 37 The night had been fine and warm, and it was now noon on a fine September day when the train from Paris reached St. Michael, on the route to Italy by Monsigny. As all the world knows St. Michael is, or was, a year or two back, the end of railway travelling in that direction. At the time Mr. Fell's grand project of carrying a line of rails over the top of the mountain was only in preparation, and the journey from St. Michael to Sousa was still made by the diligence's, those dear old continental coaches which are now nearly as extinct as our own, but which did not deserve death so fully as did our abominable vehicles. The Coupe of a diligence, or better still, the banquette, was a luxurious mode of travelling as compared with anything that our coaches offered. There used indeed to be a certain halo of glory round the occupant of the box of a male coach. The man who had secured that seat was supposed to know something about the world, and to be such a one that the passengers sitting behind him would be proud to be allowed to talk to him. But the prestige of the position was greater than the comfort. A night on the box of a male coach was but a bad time, and a night inside a male coach was a night in purgatory, whereas a seat up above on the banquette of a diligence passing over the Alps, with room for the feet and support for the back, with plenty of rugs and plenty of tobacco, used to be on the Molceny, and still is on some other mountain passes a very comfortable mode of seeing a mountain route. For those desirous of occupying the Coupe, or the three front seats of the body of the vehicle, it must be admitted that difficulties frequently arose, and that such difficulties were very common at St. Michael. There would be two or three of those enormous vehicles preparing to start for the mountain, whereas it would appear that twelve or fifteen passengers had come down from Paris, armed with tickets assuring them that this preferable mode of travelling should be theirs. And then assertions would be made, somewhat recklessly, by the officials to the effect that all the diligence was Coupe. It would generally be the case that some middle-aged Englishmen who could not speak French would go to the Wall, together with his wife. Middle-aged Englishmen with their wives, who can't speak French, can nevertheless be very angry and threaten loudly when they suppose themselves to be ill-treated. A middle-aged Englishman, though he can't speak a word of French, won't believe a French official who tells him that the diligence is all Coupe, when he finds himself with his unfortunate partner in a roundabout place behind, with two priests, a dirty man who looks like a brigand, a sick maid-servant, and three agricultural labourers. The attempt, however, was frequently made, and thus there used to be occasionally a little noise round the bureau at St. Michael. On the morning of which we are speaking, two Englishmen had just made good their claim, each independently of the other, each without having heard or seen the other, when two American ladies, coming up very tardily, endeavored to prove their rights. The ladies were without other companions, and were not fluent with their French, but were clearly entitled to their seats. They were told that the conveyance was all Coupe, but perversely would not believe the statement. The official shrugged his shoulders and signified that his ultimatum had been pronounced. What can an official do in such circumstances, when more Coupe passengers are sent to him than the Coupes at his command will hold? But we have paid for the Coupe, said the elder American lady, with considerable indignation, though her French was imperfect, for American ladies understand their rights. Bah! Yes, you have paid, and you shall go. What would you have? We would have what we have paid for, said the American lady. Then the official rose from his stool and shrugged his shoulders again, and made a motion with both his hands, intended to show that the thing was finished. It is a robbery, said the elder American lady to the younger. I should not mind, only you are so unwell. It will not kill me, I dare say, said the younger. Then one of the English gentlemen declared that his place was very much at the service of the invalid, and the other Englishman declared that his also was at the service of the invalid's companion. Then and not till then the two men recognized each other. One was Mr. Glasscock on his way to Naples, and the other was Mr. Trevelyan on his way, he knew not wither. Upon this, of course, they spoke to each other. In London they had been well acquainted, each having been an intimate guest at the house of old Lady Milborough, and each knew something of the other's recent history. Mr. Glasscock was aware, as was all the world, that Trevelyan had quarreled with his wife, and Trevelyan was aware that Mr. Glasscock had been spoken of as a suitor to his own sister-in-law. Of that visit which Mr. Glasscock had made to Nuncomputney, and of the manner in which Nora had behaved to her lover, Trevelyan knew nothing. Their greetings spoken, their first topic of conversation was, of course, the injury proposed to be done to the American ladies, and which would now fall upon them. They went into the waiting-room together, and during such toilet as they could make there, grumbled furiously. They would take post-horses over the mountain, not from any love of solitary grandeur, but in order that they might make the company pay for its iniquity. But it was soon apparent to them that they themselves had no ground of complaint, and as everybody was very civil, and as a seat in the bonket over the heads of the American ladies was provided for them, and as the man from the bureau came and apologized, they consented to be pacified, and ended, of course, by tipping half a dozen of the servants about the yard. Mr. Glasscock had a man of his own with him, who was very nearly being put on to the same seat with his master as an extra civility, but this inconvenience was at last avoided. Having settled these little difficulties, they went into breakfast in the buffet. There could be no better breakfast than used to be given in the buffet at the railway terminus at St. Michael. The company might occasionally be led into errors about that question of coupé seats, but in reference to their provisions, they set an example which might be of great use to us here in England. It is probably the case that breakfasts for travelers are not so frequently needed here as they are on the continent, but still there is often to be found a crowd of people ready to eat if only the wherewithal were there. We are often told in our newspapers that England is disgraced by this and by that, by the unreadiness of our army, by the unfitness of our navy, by the irrationality of our laws, by the immobility of our prejudices, and what not, but the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich, that whited sepulcher, fair enough outside, but so meager, poor, and spiritless within, such a thing of shreds and pairings, such a dab of food, telling us that the poor bone, once it was scraped, had been made utterly bare before it was sent into the kitchen for the soup pot. In France, one does get food at the railway stations, and at St. Michael the breakfast was unexceptional. Our two friends seated themselves near to the American ladies, and were, of course, thanks for their politeness. American women are taught by the habits of their country to think that men should give way to them more absolutely than is in accordance with the practices of life in Europe. A seat in a public conveyance in the States, when merely occupied by a man, used to be regarded by any woman as being at her service as completely as though it were vacant. One woman indicating a place to another would point with equal freedom to a man or a space. It is said that this is a little altered now, and that European views on this subject are spreading themselves. Our two ladies, however, who were pretty, clever-looking, and attractive even after their night's journey, were manifestly more impressed with the villainy of the French officials than they were with the kindness of their English neighbors. "'And nothing can be done to punish them,' said the younger of them to Mr. Glasscock. "'Nothing, I should think,' said he, "'Nothing will at any rate.' "'And you will not get back your money,' said the elder, who though the elder was probably not much above twenty. "'Well, no. Time is money,' they say. It would take thrice the value of the time in money, and then one would probably fail. They have done very well for us, and I suppose there are difficulties.' "'It couldn't have taken place in our country,' said the younger lady. "'All the same we are very much obliged to you. It would not have been nice for us to have to go up into the bonquette. They would have put you into the interior. And that would have been worse. I hate being put anywhere, as if I were a sheep. It seems so odd to us that you here should be also tamed.'" "'Do you mean the English or the French, or the world in general on this side of the Atlantic?' "'We mean Europeans,' said the younger lady, who was better after her breakfast. But then we think that the French have something of compensation in their manners and their ways of life, their climate, the beauty of their cities, and their general management of things. "'They are very great in many ways, no doubt,' said Mr. Glasscock. "'They do understand living better than you do,' said the elder. "'Everything is so much brighter with them,' said the younger. "'They can try to give a grace to everyday existence,' said the elder. "'There is such a welcome among them for strangers,' said the younger. "'Particularly in reference to places taken in the coupé,' said Trevelyan, who had hardly spoken before. "'Ah, that is an affair of honesty,' said the elder. "'If we want honesty, I believe we must go back to the stars and stripes.' Mr. Glasscock looked up from his plate almost aghast. He said nothing, however, but called for the waiter and paid for his breakfast. Nevertheless there was a considerable amount of travelling friendship engendered between the ladies and our two friends before the diligence had left the railway yard. They were two misspaldings, going on to Florence, at which place they had an uncle, who was minister from the states to the kingdom of Italy, and they were not at all unwilling to receive such little civilities as gentlemen can give to ladies when travelling. The whole party intended to sleep at Turin that night, and they were all together on good terms with each other when they started on the journey from St. Michael. "'Clever women, those,' said Mr. Glasscock, as soon as they had arranged their legs and arms in the banquette. "'Yes, indeed.' "'American women always are clever, and are almost always pretty.' "'I do not like them,' said Trevelyan, who in these days was in a mood to like nothing. They are exigent, and then they are so hard, they want the weakness that a woman ought to have. That comes from what they would call your insular prejudice. We are accustomed to less self-assertion on the part of women than is customary with them. We prefer women to rule us by seeming to yield. In the states, as I take it, the women never yield, and the men have to fight their own battles with other tactics. I don't know what their tactics are. They keep their distance. The men live much by themselves, as though they knew they would not have a chance in the presence of their wives and daughters. Nevertheless, they don't manage these things badly. You very rarely hear of an American being separated from his wife. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Mr. Glasscock knew and remembered and felt what he had said. There are occasions in which a man sins so deeply against fitness and the circumstances of the hour that it becomes impossible for him to slur over his sin as though it had not been committed. There are certain little peccadillos in society which one can manage to throw behind one, perhaps with some difficulty and awkwardness, but still they are put aside and conversation goes on, though with a hitch. But there are graver offenses, the gravity of which strikes the offender so seriously that it becomes impossible for him to seem even to ignore his own iniquity. Menaces must be eaten publicly, and sackcloth worn before the eyes of men. It was so now with poor Mr. Glasscock. He thought about it for a moment, whether or no it was possible that he should continue his remarks about the American ladies without betraying his own consciousness of the thing that he had done, and he found that it was quite impossible. He knew that he was red up to his hairs, and hot, and that his blood tingled. His blushes, indeed, would not be seen in the seclusion of the bonket, but he could not overcome the heat and the tingling. There was silence for about three minutes, and then he felt that it would be best for him to confess his own fault. Trevelyan, he said, I am very sorry for the illusion that I made. I ought to have been less awkward, and I beg your pardon. It does not matter, said Trevelyan. Of course I know that everybody is talking of it behind my back. I am not to expect that people will be silent because I am unhappy. Nevertheless, I beg your pardon, said the other. There was but little further conversation between them till they reached Lons de Bourgue, at the foot of the mountain, at which place they occupied themselves with getting coffee for the two American ladies. The Miss Baldings took their coffee almost with as much grace as though it had been handed to them by Frenchmen, and indeed they were very gracious, as is the nature of American ladies in spite of that hardness of which Trevelyan had complained. They assume an intimacy readily, with no appearance of impropriety, and are at their ease easily. When therefore they were handed out of their carriage by Mr. Glasscock, the bystanders at Lons de Bourgue, might have thought that the whole party had been travelling together