mis-Frenches had been aware of this, and had thought to make sure of him among them. It was a little hard upon them that the old maid of the close, as they always called Miss Stanbury, should interfere with them when their booty was almost one, and they felt it to be the harder because Dorothy Stanbury was, as they thought, so poor a creature. That Dorothy herself should have any doubt as to accepting Mr. Gibson was an idea that never occurred to them. But Dorothy had her doubts. When she came to think of it, she remembered that she had never as yet spoken a word to Mr. Gibson beyond such little trifling remarks as are made over a tea-table. She might learn to love him, but she did not think that she loved him as yet. I don't suppose all this will make any difference to Mr. Gibson, said Miss Stanbury to her niece, on the morning after the receipt of Priscilla's note stating that the Trebellions had left Nuncombe. Dorothy always blushed when Mr. Gibson's name was mentioned, and she blushed now, but she did not at all understand her ancillusion. I don't know what you mean, Aunt, she said. Well, you know, my dear, what they say about Mrs. Trebellion and the clockhouse is not very nice. If Mr. Gibson were to turn round and say that the connection wasn't pleasant, no one would have a right to complain. The faint, customary blush on Dorothy's cheeks, which Mr. Gibson's name had produced, now covered her whole face, even up to the roots of her hair. If he believes bad of Mama, I'm sure, Aunt Stanbury, I don't want to see him again. That's all very fine, my dear, but a man has to think of himself, you know. Of course he thinks of himself. Why shouldn't he? I dare say he thinks of himself more than I do. Dorothy, don't be a fool. A good husband isn't to be caught every day. Aunt Stanbury, I don't want to catch any man. Dorothy, don't be a fool. I must say it. I don't suppose Mr. Gibson thinks of me the least in the world. Sha, I tell you he does. But as for Mama and Priscilla, I could never like anybody for a moment who would be ashamed of them. She was most anxious to declare that as far as she knew herself and her own wishes at present, she entertained no partiality for Mr. Gibson, no feeling which could become partiality, even if Mr. Gibson was to declare himself willing to accept her mother and her sister with herself. But she did not dare to say so. There was an instinct within her, which made it almost impossible to her to express an objection to a suitor before the suitor had declared himself to be one. She could speak out as touching her mother and her sister, but as to her own feelings she could express neither assent nor dissent. I should like to have it settled soon, said Miss Stanbury, in a melancholy voice. Even to this Dorothy could make no reply. What did soon mean, perhaps in the course of a year or two? If it could be arranged by the end of this week, it would be a great comfort to me. Dorothy almost fell off her chair and was stricken altogether dumb. I told you, I think, that Brooke Burgess is coming here. You said he was to come some day. He is to be here on Monday. I haven't seen him for more than twelve years, and now he's to be here next week. Dear, dear, when I think sometimes of all the hard words that have been spoken and the harder thoughts that have been in people's minds, I often regret that the money ever came to me at all. I could have done without it very well. Very well. But all the unpleasantness is over now, Aunt. I don't know about that. Unpleasantness of that kind is apt to wrinkle long. But I wasn't going to give up my rights. Nobody but a coward does that. They talked of going to law and trying the will, but they wouldn't have got much by that. And then they abused me for two years. When they had done and got sick of it, I told them they should have it all back again as soon as I am dead. It won't be long now. This Burgess is the elder nephew, and he shall have it all. Is not he grateful? No. Why should he be grateful? I don't do it for special love of him. I don't want his gratitude nor anybody's gratitude. Look at Hugh. I did love him. I am grateful, Aunt Stanbury. Are you, my dear? Then show it by being a good wife to Mr. Gibson and a happy wife. I want to get everything settled while Burgess is here. If he is to have it, why should I keep him out of it whilst I live? I wonder whether Mr. Gibson would mind coming and living here, Dolly. The thing was coming so near to her that Dorothy began to feel that she must, in truth, make up her mind and let her aunt know also how it had been made up. She was sensible enough to perceive that if she did not prepare herself for the occasion, she would find herself hampered by an engagement, simply because her aunt had presumed that it was out of the question that she should not acquiesce. She would drift into marriage with Mr. Gibson against her will. Her greatest difficulty was the fact that her aunt clearly had no doubt on the subject, and as for herself, hitherto her feelings did not, on either side, go beyond doubts. Assuredly it would be a very good thing for her to become Mrs. Gibson if only she could create for herself some attachment for the man. At the present moment her aunt said nothing more about Mr. Gibson, having her mind much occupied with the coming of Mr. Brooke Burgess. I remember him twenty years ago and more, as nice a boy as you would wish to see. His father was the fourth of the brothers. Dear, dear, three