 68 Major Magruder's Committee Sir Marmaduke could not go out to Wilsden on the morning after Lady Rowley's return from Rivers Cottage, because on that day he was summoned to attend at twelve o'clock before a committee of the House of Commons, to give his evidence and the fruit of his experience as to the government of British colonies generally. And as he went down to the House in a cab from Manchester Street, he thoroughly wished that his friend Colonel Osborn had not been so efficacious in bringing him home. The task before him was one which he thoroughly disliked and of which he was afraid. He dreaded the inquisitors before whom he was to appear, and felt that though he was called there to speak as a master of his art of governing, he would in truth be examined as a servant, and probably as a servant who did not know his business. Had his sojourn at home been in other respects happy, he might have been able to balance the advantage against the inquiry, but there was no such balancing for him now. And moreover, the expense of his own house in Manchester Street was so large that this journey in a pecuniary point of view would be but of little service to him. So he went down to the House in an unhappy mood, and when he shook hands in one of the passages with his friend Osborn who was on the committee, there was very little cordiality in his manner. "'This is the most ungrateful thing I ever knew,' said the Colonel to himself. "'I have almost disgraced myself by having this fellow brought home, and now he quarrels with me because that idiot his son-in-law has quarreled with his wife.' And Colonel Osborn really did feel that he was a martyr to the ingratitude of his friend. The committee had been convoked by the House in compliance with the eager desires of a certain ancient pundit of the Constitution, who had been for many years a member, and who had been known as a stern critic of our colonial modes of government. To him it certainly seemed that everything that was was bad, as regarded our national dependencies. But this is so usually the state of mind of all parliamentary critics, it is so much a matter of course that the members who take up the Army or the Navy—guns, India, our relations with Spain, or work-house management—should find everything to be bad, rotten, and dishonest. That the wrath of the member for Kilicrankee against colonial peculation and idleness was not thought much of in the open house. He had been at the work for years, and the colonial office were so used to it that they rather liked him. He had made himself free of the office, and the clerks were always glad to see him. It was understood that he said bitter things in the house, that was Major Magruder's line of business, but he could be quite pleasant when he was asking questions of a private secretary, or telling the news of the day to a senior clerk. As he was now between seventy and eighty, and had been at the work for at least twenty years, most of those concerned had allowed themselves to think that he would ride his hobby harmlessly to the day of his parliamentary death. But the drop from a house corner will hollow a stone by its constancy, and Major Magruder at last persuaded the house to grant him a committee of inquiry. When there came to be serious faces at the colonial office, and all the little pleasantries of a friendly opposition were at an end, it was felt that the battle must now become a real fight, and secretary and under-secretary girded up their loins. Major Magruder was chairman of his own committee, and being a man of a laborious turn of mind, much given to blue books, very patient, thoroughly conversant with the house, and imbued with a strong belief in the efficacy of parliamentary questionings to carry a point, if not to illicit a fact, had a happy time of it during this session. He was a man who always attended the house from four p.m. to the time of its breaking up, and who never missed a division. The slight additional task of sitting four hours in a committee room three days a week was only a delight the more, especially as during those four hours he could occupy the post of chairman. Those who knew Major Magruder well did not doubt but that the committee would sit for many weeks, and that the whole theory of colonial government, or rather of imperial control supervising such government, would be tested to the very utmost. Men who had heard the old Major maunder on for years past on his pet subject hardly knew how much vitality would be found in him when his maundering had succeeded in giving him a committee. A governor from one of the greater colonies had already been under question for nearly a week, and was generally thought to have come out of the fire unscathed by the flames of the Major's criticism. This governor had been a picked man, and he had made it appear that the control of Downing Street was never more harsh and seldom less refreshing and beautifying than a spring shower in April. No other lands under the sun were so blessed in the way of government as were the colonies with which he had been acquainted, and as a natural consequence their devotion and loyalty to the mother country were quite a passion with them. Now the Major had been long of a mind that one or two colonies had better simply be given up to other nations which were more fully able to look after them than was England, and that three or four more should be allowed to go clear, costing England nothing and owing England nothing. But the well-chosen governor who had now been before the committee had rather staggered the Major, and things altogether were supposed to be looking up for the colonial office. And now had come the day of Sir Marmaduke's martyrdom. He was first requested, with most urbane politeness, to explain the exact nature of the government which he exercised in the mandarins. Now it certainly was the case that the manner in which the legislative and executive authorities were intermingled in the affairs of these islands did create a complication which it was difficult for any man to understand, and very difficult indeed for any man to explain to others. There was a court of chancery, so called, which Sir Marmaduke described as a little parliament. When he was asked whether the court exercised legislative or executive functions, he said at first that it exercised both, and then that it exercised neither. He knew that it consisted of nine men, of whom five were appointed by the colony and four by the crown, yet he declared that the crown had the control of the court, which in fact was true enough no doubt, as the five open members were not perhaps all of them immaculate patriots. But on this matter poor Sir Marmaduke was very obscure. When asked who exercised the patronage of the crown in nominating the four members, he declared that the four members exercised it themselves. Did he appoint them? No, he never appointed anybody himself. He consulted the court of chancery for everything. At last it came out that the chief justice of the islands and three other officers always sat in the court. But whether it was required by the constitution of the islands that this should be so, Sir Marmaduke did not know. It had worked well, that was to say everybody had complained of it, but he, Sir Marmaduke, would not recommend any change. What he thought best was that the colonial secretary should send out his orders, and that the people in the colonies should mind their business and grow coffee. When asked what would be the effect upon the islands, under his scheme of government, if an incoming colonial secretary should change the policy of his predecessor, he said that he didn't think it would much matter if the people did not know anything about it. In this way the major had a field day, and poor Sir Marmaduke was much discomfited. There was present on the committee a young parliamentary under-secretary, who with much attention had studied the subject of the court of chancery in the mandarins, and who had acknowledged to his superiors in the office that it certainly was of all legislative assemblies the most awkward and complicated. He did what he could, by questions judiciously put, to pull Sir Marmaduke through his difficulties, but the unfortunate governor had more than once lost his temper in answering the chairman, and in his heavy confusion was past the power of any under-secretary, let him be ever so clever to pull him through. Colonel Osborn sat by the while and asked no questions. He had been put on the committee as a respectable dummy, but there was not a member sitting there who did not know that Sir Marmaduke had been brought home as his friend, and some of them, no doubt, had whispered that this bringing home of Sir Marmaduke was part of the payment made by the Colonel for the smiles of the governor's daughter. But no one alluded openly to the inefficiency of the evidence given. No one asked why a governor so incompetent had been sent to them. No one suggested that a job had been done. There are certain things of which opposition members of parliament complain loudly, and there are certain other things as to which they are silent. The line between these things is well known, and should an ill-conditioned, a pig-headed, an under-bred or an ignorant