from New York. What should we have done if you hadn't taken pity on us, said the elder lady? I don't think we could have climbed up into that high place, and look at the crowd that have come out of the interior. A man has some advantages after all. I am quite in the dark as to what they are, said Mr. Glasscock. He can give up his place to a lady, and can climb up into a banquette. And he can be a member of Congress, said the younger. I'd sooner be senator from Massachusetts than be the Queen of England. So would I, said Mr. Glasscock. I'm glad we can agree about one thing. The two gentlemen agreed to walk up the mountain together, and with some trouble induced the conductor to permit them to do so. Why conductors of diligence should object to such relief to their horses, the ordinary Englishmen can hardly understand. But in truth they feel so deeply the responsibility, which attaches itself to their shepherding of their sheep, that they are always fearing lest some poor lamb should go astray on the mountain side. And though the road be broad and very plainly marked, the conductor never feels secure that his passenger will find his way safely to the summit. He likes to know that each of his flock is in his right place, and disapproves altogether of an erratic spirit. But Mr. Glasscock at last prevailed, and the two men started together up the mountain. When the permission has been once obtained, the walker may be sure that his guide and shepherd will not desert him. Of course I know, said Trevalian, when the third twist up the mountain had been overcome, that people talk about me and my wife, it is a part of the punishment for the mistake that one makes. It is a sad affair altogether. The saddest in the world, Lady Milbara has no doubt spoken to you about it. Well, yes, she has. How could she help it? I am not such a fool as to suppose that people are to hold their tongues about me more than they do about others. Intimate as she is with you, of course, she has spoken to you. I was in hopes that something might have been done by this time. Nothing has been done. Sometimes I think I shall put an end to myself, it makes me so wretched. Then why don't you agree to forget and forgive and have done with it? That is so easily said, so easily said. After this they walked on in silence for a considerable distance. Mr. Glasscock was not anxious to talk about Trevalian's wife, but he did wish to ask a question or two about Mrs. Trevalian's sister, if only this could be done without telling too much of his own secret. There's nothing I think so grand as walking up a mountain, he said after a while. It's all very well, said Trevalian, in a tone which seemed to imply that to him in his present miserable condition all recreations, exercises, and occupations were mere leather and prunella. I don't mean you know in the Alpine Clubway, said Glasscock. I'm too old and too stiff for that, but when the path is good and the air not too cold, and when it is neither snowing nor thawing nor raining, and when the sun isn't hot, and you've got plenty of time, and know that you can stop any moment you like and be pushed up by a carriage, I do think walking up a mountain is very fine. If you've got proper shoes and a good stick, and it isn't too soon after dinner, there's nothing like the air of Alps. And Mr. Glasscock renewed his pace and stretched himself against the hill at the rate of three miles an hour. I used to be very fond of Switzerland, said Trevalian, but I don't care about it now. My eye has lost all its taste. It isn't the eye, said Glasscock. Well, no, the truth is that when one is absolutely unhappy one cannot revel in the imagination. I don't believe in the miseries of poets. I think myself, said Glasscock, that a poet should have a good digestion. By the by, Mrs. Trevalian and her sister went down to Nuncomputny in Devonshire. They did go there. Have they moved since? A very pretty place is Nuncomputny. You have been there, then. Mr. Glasscock blushed again. He was certainly an awkward man, saying things that he ought not to say, and telling secrets which ought not to have been told. Well, yes, I have been there, as it happens. Just lately, do you mean? Mr. Glasscock paused, hoping to find his way out of the scrape, but soon perceived that there was no way out. He could not lie, even in an affair of love, and was altogether destitute of those honest subterfuges—subterfuges honest in such position—of which a dozen would have been at once at the command of any woman, and with one of which, sufficient for the moment, most men would have been able to arm themselves. Indeed, yes, he said, almost stammering as he spoke, it was lately, since your wife went there. Trevalian, though he had been told of the possibility of Mr. Glasscock's courtship, felt himself almost aggrieved by this man's intrusion on his wife's retreat. Had he not sent her there that she might be private, and what right had anyone to invade such privacy? I suppose I had better tell the truth at once, said Mr. Glasscock. I went to see Miss Rowley. Oh, indeed! My secret will be safe with you, I know. I did not know that there was a secret, said Trevalian. I should have thought that they would have told me. I don't see that. However, it doesn't matter much. I got nothing by my journey. Are the ladies still at Nuncomputny? No, they have moved from there to London. Not back to Curson Street. Oh, dear no! There is no house in Curson Street for them now. This was said in a tone so sad that it almost made Mr. Glasscock weep. They are staying with an ant of theirs, out to the east of the city. At St. Diddolf's? Yes, with Mr. Outhouse, the clergyman there. You can't conceive what it is not to be able to see your own child, and yet how can I take the boy from her? Of course not, he's only a baby. And yet all this is brought on me solely by her obstinacy. God knows, however, I don't want to say a word against her. People choose to say that I am to blame, and they may say so for me. Nothing that anyone may say can add anything to the weight that I have to bear. Then they walked to the top of the mountain in silence, and in due time were picked up by their proper shepherd, and carried down to Sousa at a pace that would give an English coachman a concussion of the brain. Why passengers for Turin, who reach Sousa dusty, tired, and sleepy, should be detained at that place for an hour and a half instead of being forwarded to their beds in the great city, is never made very apparent. All travelling officials on the continent of Europe are very slow in their manipulation of luggage, but as they are equally correct we will find the excuse for their tardiness in the latter quality. The hour and a half, however, is a necessity, and it is very grievous. On this occasion the two misspaldings ate their supper, and the two gentlemen waited on them. The ladies had learned to regard at any rate Mr. Glasscock as their own property, and received his services, graciously indeed, but quite as a matter of course. When he was sent from their peculiar corner of the big dirty refreshment room to the supper table to fetch an apple, and then desired to change it because the one which he had brought was spotted, he rather liked it, and when he sat down with his knees near to theirs, actually trying to eat a large Italian apple himself, simply because they had eaten one, and discussed with them the passage over the Molsoni, he began to think that Susa was, after all, a place in which an hour and a half might be wild away without much cause for complaint. We only stay one night at Turin, said Caroline Spalding, the elder, and we shall have to start at ten to get through to Florence tomorrow, said Olivia, the younger, isn't it cruel wasting all this time when we might be in bed? It is not for me to complain of the cruelty, said Mr. Glasscock. We should have fared infinitely worse if we hadn't met you, said Caroline Spalding, but our Republican simplicity won't allow us to assert that even your society is better than going to bed, after a journey of thirty hours, said Olivia. In the meantime Trevalion was roaming about the station moodily by himself, and the place is one not apt to restore cheerfulness to a moody man by any resources of its own. When the time for departure came, Mr. Glasscock sought him and found him, but Trevalion had chosen a corner for himself in a carriage, and declared that he would rather avoid the ladies for the present. Don't think me uncivil to leave you, he said, but the truth is I don't like American ladies. I do rather, said Mr. Glasscock. You can say that I've got a headache, said Trevalion. So Mr. Glasscock returned to his friends, and did say that Mr. Trevalion had a headache. It was the first time that a name had been mentioned between them. Mr. Trevalion, what a pretty name! It sounds like a novel, said Olivia. A very clever man, said Mr. Glasscock, and much liked by his own circle, but he has had trouble and is unhappy. He looks unhappy, said Caroline. The most miserable looking man I ever saw in my life, said Olivia. Then it was agreed between them as they went up to Trumpetta's hotel that they would go on together by the ten o'clock train to Florence. End of CHAPTER XXXVII. Trevalion was left alone at Turin when Mr. Glasscock went on to Florence with his fair American friends. It was imperatively necessary that he should remain at Turin, though he had no business there of any kind whatever, and did not know a single person in the city. And of all towns in Italy, Turin has perhaps less of a traction to offer the solitary visitor than any other. It is new and parallelogrammatic as an American town, is very cold in cold weather, very hot in hot weather, and now that it has been robbed of its life as a capital, is as dull and uninteresting as though it were German or English. There is the armory and the river Poe, and a good hotel. But what are these things to a man who is forced to live alone in a place for four days or perhaps a week? Trevalion was bound to remain at Turin till he should hear from Basel. No one but Basel knew his address, and he could do nothing till Basel should have communicated to him tidings of what was being done at St. Diddalf's. There is perhaps no great social question so imperfectly understood among us at the present day as that which refers to the line which divides sanity from insanity, that this man is sane and that other, unfortunately, mad we do know well enough, and we know also that one man may be subject to various hallucinations, may fancy himself to be a teapot or whatnot, and yet be in such a condition of mind as to call for no intervention, either on behalf of his friends or of the law, while another may be in possession of intellectual faculties capable of lucid exertion for the highest purposes, and yet be so mad that bodily restraint upon him is indispensable. We know that the sane man is responsible for what he does and that the insane man is irresponsible, but we do not know, we only guess wildly, at the state of mind of those who now and again act like madmen, though no court or council of experts has declared them to be mad. The bias of the public mind is to press heavily on such men till the law attempts to touch them, as though they were thoroughly responsible, and then when the law interferes, to screen them as though they were altogether irresponsible. The same juryman who would find a man mad who has murdered a young woman would in private life express a desire that the same young man should be hung, crucified, or skinned alive if he had moodily and without reason broken his faith to the young woman in lieu of killing her. Now Trevelyan was, in truth, mad on the subject of his wife's alleged infidelity. He had abandoned everything that he valued in the world, and had made himself wretched in every affair of life, because he could not submit to acknowledge to himself the possibility of error on his own part. For that, in truth, was the condition of his mind. He had never hitherto believed that she had been false to her vow and had sinned against him irredeemably, but he had thought that in her regard for another man she had slighted him, and so thinking he had subjected her to a severity of rebuke which no high-spirited woman could have borne. His wife had not tried to bear it, and her indignation had not striven to cure the evil. Then had come his resolution that she should submit or part from him, and having so resolved nothing could shake him. Though every friend he possessed was now against him, including even Lady Milbara, he was certain that he was right, had not his wife sworn to obey him, and was not her whole conduct one tissue of disobedience, would not the man who submitted to this find himself driven to submit to things worse? Let her own her fault, let her submit, and then she should come back to him. He had not considered, when his resolutions to this effect were first forming themselves, that a separation between a man and his wife once affected cannot be annulled, and as it were cured so as to leave no cicatris behind. Lady, as he spent day after day in thinking on this one subject, he came to feel that even were his wife to submit, to own her fault humbly and to come back to him, this very coming back would in itself be a new wound. Could he go out again with his wife on his arm, to the houses of those who knew that he had repudiated her because of her friendship with another man? Could he open again that house in Curson Street, and let things go on quietly as they had gone before? He told himself that it was impossible, that he and she were ineffably disgraced, that if reunited they must live buried out of sight in some remote distance. And he told himself also that he could never be with her again night or day without thinking of the separation. His happiness had been shipwrecked. Then he had put himself into the hands of Mr. Basel, and Mr. Basel had taught him that women very often do go astray. Mr. Basel's idea of female virtue was not high, and he had opportunities of implanting his idea on his client's