of them are gone, and the only one remaining is old Barty, whom no one ever loved. The Burgesses had been great people in Exeter, having been both bankers and brewers there, but the light of the family had paled, and though Bartholomew Burgess, of whom Ms. Stanbury declared that no one had ever loved him, still had to share in the bank, it was well understood in the city that the real wealth in the firm of Cropper and Burgess belonged to the Cropper family. Indeed the most considerable portion of the fortune that had been realized by old Mr. Burgess had come into the possession of Ms. Stanbury herself. Bartholomew Burgess had never forgiven his brother's will, and between him and Jemima Stanbury the feud was irreconcilable. The next brother, Tom Burgess, had been a solicitor at Liverpool and had done well there, but Ms. Stanbury knew nothing of the Tom Burgesses, as she called them. The fourth brother, Harry Burgess, had been a clergyman, and this Brooke Burgess, Jr., who was now coming to the close, had been left with the widowed mother, the eldest of a large family. It need not now be told at length how there had been ill blood also between this clergyman and the heiress. There had been attempts at friendship, and at one time Ms. Stanbury had received the reverend Harry Burgess and all his family at the close. But the attempts had not been successful, and though our old friend had never wavered in her determination to leave the money all back to someone of the Burgess family, and with this view had made a pilgrimage to London some twelve years since, and had renewed her acquaintance with the widow and the children, still there had been no comfortable relations between her and any of the Burgess family. Old Barty Burgess, whom she met in the close, or saw in the high street every day of her life, was her great enemy. He had tried his best, so at least she was convinced, to drive her out of the pale of society, years upon years ago, by saying evil things of her. She had conquered in that combat. Her victory had been complete, and she had triumphed after a most signal fashion. But this triumph did not silence Barty's tongue, nor soften his heart. When she prayed to be forgiven, as she herself forgave others, she always exempted Barty Burgess from her prayers. There are things which flesh and blood cannot do. She had not liked Harry Burgess widow, nor for the matter of that Harry Burgess himself. When she had last seen the children, she had not liked any of them much, and had had her doubts even as to Brooke. But with that branch of the family she was willing to try again. Brooke was now coming to the close, having received however an intimation that if, during his visit to Exeter, he chose to see his uncle Barty, any such intercourse must be kept quite in the background. While he remained in Miss Standbury's house, he was to remain there as though there were no such person as Mr. Bertholomew Burgess in Exeter. At this time, Brooke Burgess was a man just turned thirty, and was a clerk in the ecclesiastical record office in Somerset House. No doubt the peculiar nature and name of the public department to which he was attached, had done something to recommend him to Miss Standbury. Ecclesiastical records were things greatly to be reverenced in her eyes, and she felt that a gentleman who handled them and dealt with them would probably be sedate, gentlemen-like, and conservative. Brooke Burgess, when she had last seen him, was just about to enter upon the duties of the office. Then there had come a fence, and she had in truth known nothing of him from that day to this. The visitor was to be at Exeter on the following Monday, and very much was done in preparation of his coming. There was to be a dinner party on that very day, and dinner parties were not common with Miss Standbury. She had, however, explained to Martha that she intended to put her best foot forward. Martha understood perfectly that Mr. Brooke Burgess was to be received as the heir of property. Sir Peter Mann Crudy, the great Devonshire chemist, was coming to dinner, and Mr. and Mrs. Powell from Halden, people of great distinction in that part of the county, Mrs. McHugh, of course, and equally, of course, Mr. Gibson. There was a deep discussion between Miss Standbury and Martha as to asking two of the Cliffords and Mr. and Mrs. Noel from Dottiscombe, Lee. Martha had been very much in favor of having twelve. Miss Standbury had declared that with twelve she must have two waders from the Greengrocers, and that two waders would overpower her own domesticities below stairs. Martha had declared that she didn't care about them any more than if they were puppy dogs, but Miss Standbury had been quite firm against twelve. She had consented to have ten, for the sake of artistic arrangement at the table. They should be pantaloons and petticoats alternate, you know, she had said to Martha, and had therefore asked the Cliffords. But the Cliffords could not come, and then she had declined to make any further attempt. Indeed a new idea had struck her. Brooke Burgess, her guest, should sit at one end of the table, and Mr. Gibson the clergyman at the other. In this way the proper alternation would be effected. When Martha heard this, Martha quite understood the extent of the good fortune that was in store for Dorothy. If Mr. Gibson was to be welcomed in that way, it could only be in preparation of his becoming one of the family. And Dorothy herself