member not understand this line and transgress it by asking questions which should not be asked, he is soon put down from the treasury bench to the great delight of the whole house. Sir Marmaduke, after having been questioned for an entire afternoon, left the house with extreme disgust. He was so convinced of his own failure that he felt that his career as a colonial governor must be over. Surely they would never let him go back to his islands after such an exposition as he had made of his own ignorance. He hurried off into a cab and was ashamed to be seen of men. But the members of the committee thought little or nothing about it. The major and those who sided with him had been anxious to entrap their witness into contradictions and absurdities for the furtherance of their own object, and for the furtherance of theirs the under-secretary from the office and the supporters of government had endeavored to defend their man. But when the affair was over, if no special admiration had been elicited for Sir Marmaduke, neither was there expressed any special reprobation. The major carried on his committee over six weeks and succeeded in having his blue book printed, but as a matter of course nothing further came of it, and the court of chancery in the Mandarin Islands still continues to hold its own and to do its work in spite of the absurdities displayed in its construction. Sir Magruder has had his day of success and now feels that Othello's occupation is gone. He goes no more to the colonial office, lives among his friends on the memories of his committee, not always to their gratification, and is beginning to think that as his work is done he may as well resign kilokrankey to some younger politician. Poor Sir Marmaduke remembered his defeat with soreness long after it had been forgotten by all others who had been present, and was astonished when he found that the journals of the day, though they did in some curt fashion report the proceedings of the committee, never uttered a word of censure against him, as they had not before uttered a word of praise for that pearl of a governor who had been examined before him. On the following morning he went to the colonial office by appointment, and then he saw the young Irish undersecretary whom he had so much dreaded. Nothing could be more civil than was the young Irish undersecretary, who told him that he had better of course stay in town till the committee was over, though it was not probable that he would be wanted again. When the committee had done its work he would be allowed to remain six weeks on service to prepare for his journey back. If he wanted more time after that he could ask for leave of absence. So Sir Marmaduke left the colonial office with a great weight off his mind, and blessed that young Irish secretary as he went. CHAPTER 69 Sir Marmaduke at Willsden On the next day Sir Marmaduke purposed going to Willsden. He was in great doubt whether or no he would first consult that very eminent man Dr. Trite Turberry as to the possibility, and, if possible, as to the expediency, of placing Mr. Travellian under some control. But Sir Marmaduke, though he would repeatedly declare that his son-in-law was mad, did not really believe in this madness. He did not, that is, believe that Travellian was so mad as to be fairly exempt from the penalties of responsibility, and he was therefore desirous of speaking his own mind out fully to the man, and, as it were, of having his own personal revenge, before he might be deterred by the interposition of medical advice. He resolved therefore that he would not see Sir Trite Turberry at any rate till he had come back from Willsden. He also went down in a cab, but he left the cab at the public house at the corner of the road and walked to the cottage. When he asked whether Mr. Travellian was at home, the woman of the house hesitated and then said that her lodger was out. I particularly wish to see him, said Sir Marmaduke, feeling that the woman was lying to him. But he ain't to be seen, sir, said the woman. I know he is at home, said Sir Marmaduke, but the argument was soon cut short by the appearance of Travellian behind the woman's shoulder. I am here, Sir Marmaduke Rowley, said Travellian. If you wish to see me, you may come in. I will not say that you are welcome, but you can come in. Then the woman retired, and Sir Marmaduke followed Travellian into the room in which Lady Rowley and Emily had been received, but the child was not now in the chamber. What are these charges that I hear against my daughter, said Sir Marmaduke, rushing at once into the midst of his indignation. I do not know what charges you have heard. You have put her away. In strict accuracy that is not correct, Sir Marmaduke. But she is put away. She is in my house now because you have no house of your own for her, is not that so. And when I came home she was staying with her uncle because you had put her away. And what was the meaning of her being sent down into Devonshire? What has she done? I am her father and I expect to have an answer. You shall have an answer, certainly. And a true one. I will have no hocus pocus, no humbug, no Jesuitry. Have you come here to insult me, Sir Marmaduke, because if so there shall be an end to this interview at once. There shall not be an end. By God no, not till I have heard what is the meaning of all this. Do you know what people are saying of you? That you are mad and that you must be locked up and your child taken away from you and your property? Who are the people that say so? Yourself and perhaps Lady Rowley. Does my wife say so? Does she think that I am mad? She did not think so on Thursday when she prayed that she might be allowed to come back and live with me. And you would not let her come? Pardon me, said Trevelyan, I would wish that she should come, but it must be on certain conditions. What I want to know is why was she turned out of your house? She was not turned out. What has she done that she should be punished? urged Sir Marmaduke, who was unable to arrange his questions with the happiness which had distinguished Major Magruder. I insist upon knowing what it is that you lay to her charge. I am her father and I have a right to know. She has been barbarously, shamefully ill-used and by God I will know. You have come here to bully me, Sir Marmaduke Rowley. I have come here, sir, to do the duty of a parent to his child, to protect my poor girl against the cruelty of a husband, who in an unfortunate hour was allowed to take her from her home. I will know the reason why my daughter has been treated as though—as though—as though— Listen to me for a minute, said Trevelyan. I am listening. I will tell you nothing. I will answer you not a word. You will not answer me. Not when you come to me in this fashion. My wife is my wife, and my claim to her is nearer and closer than is yours who are her father. She is the mother of my child, and the only being in the world, except that child, whom I love. Do you think that with such motives on my part for tenderness towards her, for loving care for the most anxious solitude, that I can be made more anxious, more tender, more loving, by coarse epithets from you? I am the most miserable being under the sun because our happiness has been interrupted, and is it likely that such misery should be cured by violent words and gestures? If your heart is wrung for her, so is mine. If she be much to you, she is more to me. She came here the other day almost as a stranger, and I thought that my heart would have burst beneath its weight of woe. What can you do that can add an ounce to the burden that I bear? You may as well leave me, or at least be quiet. Sir Marmaduke had stood and listened to him, and he too was so struck by the altered appearance of the man that the violence of his indignation was lessened by the pity which he could not suppress. When Trevelyan spoke of his wretchedness, it was impossible not to believe him. He was as wretched a being to look at as it might have been possible to find. His contracted cheeks and lips always open, and eyes glowing in their sunken caverns, told a tale which even Sir Marmaduke, who was not of nature quick in deciphering such stories, could not fail to read. And then the twitching motion of the man's hands and the restless shuffling of his feet produced a nervous feeling that if some remedy were not applied quickly, some alleviation given to the misery of the suffering wretch, human power would be strained too far, and the man would break to pieces, or else the mind of the man. Sir Marmaduke, during his journey in the cab, had resolved that, old as he was, he would take this sinner by the throat, this brute who had striven to stain his daughter's name, and would make him there and then acknowledge his own brutality. But it was now very manifest to Sir Marmaduke that there could be no taking by the throat in this case. He could not have brought himself to touch the poor, weak, passionate creature before him. Indeed, even the fury of his words was stayed, and after that last appeal he stormed no more. But what is to be the end of it, he said? Who can tell? Who can say? She can tell. She can put an end to it all. She has but to say a word, and I will devote my life to her, but that