mind. Trevalian hated the man. He was filled with disgust by Basel's words, and was made miserable by Basel's presence. Yet he came gradually to believe in Basel. Basel alone believed in him. There were none but Basel who did not bid him to submit himself to his disobedient wife. And then as he came to believe in Basel, he grew to be more and more assured that no one but Basel could tell him facts. His chivalry and love and sense of woman's honour, with something of manly pride on his own part, so he told himself, had taught him to believe it to be impossible that his wife should have sinned. Basel, who knew the world, thought otherwise. Basel, who had no interest in the matter one way or the other, would find out facts. What if his chivalry and love and manly pride had deceived him? There were women who sinned. Then he prayed that his wife might not be such a woman, and got up from his prayers almost convinced that she was a sinner. His mind was at work upon it always. Could it be that she was so base as this, so vile a thing so abject such dirt pollution filth? But there were such cases. Nay, were they not almost numberless? He found himself reading in the papers records of such things from day to day, and thought that in doing so he was simply acquiring experience necessary for himself. If it were so, he had indeed done well to separate himself from a thing so infamous. And if it were not so, how could it be that that man had gone to her in Devonshire? He had received from his wife's hands a short note addressed to the man, in which the man was desired by her not to go to her, or to write to her again because of her husband's commands. He had shown this to Basel, and Basel had smiled. It's just the sort of thing they does, Basel had said, then they writes another by post. He had consulted Basel as to the sending on of that letter, and Basel had been strongly of opinion that it should be forwarded, a copy having been duly taken and attested by himself. It might be very pretty evidence by and by. If the letter were not forwarded, Basel thought that the omission to do so might be given in evidence against his employer. Basel was very careful and full of evidence. The letter, therefore, was sent on to Colonel Osborne. If there's Billy-dos going between them we shall knobble them, said Basel. Travalion tore his hair in despair, but believed that there would be Billy-dos. He came to believe everything, and though he prayed fervently that his wife might not be led astray, that she might be saved at any rate from utter vice, yet he almost came to hope that it might be otherwise. Not indeed with the hope of the sane man, who desires that which he tells himself to be for his advantage, but with the hope of the insane man, who loves to feed his grievance even though the grief should be his death. They who do not understand that a man may be brought to hope that which of all things is the most grievous to him, have not observed with sufficient closeness the perversity of the human mind. Travalion would have given all that he had to save his wife, would even now have cut his tongue out before he would have expressed to anyone, save to Basel, a suspicion that she could in truth have been guilty, was continually telling himself that further life would be impossible to him if he, and she, and that child of theirs should be thus disgraced. And yet he expected it, believed it, and after a fashion he almost hoped it. He was to wait at Turin till tidings should come from Basel, and after that he would go on to Venice, but he would not move from Turin till he should have received his first communication from England. When he had been three days at Turin they came to him, and among other letters in Basel's packet there was a letter addressed in his wife's handwriting. The letter was simply directed to Basel's house. In what possible way could his wife have found out ought of his dealings with Basel, where Basel lived, or could have learned that letters intended for him should be sent to the man's own residence? Before however we inspect the contents of Mr. Basel's dispatch, we will go back and see how Mrs. Trevelyan had discovered the manner of forwarding a letter to her husband. The matter of the address was indeed very simple. All letters for Trevelyan were to be redirected from the house in Curson Street, and from the chambers in Lincoln's Inn to the Acrobat's Club. To the porter of the Acrobat's Club had been confided the secret, not of Basel's name, but of Basel's private address, Number 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Burrow. Thus all letters reaching the Acrobat's were duly sent to Mr. Basel's house. It may be remembered that Hugh Stanbury, on the occasion of his last visit to the Parsonage of St. Diddalf's, was informed that Mrs. Trevelyan had a letter from her father for her husband, and that she knew not with her to send it. It may well be that had the matter assumed no other interest in Stanbury's eyes than that given to it by Mrs. Trevelyan's very moderate anxiety to have the letter forwarded, he would have thought nothing about it. But having resolved, as he sat upon the knife-board of the omnibus, the reader will at any rate remember those resolutions made on the top of the omnibus while Hugh was smoking his pipe, having resolved that a deed should be done at St. Diddalf's, he resolved also that it should be done at once. He would not allow the heat of his purpose to be cooled by delay. He would go to St. Diddalf's at once, with his heart in his hand. But it might, he thought, be as well that he should have an excuse for his visit. So he called upon the porter at the acrobats, and was successful in learning Mr. Trevelyan's address. Stony Walk Union Street, borough, he said to himself, wondering, then it occurred to him that Basel, and Basel only among Trevelyan's friends, could live at Stony Walk in the borough. Thus armed he set out for St. Diddalf's. And as one of the effects of his visit to the east, Sir Marmaduke's note was forwarded to Louis Trevelyan at Turin. Chapter 39 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Arielle Lipshaw. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 39 Miss Nora Rowley Is Maltreated. Hugh Stanbury, when he reached the parsonage, found no difficulty in making his way into the joint presence of Mrs. Outhouse, Mrs. Trevelyan, and Nora. He was recognized by the St. Diddalf's party as one who had come over to their side, as a friend of Trevelyan who had found himself constrained to condemn his friend in spite of his friendship, and was consequently very welcome. And there was no difficulty about giving the address. The ladies wondered how it came to pass that Mr. Trevelyan's letters should be sent to such a locality, and Hugh expressed his surprise also. He thought it discreet to withhold his suspicions about Mr. Basel, and simply expressed his conviction that letters sent in accordance with the directions given by the club porter would reach their destination. Then the boy was brought down, and they were all very confidential and very unhappy together. Mrs. Trevelyan could see no end to the cruelty of her position, and declared that her father's anger against her husband was so great that she anticipated his coming with almost more of fear than of hope. Mrs. Outhouse expressed an opinion that Mr. Trevelyan must surely be mad, and Nora suggested that the possibility of such perversity on the part of a man made it almost unwise in any woman to trust herself to the power of a husband. But there are not many like him, thank God, said Mrs. Outhouse, bridling in her wrath. Thus they were very friendly together, and Hugh was allowed to feel that he stood upon comfortable terms in the parsonage, but he did not as yet see how he was to carry out his project for the present day. At last Mrs. Trevelyan went away with the child. Hugh felt that he ought to go, but stayed courageously. He thought he could perceive that Nora suspected the cause of his assiduity, but it was quite evident that Mrs. Outhouse did not do so. Mrs. Outhouse, having reconciled herself to the young man, was by no means averse to his presence. She went on talking about the wickedness of Trevelyan and her brother's anger and the fate of the little boy, till at last the little boy's mother came back into the room. Then Mrs. Outhouse went. They must excuse her for a few minutes, she said. If only she would have gone a few minutes sooner, how well her absence might have been excused. Nora understood it all now, and though she became almost breathless, she was not surprised when Hugh got up from his chair and asked her sister to go away. Mrs. Trevelyan, he said, I want to speak a few words to your sister. I hope you will give me the opportunity. Nora exclaimed Mrs. Trevelyan. She knows nothing about it, said Hugh. Am I to go? said Mrs. Trevelyan to her sister. But Nora never said a word. She sat perfectly fixed, not turning her eyes from the object on which she was gazing. Pray, pray do, said Hugh. I cannot think that it will be for any good, said Mrs. Trevelyan, but I know that she may be trusted, and I suppose it ought to be so if you wish it. I do wish it, of all things, said Hugh, still standing up and almost turning the elder sister out of the room by the force of his look and voice. Then with another pause of a moment Mrs. Trevelyan rose from her chair and left the room, closing the door after her. Hugh, when he found that the coast was clear for him, immediately began his task with a conviction that not a moment was to be lost. He had told himself a dozen times that the matter was hopeless, that Nora had shown him by every means in her power that she was indifferent to him, that she with all her friends would know that such a marriage was out of the question, and he had in truth come to believe that the mission which he had in hand was one in which success was not possible, but he thought that it was his duty to go on with it. If a man loved a woman, even though it be the king and the beggar woman reversed, though it be a beggar and a queen, he should tell her of it, if it be so she has a right to know it and to take her choice, and he has a right to tell her and to say what he can for himself. Such was Hugh's doctrine in the matter, and acting upon it he found himself alone with his mistress. Nora, he said, speaking perhaps with more energy than the words required, I have come here to tell you that I love you and to ask you to be my wife. Nora, for the last ten minutes, had been thinking that this would come, that it would come at once, and yet she was not at all prepared with an answer. It was now weeks since she had confessed to herself, frankly, that nothing else but this, this one thing which was now happening, this one thing which had now happened, that nothing else could make her happy or could touch her happiness. She had refused a man whom she otherwise would have taken, because her heart had been given to Hugh Stanbury. She had been bold enough to tell that other suitor that it was so, though she had not mentioned the rival's name. She had longed for some expression of love from this man when they had been at nuncombe together, and had been fiercely angry with him because no such expression had come from him. Day after day, since she had been with her aunt, she had told herself that she was a brokenhearted woman, because she had given away all that she had to give, and had received nothing in return. Had he said a word that might have given her hope, how happy could she have been in hoping? Now he had come to her with a plain-spoken offer, telling her that he loved her, and asking her to be his wife, and she was altogether unable to answer. How could she consent to be his wife, knowing as she did that there was no certainty of an income on which they could live? How could she tell her father and mother that she had engaged herself to a Mariaman who might or might not make four hundred pounds a year, and who already had a mother and sister depending on him? In truth, had he come more gently to her, his chance of a happy answer, of an answer which might be found to have in it something of happiness, would have been greater? He might have said a word which she could not but have answered softly, and then from that constrained softness other gentleness would have followed, and so he would have won her in spite of her discretion. She would have surrendered gradually, accepting on the score of her great love all the penalties of a long and precarious engagement. But when she was asked to come and be his wife, now and at once, she felt that in spite of her love it was impossible that she could exceed to a request so sudden, so violent, so monstrous. He stood over her as though expecting an instant answer, and then when she had sat dumb before him for a minute he repeated his demand, Tell me, Nora, can you love me? If you knew how thoroughly I have loved you you would at least feel something for me. To tell him that she did not love him was impossible to her, but how was she to refuse him without telling him either a lie or the truth? Some answer she must give him, and as to that matter of marrying him, the answer must be a negative. Her education had been of that nature which teaches girls to believe that it is a crime to marry a man without an assured income. Assured morality in a husband is a great thing. Assured good temper is very excellent. Assured talent, religion, amiability, truth, honesty, are all desirable, but an assured income is indispensable. Whereas in truth the income may come here after, but the other things, unless they be there already, will hardly be forthcoming. Mr. Standbury, she said, your suddenness has quite astounded me. Ah, yes, but how should I not be sudden? I have come here on purpose to say this to you. If I do not say it now. You heard what Emily said. No, what did she say? She said that it would not be for good that you should speak to me thus. Why not for good? But she is unhappy and looks gloomily at things. Yes, indeed. But all the world need not be sad forever because she has been unfortunate. Not all the world, Mr. Standbury, but you must not be surprised if it affects me. But would that prevent your loving me if you did love me? But Nora, I do not expect you to love me, not yet. I do not say that I expect it ever. But if you would—Nora, I can do no more than tell you the simple truth. Just listen to me for a minute. You know how I came to be intimate with you all in Curson Street. The first day I saw you, I loved you, and there has come no change yet. It is months now since I first knew that I loved you. Well, I told myself more than once, when I was down at Nuncombe, for instance, that I had no right to speak to you. What right can a poor devil like me have, who lives from hand to mouth, to ask such a girl as you to be his wife? And so I said nothing, though it was on my lips every moment that I was there. Nora remembered at the moment how she had looked to his lips, and had not seen the words there. But I think there is something unmanly in this. If you cannot give me a grain of hope, if you tell me that there never can be hope, it is my misfortune. It will be very grievous, but I will bear it. But that will be better than pooling and moping about without daring to tell my tale. I am not ashamed of it. I have fallen in love with you, Nora, and I think it best to come for an answer." He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps come to him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part. But she, as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him so dearly? Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms, it might be that all power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power. "'Mr. Stanbury,' she said, "'you have confessed yourself that it is impossible. But do you love me? Do you think that it is possible that you should ever love me?' "'You know, Mr. Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You know that it cannot be. But do you love me? You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to be uncourteous. I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me? With one word of hope I will wait and work and feel myself to be a hero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me.' "'Then I must tell you so. What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew that a girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. Am I odious to you, Nora?' "'No, not odious, but very, very unfair.' "'I will have the truth if I be ever so unfair,' he said. And by this time probably some inkling of the truth had reached his intelligence. There was already a tear in Nora's eye, but he did not pity her. She owed it to him to tell him the truth, and he would have it from her if it was to be reached. "'Nora,' he said, "'listen to me again. All my heart and soul are in this. It is everything to me. If you can love me, you are bound to say so. By Jove I will believe you do, unless you swear to me that it is not so.' He was now holding her by the hand and looking closely into her face. "'Mr. Stanbury,' she said, "'let me go. Pray, pray, let me go. Not till you say that you love me. Oh, Nora, I believe that you love me. You do. Yes, you do love me. Dearest, dearest, Nora, would you not say a word to make me the happiest man in the world?' And now he had his arm round her waist. "'Let me go,' she said, struggling through her tears and covering her face with her hands. "'You are very, very wicked. I will never speak to you again. Nay, but you shall let me go.' And then she was out of his arms, and had escaped from the room before he had managed to touch her face with his lips. As he was thinking how he also might escape now, might escape and comfort himself with his triumph, Mrs. Outhouse returned to the chamber. She was very demure, and her manner towards him was considerably changed since she had left the chamber. "'Mr. Stanbury,' she said, this kind of thing mustn't go any further, indeed, at least not in my house.' "'What kind of thing, Mrs. Outhouse?' "'Well, what my elder niece has told me. I have not seen Miss Rowley since she left you. I am quite sure she has behaved with discretion.' "'Indeed she has, Mrs. Outhouse. The fact is my nieces are in grief and trouble, and this is no time or place for love-making. I am sorry to be uncivil, but I must ask you not to come here any more. I will stay away from this house, certainly if you bid me. I am very sorry, but I must bid you. Sir Marmaduke will be home in the spring, and if you have anything to say to him, of course you can see him.' Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave of Mrs. Outhouse. But as he went home, again on the ninth board of an omnibus, he smoked the pipe of triumph rather than the pipe of contemplation. CHAPTER XIV The Miss Spaldings were met at the station at Florence by their uncle, the American minister, by their cousin, the American Secretary of Legation, and by three or four other dear friends and relations, who were there to welcome the newcomers to sunny Italy. Mr. Glasscock, therefore, who ten minutes since had been and had felt himself to be quite indispensable to their comfort, suddenly became as though he were nothing and nobody. Who is there that has not felt these sudden disruptions to the intimacies and friendships of a long journey? He bowed to them, and they to him, and then they were world away in their grandeur. He put himself into a small, open, hackney carriage, and had himself driven to the York Hotel, feeling himself to be deserted and desolate. The two Miss Spaldings were the daughters of a very respectable lawyer at Boston, whereas Mr. Glasscock was heir to a peerage, to an enormous fortune and to one of the finest places in England. But he thought nothing of this at the time. As he went he was meditating which young woman was the most attractive, Nora Rowley or Caroline Spalding. He had no doubt but that Nora was the prettier, the pleasanter and manner the better dressed, the more engaging in all that concerned the outer woman, but he thought that he had never met any lady who talked better than Caroline Spalding. And what was Nora Rowley's beauty to him? Had she not told him that she was the property of someone else, or for the matter of that what was Miss Spalding to him? They had parted, and he was going on to Naples in two days. He had said some half-defined word as to calling it the American Embassy, but it had not been taken up by either of the ladies. He had not pressed it, and so they had parted without an understanding as to a future meeting. The double journey from Turin to Bologna and from Bologna to Florence is very long and forms ample time for a considerable intimacy. There had two been a long day's journeying together before that, and with no women is a speedy intimacy so possible or indeed so profitable as with Americans. They fear nothing, neither you nor themselves, and talk with as much freedom as though they were men. It may perhaps be assumed to be true as a rule that women's society is always more agreeable to men than that of other men, except for the lack of ease. It undoubtedly is so when the women be young and pretty. There is a feeling, however, among pretty women in Europe that such freedom is dangerous, and it is withheld. There is such danger, and more or less of such withholding is expedient. But the American woman does not recognize the danger, and if she withholds the grace of her countenance and the pearls of her speech it is because she is not desirous of the society which is proffered to her. These two American sisters had not withholding their pearls from Mr. Glasscock. He was much their senior in age, he was gentle in his manners, and they probably recognized him to be a safe companion. They had no idea who he was, and had not heard his name when they parted from him. But it was not probable that they should have been with him so long, and that they should leave him without further thought of him, without curiosity or a desire to know more of him. They had seen C. G. in large letters on his dressing-bag, and that was all they had learned as to his identity. He had known their names well, and had once called Olivia by hers in the hurry of speaking to her sister. He had apologized, and there had been a little laugh, and a discussion about the use of Christian names, such as is very conducive to intimacy between gentlemen and ladies. When you can talk to a young lady about her own Christian name you are almost entitled for the nonce to use it. Mr. Glasscock went to his hotel, and was very moody and desolate. His name was very soon known there, and he received the honors due to his rank in station. I should like to travel in America, he said to himself, if I could be sure that no one would find out who I was. He had received letters at Turin, stating that his father was better, and therefore he intended to remain two days at Florence. The weather was still very hot, and Florence in the middle of September is much preferable to Naples. That night, when the two misspaldings were alone together, they discussed their fellow traveller thoroughly. Something of course had been said about him to their uncle the minister, to their aunt, the minister's wife, and to their cousin the secretary of legation. But travellers will always observe that the dear new friends they have made on their journey are not interesting to the dear old friends whom they meet afterwards. There may be some touch of jealousy in this, and then though you the traveller are fully aware that there has been something special in the case, which has made this new friendship more peculiar than others that have sprung up in similar circumstances, fathers and brothers and wives and sisters do not see it in that light. They suspect, perhaps, that the new friend was a bag man, or an opera dancer, and think that the affair need not be made of importance. The American minister had cast his eye on Mr. Glasscock during that momentary parting, and had not thought much of Mr. Glasscock. He was certainly a gentleman, Caroline had said. There are a great many English gentlemen, the minister had replied. I thought you would have asked him to call, Olivia said to her sister. He did offer. I know he did. I heard it. Why didn't you tell him he might come? Because we are not in Boston, Livy, it might be the most horrible thing in the world to do here in Florence, and it may make a difference because Uncle Jonas is minister. Why should that make a difference? Do you mean that one isn't to see one's own friends? That must be nonsense. But he isn't a friend, Livy. It seems to me as if I'd known him forever, that soft monotonous voice which never became excited and never disagreeable is as familiar to me as though I had lived with it all my life. I thought him very pleasant. Indeed you did, Carrie, and he thought you pleasant, too. Doesn't it seem odd? You were mending his glove for him this very afternoon, just as if he were your brother. Why shouldn't I mend his glove? Why not indeed? He was entitled to have everything mended after getting us such a good dinner at Bologna, by the buy you never paid him. Yes I did, when you were not by. I wonder who he is—C.G. That fine man in the brown coat was his servant, you know. I thought at first that C.G. must have been cracked and that the tall man was his keeper. I never knew anyone less like a madman. No, but the man was so queer. He did nothing, you know. We hardly saw him, if you remember, at Turin. All he did was to tie the shawls at Bologna. What can any man want with another man about with him like that unless he is cracked either in body or mind? You'd better ask C.G. yourself. I shall never see C.G. again, I suppose. I should like to see him again. I guess you would, too, Carrie, eh? Of course I should. Why not? I never knew a man so imperturbable and who had yet so much to say for himself. I wonder what he is. Perhaps he's on business and that man was a kind of a clerk. He had livery buttons on, said Carrie. And does that make a difference? I don't think they put clerks into livery, even in England. Nor yet mad doctors, said Olivia, while I like him very much and the only thing against him is that he should have a man six feet high going about with him doing nothing. You'll make me angry, Olivia, if you talk in that way. It's uncharitable. In what way? About a mad doctor. It's my belief, said Olivia, that he is an English swell, a lord, or a duke, and it's my belief, too, that he's in love with you. It's my belief, Olivia, that you're a regular ass. And so the conversation was ended on that occasion. On the next day, about noon, the American minister, as part of the duty which he owed to his country, read in a publication of that day, issued for the purpose, the names of the new arrivals at Florence. First and foremost was that of the honorable Charles Glasscock with his suite at the York Hotel, en route to join his father, Lord Peterborough, at Naples. Having read the news first to himself, the minister read it out loud in the presence of his nieces. That's our friend CG, said Livy. I should think not, said the minister, who had his own ideas about an English lord. I'm sure it is because of the tall man with the buttons, said Olivia. It's very unlikely, said the secretary of legation. Lord Peterborough is a man of immense wealth, very old indeed. They say he is dying at Naples. This man is his eldest son. Is that any reason why he shouldn't have been civil to us, asked Olivia? I don't think he is the sort of man likely to sit up in the bonket, and he would have posted over the Alps. Moreover, he had his suite with him. His suite was buttons, said Olivia, only fancy, Kerry, we've been waited on for two days by a lord as is to be, and didn't know it, and you have mended the tips of his lordship's glove. But Kerry said nothing at all. Late on that same evening they met Mr. Glasscock, close to the Duomo, under the shade of the Campanile. He had come out, as they had done, to see by moonlight that loveliest of all works made by man's hands. They were with the minister, but Mr. Glasscock came up and shook hands with them. I would introduce you to my uncle, Mr. Spalding, said Olivia. Only, as it happens, we have never yet heard your name. My name is Mr. Glasscock, said he, smiling. Then the introduction was made, and the American minister took off his hat and was very affable. Only think, Kerry, said Olivia, when they were alone that evening, if you were to become the wife of an English lord. End of Chapter 40. Recording by Ariel Lipshaw, in New York City. Chapter 41 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipshaw. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 41. Showing what took place at St. Diddalf's. Nora Rowley, when she escaped from the violence of her lover, rushed up to her own room and managed to fasten herself in before she had been seen by anyone. Her elder sister had at once gone to her aunt when, at Hughes' request, she had left the room, thinking it right that Mrs. Outhouse should know what was being done in her own house. Mrs. Outhouse had considered the matter patiently for a while, giving the lovers the benefit of her hesitation, and had then spoken her mind to Standbury, as we have already heard. He had, upon the whole, released angry with the parson's wife when he left the parsonage. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Outhouse was at once joined by her elder niece, but Nora remained for a while alone in her room. Had she committed herself? And if so, did she regret it? He had behaved very badly to her, certainly, taking her by the hand and putting his arm round her waist. And then had he not even attempted to kiss her? He had done all this, although she had been resolute in one word of kindness, though she had told him with all the energy and certainty of which she was mistress that she would never be his wife. If a girl were to be subjected to such treatment as this when she herself had been so firm, so discreet, so decided, then indeed it would be unfit that a girl should trust herself with a man. She had never thought that he had been such a one as that, to ill-use her, to lay a hand on her in violence, to refuse to take an answer. She threw herself on the bed and then hit her face. And was conscious that in spite of this acting before herself she was the happiest girl alive. He had behaved very badly. Of course he had behaved most wickedly, and she would tell him so, some day. But was he not the dearest fellow living? Did ever man speak with more absolute conviction of love in every tone of his voice? Was it not the finest, noblest heart that ever throbbed beneath the waistcoat? Had not his very wickedness come from the overpowering truth of his affection for her? She would never quite forgive him because it had been so very wrong, but she would be true to him forever and ever. Of course they could not marry. What? Would she go to him and be a clog round his neck and a weight upon him forever? Bringing him down to the gutter by the burden of her own useless and unworthy self? No. She would never so injure him. She would not even hamper him by an engagement. But yet she would be true to him. She had an idea that in spite of all her protestations, which, as she looked back upon them, appeared to her to have been louder than they had been, that through the teeth of her denials something of the truth had escaped from her. Well, let it be so. It was the truth. And why should he not know it? Then she pictured to herself a long romance in which the heroine lived happily on the simple knowledge that she had been beloved, and the reader may be sure that in this romance Mr. Glasscock with his filled one of the characters. She had been so wretched and uncomputty when she had felt herself constrained to admit to herself that this man for whom she had sacrificed herself did not care for her, that she could not now but enjoy her triumph. After she had sobbed upon the bed she got up and walked about the room smiling and she would now press her hands to her forehead and then shake her tresses and then clasp her own left hand with her right as though he were still holding it. Why had he been so wicked and so violent? And why why why had she not once felt his lips upon her brow? And she was pleased with herself. Her sister had rebuked her because she had refused to make her fortune by marrying Mr. Glasscock. And to own the truth she had rebuked herself on the same score when she found that Hugh Stanbury had not had a word of love to say to her. It was not that she regretted the grandeur which she had lost but that she should have thought with the consciousness of her own bosom have declared herself unable to receive another man's devotion because of her love for this man who neglected her. Now she was proud of herself. Whether it might be accounted as good or ill fortune that she had ever seen Hugh Stanbury it must at any rate be right that she should be true to him now that she had seen him and had loved him. To know that she loved and that she was not loved again had nearly killed her but such was not her lot. She had been in love with Hugh Stanbury and had struck her game and brought down her dear. He had been very violent with her but his violence had at least made the matter clear. He did love her. She would be satisfied with that and would endeavour so to live that that alone should make life happy for her. How should she get his photograph and a lock of his hair and when again might she have the pleasure of placing her own hand within his great, rough, violent grasp. He walked in the door of her house and opened the door of her room at which her sister was now knocking. Nora, dear, will you not come down? Not yet, Emily, very soon I will. And what has happened, dearest? There is nothing to tell, Emily. There must be something to tell. What did he say to you? Of course you know what he said and what answer did you make? I told him that it could not be and did he take that as final, Nora? not, what man ever takes a no as final. When you said no to Mr. Glasscock, he took it. That was different, Emily! But how different? I don't see the difference, except that if you could have brought yourself to like Mr. Glasscock, it would have been the greatest thing in the world for you, and for all of them. Would you have me take a man, Emily, that I didn't care one straw for merely because he was a lord? You can't mean that. I'm not talking about Mr. Glasscock now, Nora. Yes you are. And what's the use? He is gone, and there's an end of it. And is Mr. Standbury gone? Of course! In the same way, asked Mrs. Travellian, how can I tell about his ways? No, it is not in the same way. There, he went in a very different way. How was it different, Nora? Oh, so different! I can't tell you how. Mr. Glasscock will never come back again. And Mr. Standbury will, said the elder sister. Nora made no reply, but after a while nodded her head. And you want him to come back? She paused again, and again nodded her head. Then you have accepted him. I have not accepted him. I have refused him. I have told him that it was impossible. And yet you wish him back again. Nora again nodded her head. That is a state of things I cannot at all understand, said Mrs. Travellian, and would not believe unless you told me so yourself. And you think me very wrong, of course. I will endeavor to do nothing wrong, but it is so. I have not said a word of encouragement to Mr. Standbury, but I love him with all my heart. Aught I to tell you a lie when you question me? Or is it natural that I should never wish to see again a person whom I love better than all the world? It seems to me that a girl can hardly be right if she had any choice of her own. Here are two men, one rich and the other poor. I shall fall to the ground between them. I know that. I have fallen to the ground already. I like the one I can't marry. I don't care a straw for the one who could give me a grand house. That is falling to the ground. But I don't see that it is hard to understand, or that I have disgraced myself. I said nothing of disgrace, Nora. But you looked it. I did not intend to look it, dearest. And remember this, Emily. I have told you everything because you asked me. I do not mean to tell anybody else at all. Mama would not understand me. I have not told him, and I shall not. You mean Mr. Standbury? Yes, I mean Mr. Standbury. As to Mr. Glasscock, of course I shall tell Mama that. I have no secret there. That is his secret, and I suppose Mama should know it. But I will have nothing told about the other. Had I accepted him, or even hinted to him that I cared for him, I would tell Mama at once. After that there came something of a lecture, or something rather of admonition, from Mrs. Outhouse. That lady did not attempt to up braid or to find any fault, but observed that as she understood that Mr. Standbury had no means whatever, and as Nora herself had none, there had better be no further intercourse between them, till at any rate Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley should be in London. Though I told him that he must not come here any more, my dear, said Mrs. Outhouse. You are quite right, Aunt. He ought not to come here. I am so glad that you agree with me. I agree with you altogether. I think I was bound to see him when he asked to see me, but the thing is altogether out of the question. I don't think he'll come any more, Aunt. Then Mrs. Outhouse was quite satisfied that no harm had been done. A month had now passed since anything had been heard at St. Diddalf's from Mr. Trevalian, and it seemed that many months might go on in the same dull way. When Mrs. Trevalian first found herself in her uncle's house, a sum of two hundred pounds had been sent to her, and since that she had received a letter from her husband's lawyer, saying that a similar amount would be sent to her every three months as long as she was separated from her husband. A portion of this she had given over to Mr. Outhouse, but this pecuniary assistance by no means comforted that unfortunate gentleman in his trouble. I don't want to get into debt, he said, by keeping a lot of people whom I haven't the means to feed, and I don't want to board and lodge my nieces and their family at so much ahead. It's very hard upon me either way. And so it was. All the comfort of his home was destroyed, and he was driven to sacrifice his independence by paying his tradesmen with a portion of Mrs. Trevalian's money. The more he thought of it all, and the more he discussed the matter with his wife, the more indignant they became with the truant husband. I can't believe, he said, but what Mr. Bidowile could make him come back if he chose to do his duty. But they say that Mr. Trevalian is in Italy, my dear. And if I went to Italy, might I leave you to starve and take my income with me? He doesn't leave her quite to starve, my dear. But isn't a man bound to stay with his wife? I never heard of such a thing. Never. And I'm sure that there must be something wrong. A man can't go away and leave his wife to live with her uncle and aunt. It isn't right. But what can we do? Mr. Outhouse was forced to acknowledge that nothing could be done. He was a man to whom the quiescence of his own childless house was the one pleasure of his existence. And of that he was robbed because this wicked madman chose to neglect all his duties and leave his wife without a house to shelter her. Supposing that she couldn't have come here what then, said Mr. Outhouse, I did tell him as plain as words could speak that we couldn't receive them. But here they are, said Mrs. Outhouse, and here they must remain till my brother comes to England. It's the most monstrous thing that I ever heard of in all my life, said Mr. Outhouse. He ought to be locked up. That's what he ought. It was hard, and it became harder, when a gentleman whom Mr. Outhouse certainly did not wish to see called upon him about the latter end of September. Mr. Outhouse was sitting alone in the gloomy parlor of his parsonage, for his own study had been given up to other things since this great in-road had been made upon his family. He was sitting alone on one Saturday morning, preparing for the duties of the next day with various manuscript sermons lying on the table around him, when he was told that a gentleman had called to see him. Had Mr. Outhouse been an incumbent at the West End of London, or had his maid been a West End servant, in all probability the gentleman's name would have been demanded. But Mr. Outhouse was a man who was not very ready in foreseeing and preventing misfortunes, and the girl who opened the door was not trained to discreet usages in such matters. As she announced the fact that there was a gentleman, she pointed to the door to show that the gentleman was there, and before Mr. Outhouse had been able to think whether it would be prudent for him to make some preliminary inquiry, Colonel Osborn was in the room. Now as it happened, these two men had never hitherto met each other, though one was the brother-in-law of Sir Marmaduke Rowley, and the other had been his very old friend. My name, Mr. Outhouse, is Colonel Osborn, said the visitor, coming forward with his hand out. The clergyman, of course, took his hand and asked him to be seated. We have known each other's names very long, continued the Colonel, though I do not think we have ever yet had an opportunity of becoming acquainted. No, said Mr. Outhouse, we have never been acquainted, I believe. He might have added that he had no desire whatever to make such acquaintance, and his manner over which he himself had no control did almost say as much. Indeed this coming to his house of the suspected lover of his niece appeared to him to be a heavy addition to his troubles, for although he was disposed to take his niece's part against her husband to any possible length, even to the locking up of the husband as a madman if it were possible, nevertheless he had almost as great a horror of the Colonel as though the husband's allegation as to the lover had been true as gospel. Because Trevelyan had been wrong altogether, Colonel Osborn was not the less wrong. Because Trevelyan's