became aware that she must make up her mind. It was not so declared to her, but she came to understand that it was very probable that something would occur on the coming Monday which would require her to be ready with her answer on that day. And she was greatly tormented by feeling that if she could not bring herself to accept Mr. Gibson, should Mr. Gibson propose to her, as to which she continued to tell herself that the chance of such a thing must be very remote indeed, but that if he should propose to her, and if she could not accept him, her aunt ought to know that it would be so before the moment came. But yet she could not bring herself to speak to her aunt as though any such proposition were possible. It happened that during the week, on the Saturday, Priscilla came into Exeter. Dorothy met her sister at the railway station, and then the two walked together two miles and back along the crediton road. Aunt Standbury had consented to Priscilla coming to the clothes, even though it was not the day appointed for such visits, but the walk had been preferred, and Dorothy felt that she would be able to ask for counsel from the only human being to whom she could have brought herself to confide the fact that a gentleman was expected to ask her to marry him. But it was not till they had turned upon their walk that she was able to open her mouth on the subject even to her sister. Priscilla had been very full of their own cares at Nuncombe and had said much of her determination to leave the clockhouse and to return to the retirement of some small cottage. She had already written to Hugh to this effect, and during their walk had said much of her own folly in having consented to so great a change in their mode of life. At last Dorothy struck in with her story. Aunt Standbury wants me to make a change, too. What change? asked Priscilla anxiously. It is not my idea, Priscilla, and I don't think that there can be anything in it. Indeed, I'm sure there isn't. I don't see how it's possible that there should be. But what is it, Dolly? I suppose there can't be any harm in my telling you. If it's anything concerning yourself, I should say not. If it concerns Aunt Standbury, I dare say she'd rather you held your tongue. It concerns me most, said Dorothy. She doesn't want you to leave her, does she? Well, yes, no. By what she said last, I shouldn't leave her at all in that way. Only I'm sure it's not possible. I am the worst hand in the world, Dolly, at guessing a riddle. You've heard of that Mr. Gibson. The clergyman, haven't you? Of course I have. Well, mind, you know it's only what Aunt Standbury says. He has never so much as opened his lips to me himself, except to say, how do you do, and that kind of thing. Aunt Standbury wants you to marry him. Yes. Well, of course it's out of the question, said Dorothy, sadly. I don't see why it should be out of the question, said Priscilla proudly. Indeed, if Aunt Standbury has said much about it, I should say that Mr. Gibson himself must have spoken to her. Do you think he has? I do not believe that my aunt would raise false hopes, said Priscilla. But I haven't any hopes. That is to say, I had never thought about such a thing. But you think about it now, Dolly. I should never have dreamed about it, only for Aunt Standbury. But dearest, you are dreaming of it now, are you not? Only because she says that it is to be so, you don't know how generous she is. She says that if it should be so, she will give me ever so much money—two thousand pounds. Then I am quite sure that she and Mr. Gibson must understand each other. Of course, said Dorothy, sadly. If you were to think of such a thing at all, it would only be because the money would be convenient. Not at all, said Priscilla sternly, with a sternness that was very comfortable to her listener. Not at all. Why should not Mr. Gibson love you as well as any man ever loved any woman? You are nice-looking. Dorothy blushed beneath her hat even at her sister's praise. And good-tempered and lovable in every way. And I think you are just fitted to make a good wife. And you must not suppose, Dolly, that because Mr. Gibson wouldn't perhaps have asked you without the money, that therefore he is mercenary, it so often happens that a gentleman can't marry unless the lady has some money. But he hasn't asked me at all. I suppose he will, dear. I only know what Aunt Standbury says. You may be sure that he will ask you. And what must I say, Priscilla? What must you say? Nobody can tell you that, dear, but yourself. Do you like him? I don't dislike him. Is that all? I know him so very little, Priscilla. Everybody says he is very good. And then it's a great thing, isn't it, that he should be a clergyman? I don't know about that. I think it is. If it were possible that I should ever marry anyone, I should like a clergyman so much the best. Then you do know what to say to him. No, I don't, Priscilla. I don't know at all. Look here, dearest. What my aunt offers to you is a very great step in life. If you can accept this gentleman, I think you would be happy. And I think also, which should be of more importance for your consideration, that you would make him happy. It is a brighter prospect, dear Dolly, than to live either with us at Nuncombe or even with Aunt Standbury as her niece. But if I don't love him, Priscilla, then give it up and be as you are my own, own dearest sister. So I will, said Dorothy. And at that time, her mind was made up.