word must be spoken. As he said this he dashed his hand upon the table, and looked up with an air that would have been comic with its assumed magnificence, had it not been for the true tragedy of the occasion. You had better, at any rate, let her have her child for the present. No, my boy shall go with me. She may go too if she pleases, but my boy shall certainly go with me. If I had put her from me, as you said just now, it might have been otherwise. But she shall be as welcome to me as flowers in May. As flowers in May. She shall be as welcome to me as the music of Heaven. Sir Marmaduke felt that he had nothing more to urge. He had altogether abandoned that idea of having his revenge at the cost of the man's throat, and was quite convinced that reason could have no power with him. He was already thinking that he would go away, straight to his lawyer, so that some step might be taken at once to stop, if possible, the taking away of the boy to America, when the lock of the door was gently turned and the landlady entered the room. You will excuse me, sir, said the woman, but if you be anything to this gentleman. Mrs. Fuller, leave the room, said Trevelyan. I and the gentleman are engaged. I see you be engaged, and I do beg pardon. I ain't one as would intrude willful, and as for listening or the likes of that, I scorn it. But if this gentleman be anything to you, Mr. Trevelyan, I am his wife's father, said Sir Marmaduke. Like enough, I was thinking perhaps so. His lady was down here on Thursday, as sweet a lady as any gentleman need wish to stretch by his side. Mrs. Fuller, said Trevelyan, marching up towards her, I will not have this, and I desire that you will retire from my room. But Mrs. Fuller escaped round the table and would not be banished. She got round the table and came closely opposite to Sir Marmaduke. I don't want to say nothing out of my place, sir, said she, but something ought to be done. He ain't fit to be left to himself, not alone, not as he is at present. He ain't indeed, and I wouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't say so. He has them sweats at night as be enough to kill any man, and he eats nothing, and he don't do nothing. And as for that poor little boy as is now in my own bed upstairs, if it wasn't that I and my Bessie is fond of children, I don't know what would become of that boy. Trevelyan, finding an impossible to get rid of her, had stood quietly while he listened to her. She has been good to my child, he said. I acknowledge it. As for myself I have not been well, it is true, but I am told that travel will set me on my feet again. Change of air will do it. Not long since he had been urging the wretchedness of his own bodily health as a reason why his wife should yield to him, but now when his sickness was brought as a charge against him, was adduced as a reason why his friends should interfere and look after him and concern themselves in his affairs, he saw at once that it was necessary that he should make little of his ailments. Would it not be best, Trevelyan, that you should come with me to a doctor, said Sir Marmaduke? No. No, I have my own doctor. That is, I know the course which I should follow. This place, though it is good for the boy, has disagreed with me, and my life has not been altogether pleasant. I may say, by no means pleasant. Troubles have told upon me, but change of air will mend it all. I wish you would come with me at once to London. You shall come back, you know. I will not detain you. Thank you. No, I will not trouble you. That will do, Mrs. Fuller. You have intended to do your duty, no doubt, and now you can go. Whereupon Mrs. Fuller did go. I am obliged for your care, Sir Marmaduke, but I can really do very well without troubling you. You cannot suppose, Trevelyan, that we can allow things to go on like this. And what do you mean to do? Well, I shall take advice. I shall go to a lawyer, and to a doctor, and perhaps to the Lord Chancellor and all that kind of thing. We can't let things go on like this. You can do as you please, said Trevelyan, but as you have threatened me I must ask you to leave me. Sir Marmaduke could do no more, and could say no more, and he took his leave, shaking hands with the man, and speaking to him with a courtesy which astonished himself. It was impossible to maintain the strength of his indignation against a poor creature who was so manifestly unable to guide himself. But when he was in London he drove at once to the house of Dr. Trite Turberry, and remained there till the doctor returned from his round of visits. According to the great authority there was much still to be done before even the child could be rescued out of the father's hands. I can't act without the lawyers, said Dr. Turberry, but he explained to Sir Marmaduke what steps should be taken in such a matter. Trevelyan in the meantime, clearly understanding that hostile measures would now be taken against him, set his mind to work to think how best he might escape at once to America with his boy. Sir Marmaduke on his return home from Dr. Turberry's house found that he had other domestic troubles on hand over and above those arising from his elder daughter's position. Mr. Hugh Stanbury had been in Manchester Street during his absence, and had asked for him, and finding that he was away from home, had told his story to Lady Rowley. When he had been shown upstairs all the four daughters had been with their mother, but he had said a word or two signifying his desire to speak to Lady Rowley, and the three girls had left the room. In this way it came to pass that he had to plead his cause before Nora's mother and her elder sister. He had pleaded it well, and Lady Rowley's heart had been well disposed towards him. But when she asked of his house and his home, his answer had been hardly more satisfactory than that of Alan Adale. There was little that he could call his own beyond the blue vault of heaven. Had he saved any money? No, not a shilling. That was to say, as he himself expressed it, nothing that could be called money. He had a few pounds by him just to go on with. What was his income? Well last year he had made four hundred pounds, and this year he hoped to make something more. He thought he could see his way plainly to five hundred a year. Was it permanent? And if not, on what did it depend? He believed it to be as permanent as most other professional incomes, but was obliged to confess that, as regarded the source from whence it was drawn at the present moment, it might be brought to an abrupt end any day by a disagreement between himself and the editor of the D.R. Did he think that this was a fixed income? He did think that if he and the editor of the D.R. were to fall out, he could come across other editors who would gladly employ him. Would he himself feel safe in giving his own sister to a man with such an income? In answer to this question, he started some rather bold doctrines on the subject of matrimony in general, asserting that safety was not desirable, that energy, patience, and mutual confidence would be increased by the excitement of risk, and that in his opinion it behoved young men and young women to come together and get themselves married, even though there might be some not remote danger of distress before them. He admitted that starvation would be disagreeable, especially for children in the eyes of their parents, but alleged that children as a rule were not starved, and quoted the scripture to prove that honest, laborious men were not to be seen begging their bread in the streets. He was very eloquent, but his eloquence itself was against him. Both Lady Rowley and Mrs. Trevelyan were afraid of such advanced opinions, and although everything was, of course, to be left, nominally, to the decision of Sir Marmaduke, they both declared that they could not recommend Sir Marmaduke to consent. Lady Rowley said a word as to the expediency of taking Nora back with her to the mandarins, pointing out what appeared to her then to be the necessity of taking Mrs. Trevelyan with them also, and in saying this she hinted that if Nora were disposed to stand by her engagement, and Mr. Stanbury equally so disposed, there might be some possibility of a marriage at a future period. Only in such case there must be no correspondence. In answer to this, Hugh declared that he regarded such a scheme as being altogether bad. The mandarins were so very far distant that he might as well be engaged to an angel in heaven. Nora, if she were to go away now, would perhaps never come back again, and if she did come back would be an old woman with hollow cheeks. In replying to this proposition, he let fall an opinion that Nora was old enough to judge for herself. He said nothing about her actual age, and did not venture to plead that the young lady had a legal right to do as she liked with herself, but he made it manifest that such an idea was in his mind. In answer to this, Lady Rowley asserted that Nora was a good girl, and would do as her father told her, but she did not venture to assert that Nora would give up her engagement. Lady Rowley at last undertook to speak to Sir Rowley, and to speak also to her daughter. Hugh was asked for his address, and gave that of the office of the D.R. He was always to be found there between three and five, and after that, four times a week, in the Reporters' Gallery of the House of Commons. Then he was at some pains to explain to Lady Rowley that, though he attended the Reporters' Gallery, he did not report himself. It was his duty to write leading political articles, and to enable him to do so, he attended the debates. Before he went, Mrs. Trevelyan thanked him most cordially for the trouble he had taken in procuring for her the address at Willsden, and gave him some account of the journey which she and her mother had made to Rivers Cottage. He argued with both of them that the unfortunate man must now be regarded as being altogether out of his mind, and something was said as to the great wisdom and experience of Dr. Trite Turberry. Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave, and even Lady Rowley bade him a Jew with kind cordiality. "'I don't wonder, Mama, that Nora should like him,' said Mrs. Trevelyan. "'That is all very well, my dear, and no doubt he is pleasant and manly in all that, but really it would be almost like marrying a beggar.' "'For myself,' said Mrs. Trevelyan, "'if I could begin life again, I do not think that any temptation would induce me to place myself in a man's power.' Sir Marmaduke was told of all this on his return home, and he asked many questions as to the nature of Stanbury's work. When it was explained to him, Lady Rowley repeating as nearly as she could all that Hugh had himself said about it, he expressed his opinion that writing for a penny newspaper was hardly more safe as a source of income than bedding on horse races. "'I don't see that it is wrong,' said Mrs. Trevelyan. "'I say nothing about wrong. I simply assert that it is uncertain. The very existence of such a periodical must in itself be most insecure.' Sir Marmaduke, amidst the cares of his government at the Mandarin's, had perhaps had no better opportunity of watching what was going on in the world of letters than had fallen to the lot of Miss Stanbury at Exeter. "'I think your papa is right,' said Lady Rowley. "'Of course I am right. It is out of the question, and so Nora must be told.' He had, as yet, heard nothing about Mr. Glasscock. Had that misfortune been communicated to him, his cup would indeed have been filled with sorrow to overflowing. In the evening Nora was closeted with her father. "'Nora, my dear, you must understand once and for all that this cannot be,' said Sir Marmaduke. The governor, when he was not disturbed by outward circumstances, could assume a good deal of personal dignity, and could speak, especially to his children, with an air of indisputable authority. "'What can't be, papa?' said Nora. Sir Marmaduke perceived at once that there was no indication of obedience in his daughter's voice, and he prepared himself for battle. He conceived himself to be very strong, and thought that his objections were so well-founded that no one would deny their truth and that his daughter had not a leg to stand on. "'This that your mama tells me of about Mr. Stanbury, do you know, my dear, that he has not a shilling in the world? I know that he has no fortune, papa, if you mean that. And no profession, either. Nothing that can be called a profession. I do not wish to argue it, my dear, because there is no room for argument. The whole thing is preposterous. I cannot but think ill of him for having proposed it to you. For he must have known—must have known—that a young man without an income cannot be accepted as a fitting suitor for a gentleman's daughter. As for yourself, I can only hope that you will get the little idea out of your head very quickly, but mama will speak to you about that. What I want you to understand from me is this, that there must be an end to it." Nora listened to this speech in perfect silence, standing before her father, and waiting patiently till the last word of it should be pronounced. Even when he had finished, she still paused before she answered him. "'Papa,' she said at last, and hesitated again before she went on. "'Well, my dear, I cannot give it up. But you must give it up.' "'No, Papa. I would do anything I could for you and mama, but that is impossible. Why is it impossible? Because I love him so dearly. That is nonsense. That is what all girls say when they choose to run against their parents. I tell you that it shall be given up. I will not have him here. I forbid you to see him. It is quite out of the question that you should marry such a man. I do hope, Nora, that you are not going to add to mama's difficulties and mine by being obstinate and disobedient.' He paused a moment, and then added, "'I do not think that there is anything more to be said.' "'Papa! My dear, I think you had better say nothing further about it. If you cannot bring yourself at the present moment to promise that there shall be an end of it, you had better hold your tongue. You have heard what I say, and you have heard what mama says. I do not for a moment suppose that you dream of carrying on a communication with this gentleman in opposition to our wishes. But I do. Do what? Papa, you had better listen to me.' Sir Marmaduke, when he heard this, assumed an air of increased authority in which he intended that paternal anger should be visible, but he seated himself, and prepared to receive at any rate some of the arguments with which Nora intended to bolster up her bad cause. I have promised Mr. Stanbury that I will be his wife. That is all nonsense. Do listen to me, Papa. I have listened to you, and you ought to listen to me. I have promised him, and I must keep my promise. I shall keep my promise, if he wishes it. There is a time when a girl must be supposed to know what is best for herself, just as there is for a man. I never heard such stuff in all my life. Do you mean that you'll go out and marry him like a beggar, with nothing but what you stand up in, with no friend to be with you, an outcast, thrown off by your mother, with your father's curse? Oh, Papa, do not say that. You would not curse me. You could not. If you do it at all, that will be the way. That will not be the way, Papa. You could not treat me like that. And how are you proposing to treat me? But Papa, in whatever way I do it, I must do it. I do not say to-day or to-morrow, but it must be the intention and purpose of my life, and I must declare that it is everywhere. I have made up my mind about it. I am engaged to him, and I shall always say so, unless he breaks it. I don't care a bit about fortune. I thought I did once, but I have changed all that. Because this scoundrel has talked sedition to you. He is not a scoundrel, Papa, and he has not talked sedition. I don't know what sedition is. I thought it meant treason, and I'm sure he is not a traitor. He has made me love him, and I shall be true to him. Hereupon Sir Marmaduke began almost to weep. There came first a half-smothered oath and then a sob, and he walked about the room and struck the table with his fist, and rubbed his bald head impatiently with his hand. Nora, he said, I thought you were so different from this. If I had believed this of you, you never should have come to England with Emily. It is too late for that now, Papa. Your mama always told me that you had such excellent ideas about marriage. So I have. I think, said she, smiling, she always believed that you would make a match that would be a credit to the family. I tried it, Papa, the sort of match that you mean. Indeed I was mercenary enough in what I believed to be my views of life. I meant to marry a rich man, if I could, and did not think much whether I should love him or not. But when the rich man came, what rich man? I suppose mama has told you about Mr. Glasscock. Who is Mr. Glasscock? I have not heard a word about Mr. Glasscock. Then Nora was forced to tell her story, was called upon to tell it with all its aggravating details. By degrees Sir Marmaduke learned that this Mr. Glasscock, who had desired to be his son-in-law, was in very truth the heir to the Peterborough title and estates, would have been such a son-in-law as almost to compensate by the brilliance of the connection for that other unfortunate alliance. He could hardly control his agony when he was made to understand that this embryo peer had in truth been in earnest. Do you mean that he went down after you into Devonshire? Yes, papa. And you refused him then, a second time? Yes, papa. Why? Why? Why? You say yourself that you liked him, that you thought that you would accept him. When it came to speaking the word papa, I found that I could not pretend to love him when I did not love him. I did not care for him, and I liked somebody else so much better, I just told him the plain truth, and so he went away. The thought of all that he had lost, of all that might so easily have been his, for a time overwhelmed Sir Marmaduke, and drove the very memory of Hugh Stanbury almost out of his head, he could understand that a girl should not marry a man whom she did not like, but he could not understand how any girl should not love such a suitor as was Mr. Glasscock. And had she accepted this pearl of men, with her position, with her manners and beauty and appearance, such a connection would have been as good as an assured marriage