suspicions were to Mr. Outhouse wicked and groundless, he did not the less regard the presumed lover to be an iniquitous roaring lion going about seeking whom he might devour. Elderly unmarried men of fashion generally, and especially colonels and majors and members of parliament and such like, were to him as black sheep or roaring lions. They were frugous consumerae nati, men who stood on club doorsteps talking naughtily and doing nothing, wearing sleek clothing for which they very often did not pay, and never going to church. It seemed to him, in his ignorance, that such men had none of the burdens of this world upon their shoulders, and that therefore they stood in great peril of the burdens of the next. It was doubtless his special duty to deal with men in such peril, but those wicked ones with whom he was concerned were those whom he could reach. Now the Colonel Osborn's of the earth were not to be got at by any clergyman, or as far as Mr. Outhouse could see by any means of grace. That story of the rich man and the camel seemed to him to be specially applicable to such people. How was such a one as Colonel Osborn to be shown the way through the eye of a needle? To Mr. Outhouse, his own brother-in-law, Sir Marmaduke was almost of the same class, for he frequented clubs when in London, and played wist, and talked of the things of the world, such as the derby, and the levées, and West End dinner parties, as though they were all in all to him. He, to be sure, was waited with so large a family that there might be hope for him. The eye of the needle could not be closed against him as a rich man, but he savoured of the West End, and was worldly, and consorted with such men as this Colonel Osborn. When Colonel Osborn introduced himself to Mr. Outhouse, it was almost as though a Pollyon had made his way into the parsonage of St. Diddalf's. Mr. Outhouse, said the Colonel, I have thought it best to come to you the very moment that I got back to town from Scotland. Mr. Outhouse bowed, and was befinking himself slowly what manner of speech he would adopt. I leave town again to-morrow for Dorsetshire. I am going down to my friends, the Brambers, for partridge shooting. Mr. Outhouse knitted his thick brows in further inward condemnation. Partridge shooting. Yes, this was September, and partridge shooting would be the probable care and occupation of such a man at such a time. A man without a duty in the world. Perhaps added to this there was a feeling that, whereas Colonel Osborn could shoot Scotch Grouse in August, and Dorsetshire partridges in September, and go about throughout the whole year like a roaring lion, he, Mr. Outhouse, was forced to remain at St. Diddalf's in the East from January to December with the exception of one small parson's week spent at Margate for the benefit of his wife's health. If there was such a thought, or rather such a feeling, who will say that it was not natural. But I could not go through London without seeing you, continued the Colonel, this is a most frightful infatuation of Trevelyan. Very frightful indeed, said Mr. Outhouse, and on my honour as a gentleman not the slightest cause in the world. You are old enough to be the lady's father, said Mr. Outhouse, managing in that to get one blow at the gallant Colonel. Just so, God bless my soul, Mr. Outhouse shrunk visibly at this profane illusion to the Colonel's soul. Why, I've known her father ever so many years. As you say I might almost be her father myself. As far as age went such certainly might have been the case, for the Colonel was older than Sir Marmaduke. Look here, Mr. Outhouse, here is a letter I got from Emily. From Mrs. Trevelyan. Yes, from Mrs. Trevelyan, and as well as I can understand it must have been sent to me by Trevelyan himself. Did you ever hear of such a thing? And now I'm told he has gone away, nobody knows where, and has left her here. He has gone away, nobody knows where. Of course I don't ask to see her. It would be imprudent to Colonel Osborne, and could not be permitted in this house. I don't ask for it. I have known Emily Trevelyan since she was an infant, and have always loved her. I'm her godfather, for odd I know, though one forgets things of that sort. Mr. Outhouse again knit his eyebrows, and shuddered visibly. She and I have been fast friends, and why not? But of course I can't interfere. If you ask me, Colonel Osborne, I should say that you can do nothing in the matter, except to remain away from her. When Sir Marmaduke is in England you can see him, if you please. See him? Of course I shall see him. And by George Louis Trevelyan will have to see him, too. I shouldn't like to have to stand up before Rowley if I had treated a daughter of his in such a fashion. You know Rowley, of course. Oh yes, I know him. He's not the sort of man to bear this sort of thing. He'll about tear Trevelyan in pieces if he gets hold of him. God bless my soul!" The eyebrows went to work again. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. Does he pay anything for them, Mr. Prince? This was dreadful to the poor clergyman. That is a subject which we surely need not discuss, said he. Then he remembered that such speech on his part was liked to a subterfuge, and he found it necessary to put himself right. I am repaid for the maintenance here of my nieces, and the little boy, and their attendants. I do not know why the question should be asked, but such is the fact. Then they are here by agreement between you and him. No, sir, they are not. There is no such agreement. But I do not like these interrogatives from a stranger as to matters which should be private. You cannot wonder at my interest, Mr. Outhouse. You had better restrain it, sir, till Sir Marmaduke arrives. I shall then wash my hands of the affair. And she is pretty well, Emily, I mean. Mrs. Trevelyan's health is good. Pray tell her, though I could not, might not ask to see her. I came to inquire after her the first moment that I was in London. Pray tell her how much I feel for her, but she will know that. When Sir Marmaduke is here, of course we shall meet. When she is once more under her father's wing, she need not be restrained by any absurd commands from a husband who has deserted her. At present, of course, I do not ask to see her. Of course you do not, Colonel Osborne. And give my love to Nora, dear little Nora. There can be no reason why she and I should not shake hands. I should prefer that it should not be so in this house, said the clergyman, who was now standing, in expectation that his unwelcome guest would go. Very well, so be it. But you will understand I could not be in London without coming and asking after them. Then the Colonel at last took his leave, and Mr. Outhouse was left to his solitude and his sermons. Mrs. Outhouse was very angry when she heard of the visit. Men of that sort, she said, think it a fine thing and talk about it. I believe the poor girl is as innocent as I am, but he isn't innocent. He likes it. It is easier, said Mr. Outhouse solemnly, for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. I don't know that he is a rich man, said Mrs. Outhouse, but he wouldn't have come here if he had been honest. Mrs. Trevelyan was told of the visit, and simply said that of course it was out of the question that she should have seen Colonel Osborne. Nevertheless, she seemed to think it quite natural that she should have called, and defended him with some energy when her aunt declared that he had been much to blame. He is not bound to obey Mr. Trevelyan because I am, said Emily. He is bound to abstain from evil doing, said Mrs. Outhouse, and he oughtn't to have come. There, let that be enough, my dear. Your uncle doesn't wish to have it talked about. Nevertheless, it was talked about between the two sisters. Nora was of opinion that Colonel Osborne had been wrong, whereas Emily defended him. It seems to me to have been the most natural thing in life, said she. Had Colonel Osborne made the visit as Sir Marmaduke's friend, feeling himself to be an old man, it might have been natural. When a man has come to regard himself as being, on the score of age, about as fit to be a young lady's lover as though he were an old woman instead of an old man, which some men will do when they are younger even than was Colonel Osborne, he is justified in throwing behind him as utterly absurd the suspicions of other people. But Colonel Osborne cannot be defended altogether on that plea. CHAPTER 42 Miss Stanbury and Mr. Gibson become two. There came to be a very gloomy fortnight at Miss Stanbury's house in the close. For two or three days after Mr. Gibson's dismissal at the hands of Miss Stanbury herself, Brooke Burgess was still in the house, and his presence saved Dorothy from the full weight of her aunt's displeasure. There was the necessity of looking after Brooke, and scolding him, and of praising him to Martha, and of dispraising him, and of seeing that he had enough to eat, and of watching whether he smoked in the house, and of quarreling with him about everything under the sun, which together so employed Miss Stanbury that she satisfied herself with glances at Dorothy, which were felt to be full of charges of ingratitude. Dorothy was thankful that it should be so, and bore the glances with abject submission. And then there was a great comfort to her in Brooke's friendship. On the second day after Mr. Gibson had gone, she found herself talking to Brooke quite openly upon the subject. The fact was, Mr. Burgess, that I didn't really care for him. I know he's very good and all that, and of course Aunt Stanbury meant it all for the best, and I would have done it if I could, but I couldn't. Brooke padded her on the back, not in the flesh but in the spirit, and told her that she was quite right, and he expressed an opinion too that it was not expedient to yield too much to Aunt Stanbury. I would yield to her in anything that was possible to me, said Dorothy. I won't, said he, and I don't think I should do any good if I did. I like her, and I like her money, but I don't like either well enough to sell myself for a price. A great part, too, of the quarreling which went on from day to day between Brooke and Miss Stanbury was due to the difference of their opinions respecting Dorothy and her suitor. I believe you put her up to it, said Aunt Stanbury. I neither put her up nor down, but I think that she was quite right. You've robbed her of a husband and she'll never have another chance after what you've done you ought to take her yourself. I shall be ready tomorrow, said Brooke. How can you tell such a lie, said Aunt Stanbury? But after two or three days Brooke was gone to make a journey through the distant part of the county and see the beauties of Devonshire. He was to be away for a fortnight and then come back for a day or two before he returned to London. During that fortnight things did not go well with poor Dorothy at Exeter. I suppose you know your own business best, her aunt said to her one morning. Dorothy uttered no word of reply. She felt it to be equally impossible to suggest either that she did or that she did not know her own business best. There may be reasons which I don't understand, exclaimed Aunt Stanbury, but I should like to know what it is you expect. Why should I expect anything, Aunt Stanbury? That's nonsense. Everybody expects something. You expect to have your dinner by and by, don't you? I suppose I shall, said Dorothy, to whom it occurred at the moment that such expectation was justified by the fact that on every day of her life hither, too, some sort of a dinner had come in her way. Yes, and you think it comes from heaven, I suppose. It comes by God's goodness in your bounty, Aunt Stanbury. And how will it come when I'm dead? Or how will it come if things should go in such a way that I can't stay here any longer? You don't ever think of that. I should go back to Mamma and Priscilla. Sha! As if two mouths were not enough to eat all the meal there is in that tub, if there was a word to say against the man I wouldn't ask you to have him. If he drank, or smoked, or wasn't a gentleman, or was too poor or anything you like, but there's nothing. It's all very well to tell me you don't love him, but why don't you love him? I don't like a girl to go and throw herself at a man's head as those Frenches have done, but when everything has been prepared for you and made proper, it seems to me to be like turning away from good victuals. Dorothy could only offer to go home if she had offended her aunt, and then Miss Stanbury scolded her for making the offer. As this kind of thing went on at the house in the close for a fortnight, during which there was no going out, and no society at home, Dorothy began to be rather tired of it. At the end of the fortnight, on the morning of the day on which Brooke Burgess was expected back, Dorothy, slowly moving into the sitting-room with her usual melancholy air, found Mr. Gibson talking to her aunt. There she is herself, said Miss Stanbury, jumping up briskly, and now you can speak to her. Of course I have no authority, none in the least, but she knows what my wishes are. And having so spoken, Miss Stanbury left the room. It will be remembered that hitherto no word of affection had been whispered by Mr. Gibson into Dorothy's ears. When he came before to press his suit, she had been made aware of his coming, and had fled, leaving her answer with her aunt. Mr. Gibson had then expressed himself as somewhat injured, in that no opportunity of pouring forth his own eloquence had been permitted to him. On that occasion Miss Stanbury, being in a snubbing humour, had snubbed him. She had in truth scolded him almost as much as she had scolded Dorothy, telling him that he went about the business in hand as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Your stiff as a chair-back, she had said to him, with a few other compliments, and these amenities had for a while made him regard the establishment at Havetry as being at any rate pleasanter than that in the close. But since that, cool reflection had come. The proposal was not that