for every one of Sir Marmaduke's numerous daughters. Nora was just the woman to look like a great lady, a lady of high rank, such a lady as could almost command men to come and throw themselves at her unmarried sister's feet. Sir Marmaduke had believed in his daughter Nora, had looked forward to see her do much for the family, and when the crash had come upon the Trevelyan household, had thought almost as much of her injured prospects as he had of the misfortune of her sister. But now it seemed that more than all the good things of what he had dreamed had been proposed to this unruly girl, in spite of that great crash, and had been rejected, and he saw more than this as he thought. These good things would have been accepted had it not been for this rascal of a penny-aligner, this friend of that other rascal Trevelyan, who had come in the way of their family to destroy the happiness of them all. Sir Marmaduke, in speaking of Standbury after this, would constantly call him a penny-aligner, thinking that the contamination of the penny communicated itself to all transactions of the Daily Record. You have made your bed for yourself, Nora, and you must lie upon it. Just so, Papa, I mean that as you have refused Mr. Glasscock's offer, you can never again hope for such an opening in life. Of course I cannot. I am not such a child as to suppose that there are many Mr. Glasscocks to come and run after me, and if there were ever so many, Papa, it would be no good. As you say, I have chosen for myself, and I must put up with it. When I see the carriages going about in the streets, and remember how often I shall have to go home in an omnibus, I do think about it a good deal. I'm afraid you will think when it is too late. It isn't that I don't like carriages, Papa. I do like them, and pretty dresses, and brooches, and men and women who have nothing to do, and balls, and the opera. But I love this man, and that is more to me than all the rest. I cannot help myself if it were ever so. Papa, you mustn't be angry with me. Pray, pray, pray do not say that horrid word again. This was the end of the interview. Sir Marmaduke found that he had nothing further to say. Nora, when she reached her last prayer to her father, referring to that curse with which he had threatened her, was herself in tears, and was leaning on him with her head against his shoulder. Of course he did not say a word which could be understood as sanctioning her engagement with Stanbury. He was as strongly determined as ever that it was his duty to save her from the perils of such a marriage as that. But nevertheless he was so far overcome by her as to be softened in his manners towards her. He kissed her as he left her, and told her to go to her mother. Then he went out and thought of it all, and felt as though paradise had been open to his child, and she had refused to enter the gate. End of Chapter 70 Chapter 71 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 71. Showing what Hugh Stanbury thought about the duty of men. In the conference which took place between Sir Marmaduke and his wife after the interview between him and Nora, it was his idea that nothing further should be done at all. I don't suppose the man will come here if he be told not, said Sir Marmaduke, and if he does Nora of course will not see him. He then suggested that Nora would of course go back with them to the mandarins, and that when once there she would not be able to see Stanbury any more. There must be no correspondence or anything of that sort, and so the thing will die away. But Lady Rowley declared that this would not quite suffice. Mr. Stanbury had made his offer in due form, and must be held to be entitled to an answer. Sir Marmaduke therefore wrote the following letter to the penny-aligner, mitigating the asperity of his language in compliance with his wife's counsels. Manchester Street. April 20th, 1860 Blank. My dear sir, Lady Rowley has told me of your proposal to my daughter Nora, and she has told me also what she learned from you as to your circumstances in life. I need hardly point out to you that no father would be justified in giving his daughter to a gentleman upon so small an income, and upon an income so very insecure. I am obliged to refuse my consent, and I must therefore ask you to abstain from visiting and from communicating with my daughter. Yours faithfully, Marmaduke Rowley. Q. Stanbury, Esquire. This letter was directed to Stanbury at the office of the DR, and Sir Marmaduke, as he wrote the pernicious address, felt himself injured in that he was compelled to write about his daughter to a man so circumstance. Stanbury, when he got the letter, read it hastily and then threw it aside. He knew what it would contain before he opened it. He had heard enough from Lady Rowley to be aware that Sir Marmaduke would not welcome him as a son-in-law. Indeed, he had never expected such welcome. He was half ashamed of his own suit because of the lowliness of his position, half regretful that he should have induced such a girl as Nora Rowley to give up for his sake her hopes of magnificence and splendor. But Sir Marmaduke's letter did not add anything to this feeling. He read it again and smiled as he told himself that the father would certainly be very weak in the hands of his daughter. Then he went to work again at his article, with a persistent resolve that so small a trifle as such a note should have no effect upon his daily work. Of course Sir Marmaduke would refuse his consent. Of course it would be for him, Stanbury, to marry the girl he loved in opposition to her father. Her father, indeed. If Nora chose to take him—and as to that he was very doubtful as to Nora's wisdom—but if Nora would take him, what was any father's opposition to him? He wanted nothing from Nora's father. He was not looking for money with his wife, nor for fashion, nor countenance. Such a bohemian was he, that he would be quite satisfied if his girl would walk out to him and become his wife with any morning-gown on and with any old hat that might come readyist to hand. He wanted neither cards, nor breakfast, nor carriages, nor fine clothes. If his Nora should choose to come to him as she was, he having all previous necessary arrangements duly made, such as calling of bans or procuring of license, if possible, he thought that a father's opposition would almost add something to the pleasure of the occasion. So he pitched the letter on one side and went on with his article. And he finished his article, but it may be doubted whether it was completed with the full strength and pith needed for moving the pulses of the national mind as they should be moved by leading articles in the D.R. As he was writing he was thinking of Nora and thinking of the letter which Nora's father had sent to him. Trivial as was the letter, he could not keep himself from repeating the words of it to himself. Need hardly point out. Oh, needn't he? Then why does he, refusing his consent, I wonder what the old buffers think is the meaning of their consent when they are speaking of daughters old enough to manage for themselves, abstain from visiting or communicating with her. But if she visits and communicates with me, what then? I can't force my way into the house, but she can force her way out. Does he imagine that she can be locked up in the nursery or put into the corner? So he argued with himself, and by such arguments he brought himself to the conviction that it would be well for him to answer Sir Marmaduke's letter. This he did it once, before leaving the office of the D.R. 250 Fleet Street, 20th April My dear Sir Marmaduke Rowley, I have just received your letter, and am indeed sorry that its contents should be so little favourable to my hopes. I understand that your objection to me is simply in regard to the smallness and insecurity of my income. On the first point I may say that I have fair hopes that it may be at once increased. As to the second, I believe I may assert that it is as sure at least as the income of other professional men, such as barristers, merchants, and doctors. I cannot promise to say that I will not see your daughter. If she desires me to do so, of course I shall be guided by her views. I wish that I might be allowed an opportunity of seeing you, as I think I could reverse or at least mitigate some of the objections which you feel to our marriage. Yours most faithfully, Hugh Stanley. On the next day but one Sir Marmaduke came to him. He was sitting at the office of the D.R. in a very small and dirty room at the back of the house, and Sir Marmaduke found his way thither through a confused crowd of compositors, pressmen, and printers boys. He thought that he had never before been in a place so foul, so dark, so crowded, and so comfortless. He himself was accustomed to do his work, out in the islands, with many of the appanages of vice royalty around him. He had his secretary and his private secretary, and his inner room and his waiting room, and not infrequently he had the honour of a dusky sentinel walking before the door through which he was to be approached. He had an idea that all gentlemen at their work had comfortable appurtenances around them, such as carpets, dispatch boxes, unlimited stationery, easy chairs for temporary leisure, big tablespace, and a small world of books around them to give at least a look of air eudition to their pursuits. There was nothing of the kind in the miserably dark room occupied by Stanbury. He was sitting at a wretched little table on which there was nothing but a morsel of blotting paper, a small ink bottle, and the paper on which he was scribbling. There was no carpet there, and no dispatch box, and the only book in the room was a little dog's ear dictionary. Sir Marmaduke, I am so much obliged to you for coming, said Hugh. I fear you will find this place a little rough, but we shall be all alone. The place, Mr. Stanbury, will not signify, I think. Not in the least, if you don't mind it. I got your letter, you know, Sir Marmaduke. And I have had your reply. I have come to you because you have expressed a wish for an interview, but I do not see that it will do any good. You are very kind for coming, indeed, Sir Marmaduke, very kind. I thought I might explain something to you about my income. Can you tell me that you have any permanent income? It goes on regularly from month to month. Sir Marmaduke did not feel the slightest respect for an income that was paid monthly. According to his ideas, a gentleman's income should be paid quarterly or perhaps half-yearly. According to his view, a monthly salary was only one degree better than weekly wages. And I suppose that is permanent, said Hugh Stanbury. I cannot say that I so regard it. A barrister gets his, you know, very irregularly. There is no saying when he may have it. But a barrister's profession is recognized as a profession among gentlemen, Mr. Stanbury. And is not ours recognized? Which of us barristers or men of literature have the most effect on the world at large? Who is most thought of in London, Sir Marmaduke, the Lord Chancellor, or the editor of the Jupiter? The Lord Chancellor a great deal, said Sir Marmaduke, quite dismayed by the audacity of the question. By no means, Sir Marmaduke, said Stanbury, throwing out his hand before him so as to give the energy of action to his words. He has the higher rank, I will admit that. I should think so, said Sir Marmaduke. And the larger income? Very much larger, I should say, said Sir Marmaduke with a smile. And he wears a wig? Yes, he wears a wig, said Sir Marmaduke, hardly knowing in what spirit to accept this assertion. And nobody cares one brass button for him or his opinions, said Stanbury, bringing down his hand heavily on the little table for the sake of emphasis. What, Sir? If you'll think of it, it is so. Nobody cares for the Lord Chancellor. It certainly is the fact that gentlemen living in the Mandarin Islands do think more of the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Mayor and the Lord Lieutenant and the Lord Chamberlain than they whose spheres of life bring them into closer contact with those august functionaries. I presume, Mr. Stanbury, that a connection with a penny newspaper makes such opinions as these almost a necessity. Quite a necessity, Sir Marmaduke. No man can hold his own in print nowadays unless he can see the difference between tinsel and gold. And the Lord Chancellor, of course, is tinsel? I do not say so. He may be a great lawyer and very useful, but his lordship and his wig and his woolsack are tinsel in comparison with the real power possessed by the editor of a leading newspaper. If the Lord Chancellor were to go to bed for a month, would he be much missed? I don't know, Sir. I'm not in the secrets of the Cabinet. I should think he would. About as much as my grandmother, but if the editor of the Jupiter were to be taken ill, it would work quite a commotion. For myself I should be glad, on public grounds, because I don't like his mode of business, but it would have an effect because he is a leading man. I don't see what all this leads to, Mr. Stanbury. Only to this, that we who write for the press think that our calling is recognized and must be recognized as a profession. Talk of permanence, Sir Marmaduke, are not the newspapers permanent? Do they not come out regularly every day, and more of them and still more of them are always coming out? I expect a collapse among them. There will be plenty of newspapers I do not doubt, more than plenty perhaps. Somebody must write them, and the writers will be paid. Anybody could write the most of them, I should say. I wish you would try, Sir Marmaduke. Just try your hand at a leading article tonight and read it yourself tomorrow morning. I've a great deal too much to do, Mr. Stanbury. Just so, you have no doubt the affairs of your government to look to. We are all so apt to ignore the work of our neighbours. It seems to me that I could go over and govern the mandarins without the slightest trouble in the world. But no doubt I am mistaken, just as you are about writing for the newspapers. I do not know, said Sir Marmaduke, rising from his chair with dignity, that I called here to discuss such matters as these. As it happens, you, Mr. Stanbury, are not the governor of the mandarins, and I have not the honour to write for the columns of the penny newspaper with which you are associated. It is therefore useless to discuss what either of us might do in the position held by the other. All together useless, Sir Marmaduke, except just for the fun of the thing. I do not see the fun, Mr. Stanbury. I came here, at your request, to hear what you might have to urge against the decision which I expressed to you in reference to my daughter. As it seems that you have nothing to urge, I will not take up your time further. But I have a great deal to urge a great deal. Have you indeed? You have complained that my work is not permanent. I have shown that it is so permanent that there is no possibility of its coming to an end. There must be newspapers, and the people trained to write them must be employed. I have been at it now about two years. You know what I earn? Could I have got so far and so short a time as a lawyer, a doctor, a clergyman, a soldier, a sailor, a government clerk, or in any of those employments which you choose to call professions? I think that is urging a great deal. I think it is urging everything. Very well, Mr. Stanbury. I have listened to you, and in a certain degree I admire your— your zeal and ingenuity, shall I say. I didn't mean to call for admiration, Sir Marmaduke, but suppose you say good sense and discrimination. Let that pass. You must permit me to remark that your position is not such as to justify me in trusting my daughter to your care. As my mind on that matter is quite made up, as is that also of Lady Rowley, I must ask you to give me your promise that your suit to my daughter shall be discontinued. What does she say about it, Sir Marmaduke? What she has said to me has been for my ears and not for yours. What I say is for her ears and for yours, and for her mother's ears, and for the ears of any who may choose to hear it. I will never give up my suit to your daughter till I am forced to do so by a full conviction that she has given me up. It is best to be plain, Sir Marmaduke, of course. I do not understand this, Mr. Standbury. I mean to be quite clear. I have always thought that when a gentleman was told by the head of a family that he could not be made welcome in that family, it was considered to be the duty of that gentleman, as a gentleman, to abandon his vain pursuit. I have been brought up with that idea. And I, Sir Marmaduke, have been brought up in the idea that when a man has won the affections of a woman, it is the duty of that man, as a man, to stick to her through thick and thin, and I mean to do my duty according to my idea. Then, Sir, I have nothing further to say but to take my leave. I must only caution you not to enter my doors. As the passages were dark and intricate, it was necessary that Standbury should show Sir Marmaduke out, and this he did in silence. When they parted, each of them lifted his hat, and not a word more was said. That same night there was a note put into Nora's hands as she was following her mother out of one of the theatres. In the confusion she did not even see the messenger who had handed it to her. Her sister Lucy saw that she had taken the note and questioned her about it afterwards, with discretion, however, and in privacy. This was the note. Dearest love, I have seen your father, who was stern, after the manner of fathers. What granite equals a parent's flinty bosom? For myself I do not prefer clandestine arrangements and rope ladders, and you, dear, have nothing of the Lydia about you. But I do like my own way, and like it especially when you are at the end of the path. It is quite out of the question that you should go back to those islands. I think I am justified in already assuming enough of the husband to declare that such going back must not be held for a moment in question. My proposition is that you should authorize me to make such arrangements as may be needed in regard to license, bans, or whatever else, and that you should then simply walk from the house to the church and marry me. You are of age and can do as you please. Neither your father nor mother can have any right to stop you. I do not doubt but that your mother would accompany you if she were fully satisfied of your