he should marry Miss Stanbury's senior, who certainly could be severe on occasions, but Miss Stanbury, Jr., whose temper was as sweet as primroses in March. That which he would have to take from Miss Stanbury's senior was a certain sum of money, as to which her promise was as good as any bond in the world. Things had come to such a pass with him in Exeter, from the hints of his friend the pre-bend, from a word or two which had come to him from the dean, from certain family arrangements proposed to him by his mother and sisters. Things had come to such a pass that he was of a mind that he had better marry someone. He had, as it were, three strings to his bow. There were the two French strings, and there was Dorothy. He had not breath of genius enough to suggest to himself that yet another woman might be found. There was a difficulty on the French score even about Miss Stanbury, but it was clear to him that, failing her, he was due to one of the two Miss Frenches. Now, it was not only that the Miss Frenches were empty-handed, but he was beginning to think himself that they were not as nice as they might have been in reference to the arrangement of their headgear. Therefore, having given much thought to the matter, and remembering that he had never yet had play for his own eloquence with Dorothy, he had come to Miss Stanbury, asking that he might have another chance. It had been borne in upon him that he had perhaps hitherto regarded Dorothy as too certainly his own, since she had been offered to him by her aunt, as being a prize that required no eloquence in the winning. And he thought that if he could have an opportunity of amending that fault, it might even yet be well with his suit. So he prepared himself and asked permission, and now found himself alone with the young lady. When last I was in this house, Miss Stanbury, he began, I was not fortunate enough to be allowed an opportunity of pleading my cause to yourself. Then he paused, and Dorothy was left to consider how best she might answer him. All that her aunt had said to her had not been thrown away upon her. The calls upon that slender mealtop at home she knew were quite sufficient, and Mr. Gibson was, she believed, a good man. And how better could she dispose of herself in life? And what was she that she should score in the love of an honest gentleman? She would take him, she thought, if she could. But then there came upon her, unconsciously, without work of thought, by instinct rather than by intelligence, a feeling of the closeness of a wife to her husband. Looking at it in general, she could not deny that it would be very proper that she should become Mrs. Gibson. But when there came upon her a remembrance that she would be called upon for demonstration of her love, that he would embrace her and hold her to his heart and kiss her, she revolted and shuddered. She believed that she did not want to marry any man, and that such a state of things would not be good for her. Dear young lady, continued Mr. Gibson, you will let me now make up for the loss which I then experienced? I thought it was better not to give you trouble, said Dorothy. Trouble, Miss Stanbury? How could it be trouble? The labour we delight in physics pain. But to go back to the subject matter, I hope you do not doubt that my affection for you is true and honest and genuine. I don't want to doubt anything, Mr. Gibson, but you needn't, dearest Miss Stanbury, indeed you needn't. If you could read my heart you would see written their true love very plainly, very plainly. And do you not think it a duty that people should marry? It may be surmised that he had here forgotten some connecting link which should have joined without abruptness the declaration of his own love and his social view as to the general expediency of matrimony, but Dorothy did not discover the hiatus. Certainly, when they like each other, and if their friends think it proper—our friends think it proper, Miss Stanbury, may I say Dorothy, all of them, I can assure you that on my side you will be welcomed by a mother and sisters only too anxious to receive you with open arms. And as regards your own relations, I need hardly allude to your revered aunt, as to your own mother and sister, and your brother, who I believe gives his mind chiefly to other things, I am assured by Miss Stanbury that no opposition need be feared from them. Is that true, dearest Dorothy? It is true. Does not all that plead in my behalf tell me, Dorothy? Of course it does. And you will be mine. As far as eloquence could be of service, Mr. Gibson was sufficiently eloquent. To Dorothy his words appeared good, and true, and affecting. All their friends did wish it. There were many reasons why it should be done. If talking could have done it, his talking was good enough. Though his words were in truth cold, and affected, and learned by rote, they did not offend her. But his face offended her, and the feeling was strong within her that if she yielded it would soon be close to her own. She couldn't do it. She didn't love him, and she wouldn't do it. Priscilla would not grudge her her share out of that meager meal tub. Had not Priscilla told her not to marry the man if she did not love him? She found that she was further than ever from loving him. She would not do it. Say that you will be mine! pleaded Mr. Gibson, coming to her with both his hands outstretched. Mr. Gibson, I can't! she said. She was sobbing now, and was half choked by tears. And why not, Dorothy? I don't know, but I can't. I don't feel that I want to be married at all. But it is honourable. It's no use, Mr. Gibson. I can't, and you oughtn't to ask me any more. Must this be your very last answer? What's the good of going over it all again and again? I can't do it. Never, Miss Stanbury. No. Never. That is cruel. Very cruel. I fear that you doubt my love. It isn't cruel, Mr. Gibson. I have a right to have my own feelings, and I can't. If you please, I'll go away now." Then she went, and he was left standing alone in the room. His first feeling was one of anger. Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal of wonder, and then a certain amount of doubt. He had, during the last fortnight, discussed the matter at great length with a friend, a gentleman who knew the world, and who took upon himself to say that he specially understood female nature. It was by advice from this friend that he had been instigated to plead his own cause. Of course she means to accept you, the friend had said. Why the mischief shouldn't she? But she has some flimsy old-fashioned country idea that it isn't maidenly to give in at first. You tell her roundly that she must marry you. Mr. Gibson was just reaching that roundness which his friend had recommended when the lady left him, and he was alone. Mr. Gibson was no doubt very much in love with Dorothy Stanbury. So much we may take for granted. He at least believed that he was in love with her. He would have thought it wicked to propose to her had he not been in love with her. But with his love was mingled a certain amount of contempt which had induced him to look upon her as an easy conquest. He had been perhaps a little ashamed of himself for being in love with Dorothy, and had almost believed the French's when they had spoken of her as a poor creature, a dependent, one born to be snubbed, as a young woman almost without an identity of her own. When, therefore, she so pertinaciously refused him, he could not but be angry. And it was natural that he should be surprised. Though he was to have received a fortune with Dorothy, the money was not hers. It was to be hers, or rather theirs, only if she would accept him. Mr. Gibson thoroughly understood this point. He knew that Dorothy had nothing of her own. The proposal made to her was as rich as though he had sought her down in thencomputny with his preferment, plus the two thousand pounds in his own pocket. And his other advantages were not hidden from his own eyes. He was a clergyman, well thought of, not bad-looking certainly, considerably under forty. A man indeed who ought to have been in the eyes of Dorothy, such an Orlando as she would have most desired, he could not therefore but wonder. And then came the doubt. Could it be possible that all those refusals were simply the early pulses of hesitating compliance produced by maidenly reserve? Mr. Gibson's friend had expressed a strong opinion that almost any young woman would accept any young man if he put his comither upon her strong enough. For Mr. Gibson's friend was an Irishman. As to Dorothy, the friend had not a doubt in the world. Mr. Gibson, as he stood alone in the room after Dorothy's departure, could not share his friend's uncertainty. But he thought it just possible that the pulsations of maidenly reserve were yet at work. As he was resolving these points in his mind, Miss Stanbury entered the room. It's all over now, she said. As how, Miss Stanbury? As how, she's given you an answer, hasn't she? Yes, Miss Stanbury, she has given me an answer. But it has occurred to me that young ladies are, sometimes, perhaps a little. She means it, Mr. Gibson. You may take my word for that. She is quite in earnest. She can take the bit between her teeth as well as another, though she does look so mild and gentle. She's a Stanbury all over. And must this be the last of it, Miss Stanbury? Upon my word I don't know what else you can do. Unless you send the dean and chapter to talk her over, she's a pick-headed, foolish young woman. But I can't help that. The truth is, you didn't make enough of her at first, Mr. Gibson. You thought the plum would tumble into your mouth. This did seem cruel to the poor man. From the first day in which the project had been opened to him by Miss Stanbury, he had yielded a ready acquiescence, in spite of those ties which he had at Hevetree, and had done his very best to fall into her views. I don't think that is at all fair, Miss Stanbury, he said, with some tone of wrath in his voice. It's true, quite true. You always treated her as though she were something beneath you. Mr. Gibson stood speechless with his mouth open. So you did. I saw it all. And now she's had spirit enough to resent it. I don't wonder at it. I don't indeed. It's no good you're standing there any longer. The thing is done. Such intolerable ill-usage Mr. Gibson had never suffered in his life. Had he been untrue, or very nearly untrue, to those dear girls at Hevetree for this? I never treated her as anything beneath me, he said at last. Yes, you did. Do you think that I don't understand? Haven't I eyes in my head and ears? I'm not deaf yet nor blind. But there's an end of it. If any young woman ever meant anything, she means it. The truth is, she don't like you. Was ever a lover dispatched in so uncourteous a way? Then, too, he had been summoned thither as a lover. Had been specially encouraged to come there as a lover, had been assured of success in a peculiar way, had had the plum actually offered to him. He had done all that this old woman had bidden him, something indeed to the prejudice of his own heart. He had been told that the wife was ready for him, and now because this foolish young woman didn't know her own mind. This was Mr. Gibson's view of the matter. He was reviled and abused and told that he had behaved badly to the lady. Miss Stanbury, he said, I think that you are forgetting yourself. Heidi Tidy, said Miss Stanbury, forgetting myself, I shan't forget you in a hurry, Mr. Gibson. Nor I you, Miss Stanbury. Good morning, Miss Stanbury. Mr. Gibson, as he went from the hall door into the street, shook the dust off his feet, and resolved that for the future he and Miss Stanbury should be two. There would arise great trouble in Exeter, but nevertheless he and Miss Stanbury must be two. He could justify himself in no other purpose after such conduct as he had received. END OF CHAPTER XLXXII There had been various letters passing, during the last six weeks, between Priscilla Stanbury and her brother, respecting the clock house at Nuncombe Hutney. The ladies at Nuncombe had certainly gone into the clock house on the clear understanding that the expenses of the establishment were to be incurred on behalf of Mrs. Trevelyan. Priscilla had assented to the movement most doubtingly. She had disliked the idea of taking the charge of a young married woman who was separated from her husband, and she had felt that a going down after such an uprising, a fall from the clock house back to a cottage, would be very disagreeable. She had, however, allowed her brother's arguments to prevail, and there they were. The annoyance which she had anticipated from the position of their late guest had fallen upon them. It had been felt grievously from the moment in which Colonel Osbourne called at the house, and now that going back to the cottage must be endured. Priscilla understood that there had been a settlement between Trevelyan and Stanbury as to the cost of the establishment so far, but that must now be at an end. In their present circumstances she would not continue to live there, and had already made inquiries as to some humble roof for their shelter. For herself she would not have cared had it been necessary for her to hide herself in a hut, for herself as regarded any feeling as to her own standing in the village. For herself she was ashamed of nothing. But her mother would suffer, and she knew what Aunt Stanbury would say to Dorothy. To Dorothy at the present moment, if Dorothy should think of accepting her suitor, the change might be very deleterious, but still it should be made. She could not endure to live there on the very hard-earned proceeds of her brother's pen, proceeds which were not only hard-earned, but precarious. She gave warning to the two servants who had been hired, and consulted with Mrs. Crockett as to a cottage, and was careful to let it be known throughout Nuncomputney that the clockhouse was to be abandoned. The clockhouse had been taken furnished for six months, of which half were not yet over, but there were other expenses of living there much greater than the rent and go