purpose. Right to me to the D.R. Your own, ever and ever and always. H.S. I shall try and get this given to you as you leave the theatre. If it should fall into other hands, I don't much care. I'm not in the least ashamed of what I am doing, and I hope that you are not. My decision is made as a peace offering from Exeter to Nuncomputney by the hands of Miss Stanbury's Martha, not with purposes of corruption, not intended to buy back the allegiance of Dorothy, folded delicately and temptingly in one of the best table napkins, with no idea of bribery, but sent as presents used to be sent of old in the trains of great ambassadors as signs of friendship and marks of true respect. Miss Stanbury was, no doubt, most anxious that her niece should return to her, her, but was not herself low-spirited enough to conceive that a quarter of lamb could be efficacious in procuring such return. If it might be that Dorothy's heart could be touched by mention of the weariness of her aunt's solitary life, and if therefore she would return, it would be very well. But it could not be well so unless the offer should come from Dorothy herself. All of which Martha had been made to understand by her mistress, full ingenuity having been exercised in the matter on each side. On her arrival at Lesborough Martha had hired a fly, and been driven out to Nuncomputny, but she felt she knew not why, a dislike to be taken in her carriage to the door of the cottage, and was put down in the middle of the village, from whence she walked out to Mrs. Standbury's abode, with the basket upon her arm. It was a good half-mile, and the lamb was heavy, for Miss Standbury had suggested that a bottle of sherry should be put in under the napkin, and Martha was becoming tired of her burden, when, whom should she see on the road before her but broke Burgess? As she said to herself afterwards it immediately occurred to her that all the fat was in the fire. Here had this young man come down, passing through Exeter without even a visit to Miss Standbury, and had clandestinely sought out the young woman whom he wasn't to marry, and here was the young woman herself flying in her aunt's face, when one scratch of a pen might ruin them both. Martha entertained a sacred, awful, overcoming feeling about her mistress's will. That she was to have something herself, she supposed, and her anxiety was not on that score, but she had heard so much about it, had realized so fully the great power which Miss Standbury possessed, and had had her own feelings so rudely invaded by alterations in Miss Standbury's plans, that she had come to entertain an idea that all persons around her should continually bear that will in their memory. Hugh had undoubtedly been her favorite, and could Martha have dictated the will herself, she would still have made Hugh the heir, but she had realized the resolution of her mistress so far as to confess that the bulk of the property was to go back to a Burgess. But there were very many Burgesses, and here was the one who had been selected, flying in the very face of the testatrix. What was to be done? Were she to go back and not tell her mistress that she had seen Brooke Burgess at Nuncombe then? Should the fact be found out? Would the devoted anger of Miss Standbury fall upon her own head? It would be absolutely necessary that she should tell the story, let the consequences be what they might, but the consequences probably would be very dreadful. Mr. Brooke, that is not you, she said, as she came up to him, putting her basket down in the middle of the dusty road. Then who can it be, said Brooke, giving her his hand to shake. But what do bring you here, Mr. Brooke? Goodness me, what will Misses say? I shall make that all straight. I'm going back to Exeter tomorrow. Then there were many questions and many answers. He was sojourning at Mrs. Crockett's, and had been there for the last two days. Dear, dear, dear, she said over and over again. Dearly me, dearly me. And then she asked him whether it was all along of Miss Dorothy that he had come. Of course it was all along of Miss Dorothy. Brooke made no secret about it. He had come down to see Dorothy's mother and sister, and to say a bit of his own mind about future affairs, and to see the beauties of the country. When he talked about the beauties of the country, Martha looked at him as the people of Lesborough and then Computney should have looked at Colonel Osbourne, when he talked of the church porch at Cock Chaffington. Beauties of the country, Mr. Brooke, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, said Martha. But I ain't, the least in the world, said Brooke. Then Martha took up her basket, and went on to the cottage, which had been close in sight during their conversation in the road. She felt angry with Dorothy. In such matters a woman is always angry with the woman, who has probably been quite passive, and rarely with the man who was ever the real transgressor. Having a man down after her at Nuncomputney, it had never struck Martha as very horrible that Brooke Burgess should fall in love with Dorothy in the city, but this meeting in the remoteness of the country, out of sight even of the village, was almost indecent, and all too with Miss Standbury's will just, as one might say, on the balance. Dorothy ought to have buried herself rather than have allowed Brooke to see her at Nuncomputney, and Dorothy's mother and Priscilla must be worse. She trudged on, however, with her lamb, and soon found herself in the presence of the three ladies. What, Martha! said Dorothy. Yes, Miss, here I am. I'd have been here half an hour ago, almost, if I hadn't been stopped on the road. And who stopped you? asked Priscilla. Why, Mr. Brooke, of course. And what did Mr. Brooke say to you? asked Dorothy. Martha perceived at once that Dorothy was quite radiant. She told her mistress that she had never seen Miss Dorothy look half so comely before. Laws, ma'am, she brightened up and speckled about till it did your heart good to see her in spite of all. But this was some time afterwards. He didn't say very much, replied Martha, gravely. But I've got very much to tell you, continued Dorothy. I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Brooke, and you must congratulate me. It is settled now, and Mama and my sister know all about it. Martha, when she was thus asked directly for congratulation, hardly knew at once how to express herself. Being fully aware of Miss Standbury's objection to the marriage, she could not venture to express her approbation of it. It was very improper, in Martha's mind, that any young woman should have a follower when the missus didn't approve of it. She understood well enough that, in that matter of followers, privileges are allowed to young ladies which are not accorded to maid servants. A young lady may do things, have young men to walk and talk with them, to dance with them and embrace them, and perhaps even more than this, when for half so much a young woman would be turned into the streets without a character. Martha knew all this, and knew also that Miss Dorothy, though her mother lived in a very little cottage, was not altogether debarred in the matter of followers from the privileges of a lady. But yet Miss Dorothy's position was so very peculiar. Look at that will, or rather at that embryo will, which might be made any day, which now probably would be made, and which might affect them both so terribly. People who have not got money should not fly in the face of those who have. Such, at least, was Martha's opinion very strongly. How could she congratulate Miss Dorothy under the existing circumstances? I do hope you will be happy, Miss, that you know, said Martha, in her difficulty. And now, ma'am, Miss, I mean, she added, correcting herself, in obedience to Miss Standbury's direct orders about the present. Missus has just sent me over with a bit of lamb, and a letter as is here in the basket, and to ask how you is, and the other ladies. We are very much obliged, said Missus Standbury, who had not understood the point of Martha's speech. My sister is, I'm sure, said Priscilla, who had understood it. Dorothy had taken the letter, and had gone aside with it, and was reading it very carefully. It touched her nearly, and there had come tears into both her eyes as she dwelt upon it. There was something in her aunt's allusion to the condition of unmarried women which came home to her especially. She knew her aunt's past history, and now she knew, or hoped that she knew, something of her own future destiny. Her aunt was desolate, whereas upon her the world smiled most benignly. Brooke had just informed her that he intended to make her his wife as speedily as possible, with her aunt's consent if possible, but if not, then without it. He had ridiculed the idea of his being stopped by Miss Standbury's threats, and had said all this in such fashion that even Priscilla herself had only listened and obeyed. He had spoken not a word of his own income, and none of them had dreamed even of asking him a question. He had been as a god in the little cottage, and all of them had been ready to fall down and worship him. Missus Standbury had not known how to treat him with sufficient deference, and at the same time with sufficient