she would. Her mother sighed and dissented, and Mrs. Crockett, having strongly but fruitlessly advised that the clockhouse should be inhabited at any rate for the six months, promised her assistance. It has been a bad business, Mrs. Crockett, said Priscilla, and all we can do now is to get out of it as well as we can. Every mouthful I eat chokes me while I stay there. It ain't good, certainly, Miss, not to know as you're all straight the first thing as you wakes in the morning, said Mrs. Crockett, who was always able to feel when she woke that everything was straight with her. Then there came the correspondence between Priscilla and Hugh. Priscilla was at first decided, indeed, but mild in the expression of her decision. To this, and to one or two other missives couched in terms of increasing decision, Hugh answered with manly, self-asserting, overbearing arguments. The house was theirs till Christmas. Between this and then he would think about it. He could very well afford to keep the house on till next mid-summer, and then they might see what had best be done. There was plenty of money, and Priscilla need not put herself into a flutter. In answer to that word, flutter, Priscilla wrote as follows. Clockhouse, September 16th, 1860 Blank. Dear Hugh, I know very well how good you are and how generous, but you must allow me to have feelings as well as yourself. I will not consent to have myself regarded as a grand lady out of your earnings. How should I feel when some day I heard that you had run yourself into debt? Neither Mamma nor I could endure it. Dorothy is provided for now, at any rate for a time, and what we have is enough for us. You know I am not too proud to take anything you can spare to us when we are ourselves placed in a proper position, but I could not live in this great house while you are paying for everything, and I will not. Mamma quite agrees with me, and we shall go out of it on Mikkelmas Day. Mrs. Crockett says she thinks she can get you a tenant for the three months out of Exeter, if not for the whole rent at least for part of it. I think we have already got a small place for eight shillings a week, a little out of the village on the road to Cockchaffington. You will remember it. Old Somes used to live there. Our old furniture will be just enough. There is a might of a garden, and Mrs. Crockett says she thinks we can get it for seven shillings, or perhaps for six and six pence if we stay there. We shall go in on the twenty-ninth. Mrs. Crockett will see about having somebody to take care of the house. Your most affectionate sister, Priscilla. On the receipt of this letter Hugh proceeded to Nuncombe. At this time he was making about ten guineas a week, and thought that he saw his way to further work. No doubt the ten guineas were precarious. That is, the daily record might discontinue his services to-morrow if the daily record thought fit to do so. The greater part of his earnings came from the DR, and the editor had only to say that things did not suit any longer and there would be an end of it. He was not as a lawyer or a doctor, with many clients, who could not all be supposed to withdraw their custom at once. But leading articles were things wanted with at least as much regularity as physics or law, and Hugh Stanbury, believing in himself, did not think it probable that an editor, who knew what he was about, would withdraw his patronage. He was proud of his weekly ten guineas, feeling sure that a weekly ten guineas would not as yet have been his had he stuck to the bar as a profession. He had calculated, when Mrs. Trevelyan left the clockhouse, that two hundred a year would enable his mother to continue to reside there, the rent of the place furnished, or half furnished, being only eighty, and he thought that he could pay the two hundred easily. He thought so still when he received Priscilla's last letter, but he knew something of the stubbornness of his dear sister, and he, therefore, went down to Nuncamputney in order that he might use the violence of his logic on his mother. He had heard of Mr. Gibson from both Priscilla and from Dorothy, and was certainly desirous that dear old Dolly, as he called her, should be settled comfortably. But when dear old Dolly wrote to him, declaring that it could not be so, that Mr. Gibson was a very nice gentleman of whom she could not say that she was particularly fond. Though I really do think that he is an excellent man, and if it was any other girl in the world I should recommend her to take him, and that she thought that she would rather not get married, he wrote to her the kindest brotherly letter in the world, telling her that she was a brick, and suggesting to her that there might come, some day, someone who would suit her taste better than Mr. Gibson. I'm not very fond of Parsons myself, said Hugh, but you must not tell that to Aunt Stanbury. Then he suggested that as he was going down to Nuncamputney, Dorothy should get leave of absence and come over and meet him at the clockhouse. Dorothy demanded the leave of absence, somewhat imperiously, and was at home at the clockhouse when Hugh arrived. And so that little affair couldn't come off, said Hugh at their first family meeting. It was a pity, said Mrs. Stanbury, plaintively. She had been very plaintive on the subject. What a thing it would have been for her! Could she have seen Dorothy so well established? There's no help for spilt milk-mother, said Hugh. Mrs. Stanbury shook her head. Dorothy was quite right, said Priscilla. Of course she was right, said Hugh. Who doubts her being right? Bless my soul! What's any girl to do if she don't like a man except to tell him so? I honor you, Dolly. Not that I ever should have doubted you. You're too much of a chip of the old block to say you liked a man when you didn't. He is a very excellent young man, said Mrs. Stanbury. An excellent fiddle-stick mother, loving and liking don't go by excellence. Besides, I don't know about his being any better than anybody else, just because he's a clergyman. A clergyman is more likely to be steady than other men, said the mother. Steady, yes, and as selfish as you please. Your father was a clergyman, Hugh. I don't mean to say that they are not as good as others, but I won't have it that they are better. They are always dealing with the Bible till they think themselves apostles. But when money comes up, or comfort, or for the matter of that either, a pretty woman with a little money, then they are as human as the rest of us. If the truth had been told on that occasion, Hugh Stanbury would have had to own that he had written lately two or three rather stinging articles in the daily record, as to the assumed merits and actual demerits of the clergy of the Church of England. It is astonishing how fluent a man is on a subject when he has lately delivered himself respecting it in this fashion. Nothing on that evening was said about the clockhouse or about Priscilla's intentions. Priscilla was up early on the next morning, intending to discuss it in the garden with Hugh before breakfast, but Hugh was aware of her purpose and avoided her. It was his intention to speak first to his mother, and though his mother was, as he knew, very much in awe of her daughter, he thought that he might carry his point, at any rate for the next three months, by forcing an assent from the elder lady. So he managed to wailay Mrs. Stanbury before she descended to the parlor. We can't afford it, my dear. Indeed we can't, said Mrs. Stanbury. That's not the question, mother. The rent must be paid up to Christmas, and you can live here as cheap as you can anywhere. But Priscilla. Oh, Priscilla. Of course we know what Priscilla says. Priscilla has been writing to me about it in the most sensible manner in the world. But what does it all come to? If you are ashamed of taking assistance from me, I don't know who is to do anything for anybody. You are comfortable here? Very comfortable. Only Priscilla feels. Priscilla is a tyrant mother and a very stern one. Just make up your mind to stay here till Christmas. If I tell you that I can afford it, surely that ought to be enough? Then Dorothy entered the room, and Hugh appealed to her. Dorothy had come to Nuncombe only on the day before, and had not been consulted on the subject. She had been told that the clockhouse was to be abandoned, and had been taken down to inspect the cottage in which old soams had lived. But her opinion had not been asked. Priscilla had quite made up her mind. And why should she ask an opinion of any one? But now Dorothy's opinion was demanded. It's what I call the roto montade of independence, said Hugh. I suppose it is very expensive, suggested Dorothy. The house must be paid for, said Hugh, and if I say that I've got the money is not that enough? A miserable, dirty little place where you'll catch your death of Lombago mother. Of course, it's not a comfortable house, said Mrs. Stanbury, who of herself was not at all indifferent to the comforts of her present residence. And it is very dirty, said Dorothy. The nastiest place I ever saw in my life—come, mother, if I say that I can afford it ought not that to be enough for you? If you think you can't trust me, there's an end of everything, you know. And Hugh, as he thus expressed himself, assumed an air of injured virtue. Mrs. Stanbury had very nearly yielded when Priscilla came in among them. It was impossible not to continue the conversation, though Hugh would much have preferred to have forced an assent from his mother before he opened his mouth on the subject to his sister. My mother agrees with me, said he abruptly, and so does Dolly, that it will be absurd to move away from this house at present. Mama! exclaimed Priscilla. I don't think I said that, Hugh, murmured Dorothy softly. I'm sure I don't want anything for myself, said Mrs. Stanbury. It's I that want it, said Hugh, and I think that I have a right to have my wishes respected so far as that goes. My dear Hugh, said Priscilla, the cottage is already taken, and we shall certainly go into it. I spoke to Mrs. Crockett yesterday about a cart for moving the things. I'm sure Mama agrees with me. What possible business can people have to live in such a house as this, with about twenty-four shillings a week for everything? I won't do it. And as the thing is settled it is only making trouble to disturb it. I suppose Priscilla, said Hugh, you'll do as your mother chooses. Mama chooses to go. She has told me so already. You have talked her into it. We had better go, Hugh, said Mrs. Stanbury. I'm sure we had better go. Of course we shall go, said Priscilla. Hugh is very kind and very generous, but he is only giving trouble for nothing about this. Had we not better go down to breakfast? And so Priscilla carried the day. They went down to breakfast, and during the meal Hugh would speak to nobody. When the gloomy meal was over he took his pipe and walked out to the cottage. It was an untidy-looking rickety place, small and desolate, with a pretension about it of the lowest order, a pretension that was evidently ashamed of itself. There was a porch, and the one sitting-room had what the late Mr. Soames had always called his bow-window. But the porch looked as though it were tumbling down, and the bow-window looked as though it were tumbling out. The parlor and the bedroom over it had been papered, but the paper was torn and soiled, and in sundry places was hanging loose. There was a miserable little room called a kitchen to the right as you entered the door, in which the grate was worn out, and behind this was a shed with a copper. In the garden there remained the stumps and stalks of Mr. Soames's cabbages, and there were weeds and plenty, and a damp hole among some elder bushes called an arbor. It was named LeBurnham Cottage, from a shrub that grew at the end of the house. Hugh's standberry shuddered as he stood smoking among the cabbage stalks. How could a man ask such a girl as Nora Rowley to be his wife, whose mother lives in a place like this? While he was still standing in the garden, and thinking of Priscilla's obstinacy and his own ten guineas a week, and the sort of life which he lived in London, where he died usually at his club, and denied himself nothing in the way of pipes, beer, and beef steaks, he heard a step behind him, and turning round saw his elder sister. Hugh, she said, you must not be angry with me. But I am angry with you. I know you are, but you are unjust. I am doing what I am sure is right. I never saw such a beastly hole as this in all my life. I don't think it beastly at all. You'll find that I'll make it nice. Whatever we want here, you shall give us. You are not to think that I am too proud to take anything at your hands. It is not that. It's very like it. I have never refused anything that is reasonable, but it is quite unreasonable that we should go on living in such a place as that, as though we had three or four hundred a year of our own. If Mama got used to the comfort of it, it would be hard, then, upon her to move. You shall give her what you can afford and what is reasonable, but it is madness to think of living there. I couldn't do it. You are to have your way at any rate, it seems. But you must not quarrel with me, Hugh. Give me a kiss. I don't have you often with me, and yet you are the only man in the world that I ever speak to or even know. I sometimes half think that the bread is so hard and the water so bitter that life will become impossible. I try to get over it, but if you were to go away from me in anger I should be so beaten for a week or two that I could do nothing. Why won't you let me do anything? I will whatever you please, but kiss me. Then he kissed her as he stood among Mr. Somes' cabbage stalks. Dear Hugh, you are such a God to me. You don't treat me like a divinity. But I think of you as one when you are absent. The Gods were never obeyed when they showed themselves. Let us go and have a walk. Come, shall we get as far as Ridley Mill? Then they started together and all unpleasantness was over between them when they returned to the clockhouse.