affection. He had kissed them all round, and Priscilla had felt an elation which was hardly intelligible to herself. Dorothy, who was so much honoured, had come to enjoy a status in her mother's estimation, very different from that which she had previously possessed, and had grown to be quite beautiful in her mother's eyes. There was once a family of three ancient maiden ladies, much respected and loved in the town in which they lived. Their manners of life were well known among their friends, and excited no surprise, but a stranger to the locality once asked of the elder why Miss Matilda, the younger, always went first out of the room. Matilda once had an offer of marriage, said the dear simple old lady, who had never been so graced, and who felt that such an episode in life was quite sufficient to bestow Brevet rank. It was believed by Mrs. Standbury that Dorothy's honours would be carried further than those of Miss Matilda, but there was much of the same feeling in the bosom of the mother towards the fortunate daughter, who, in the eyes of a man, had seemed goodly enough to be his wife. With this swelling happiness round her heart, Dorothy read her aunt's letter, and was infinitely softened. I had gotten somehow to love to see your pretty face. Dorothy had thought little enough of her own beauty, but she liked being told by her aunt that her face had been found to be pretty. I am very desolate and solitary here, her aunt said, and then had come those words about the state of maiden women, and then those other words about women's duties and her aunt's prayer on her behalf. Dear Dorothy, be not such an one. She held the letter to her lips and to her bosom, and could hardly continue its perusal because of her tears. Such prayers from the aged addressed to the young are generally held in light esteem, but this adoration was valued by the girl to whom it was addressed. She put together the invitation, or rather the permission accorded to her to make a visit to Exeter, and the intimation in the post-script that Martha knew her mistress's mind, and then she returned to the sitting-room, in which Martha was still seated with her mother, and took the old servant apart. Martha, she said, is my aunt happy now? Well, miss. She is strong again, is she not? Sir Peter says she is getting well, and Mr. Martin, but Mr. Martin isn't much account. She eats and drinks again. Pretty well. Not as it used to be, you know, miss. I tell her she ought to go somewheres, but she don't like moving know-how. She never did. I tell her if she'd go to Dalish just for a week, but she don't think there's a bed fit to sleep on nowhere except just her own. She would go if Sir Peter told her. She says that these movings are new-fangled fashions, and that the air didn't use to want changing for folk when she was young. I heard her tell Sir Peter herself that if she couldn't live at Exeter she would die there. She won't go know-heres, Ms. Dorothy. She ain't careful to live. Tell me something, Martha, will you? What is it, Ms. Dorothy? Be a dear good woman now, and tell me true. Would she be better if I were with her? She don't like being alone, miss. I don't know nobody as does. But now about Mr. Brook, you know. Yes, Mr. Brook, that's it. Of course, Martha, I love him better than anything in all the world. I can't tell you how it was, but I think I loved him the very first moment I saw him. Dear, dear, dear. I couldn't help it, Martha, but it's no good talking about it, for of course I shan't try to help it now. Only this, that I would do anything in the world for my aunt, except that. But she don't like it, Miss Dorothy. That is the truth, you know. It can't be helped now, Martha, and of course she'll be told at once. Shall I go and tell her? I'd go to-day if you think she would like it. And, Mr. Brook, he is to go to-morrow. And will you leave him here? Why not? Nobody will hurt him. I don't mind a bit about having him with me now, but I can tell you this. When he went away from us once, it made me very unhappy. Would Aunt Standbury be glad to see me, Martha? Martha's reserve was at last broken down, and she expressed herself in strong language. There was nothing on earth her mistress wanted so much as to have her favorite niece back again. Martha acknowledged that there were great difficulties about Brooke Burgess, and she did not see her way clearly through them. Dorothy declared her purpose of telling her aunt boldly, at once. Martha shook her head, admiring the honesty and courage, but doubting the result. She understood better than did anyone else, the peculiarity of mind which made her mistress specially anxious that none of the Standbury family should enjoy any portion of the Burgess money beyond that which she herself had saved out of the income. There had been moments in which Martha had hoped that this prejudice might be overcome in favor of Hugh, but it had become stronger as the old woman grew to be older and more feeble, and it was believed now to be settled as fate. She'd sooner give it all to old Barty over the way, Martha had once said, then let it go to her own Kith and Kin, and if she do hate any human creature she do hate Barty Burgess. She assented, however, to Dorothy's proposal, and though Mrs. Standbury and Priscilla were astounded by the precipitancy of the measure, they did not attempt to oppose it. And what am I to do, said Brooke, when he was told, you'll come to-morrow, of course, said Dorothy. But it may be that the two of us together will be too many for the dear old lunatic. You shan't call her a lunatic, Brooke. She isn't so much a lunatic as you are, to run counter to her and disobey her and all that kind of thing. And how about yourself? How can I help it, Brooke? It is you that say it must be so. Of course it must. Who is to be stayed from doing what is reasonable because an old woman has a bee on her bonnet? I don't believe in people's wills. She can do what she likes about it, Brooke. Of course she can, and of course she will. What I mean is that it never pays to do this or that, because somebody may alter his will, or may make a will, or may not make a will. You become a slave for life, and then your dead tyrant leaves you a morning ring and grins at you out of his grave. All the same she'll kick up a row I fancy, and you'll have to bear the worst of it. I'll tell her the truth, and if she be very angry I'll just come home again. But I think I'll come home to-morrow, anyway, so that I'll pass you on the road. That will be best. She won't want us both together. Only then, Brooke, I shan't see you again. Not till June. And is it to be really in June? You say you don't like May. You are such a goose, Brooke. It will be May almost tomorrow. I shall be such a poor wife for you, Brooke. As for getting my things ready I shall not bring hardly any things at all. Have you thought what it is to take a body so very poor? I own. I haven't thought as much about it, Dolly, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It is too late now, Brooke. I suppose it is. Quite too late. A week ago I could have borne it. I had almost got myself to think that it would be better that I should bear it. But you have come, and banished all the virtue out of my head. I am ashamed of myself because I am so unworthy, but I would put up with that shame rather than lose you now. Brooke! Brooke, I will so try to be good to you. In the afternoon Martha and Dorothy started together for Exeter. Brooke and Priscilla accompanying them as far as Mrs. Crockett's, where the Lesborough Fly was awaiting them. Dorothy said little or nothing during the walk, nor indeed was she very communicative during the journey into Exeter. She was going to her aunt, instigated simply by the affection of her full heart, but she was going with a tail in her mouth which she knew would be very unwelcome. She could not save herself from feeling that, in having accepted Brooke, and in having not only accepted him but even fixed the day for her marriage, she had been ungrateful to her aunt. Had it not been for her aunt's kindness and hospitality, she would never have seen Brooke Burgess. And as she had been under her aunt's care at Exeter, she doubted whether she had not been guilty of some great fault in falling in love with this man, in opposition as it were to express orders. Should her aunt still declare that she would in no way countenance the marriage, that she would still oppose it, and use her influence with Brooke to break it off, then would Dorothy return on the morrow to her mother's cottage at Nuncomputney, so that her lover might be free to act with her aunt as he might think fit. And should he yield, she would endeavor, she would struggle hard to think that he was still acting for the best. I must tell her myself, Martha, said Dorothy, as they came near to Exeter. Certainly, Miss, only you'll do it tonight. Yes, at once, as soon after I get there as possible. Miss Stanbury perfectly understood that Martha was to come back by the train reaching Exeter at seven p.m., and that she might be expected in the close about a quarter of an hour after that time. She had been nervous and anxious all day, so much so that Mr. Martin had told her that she must be very careful. That's all very well, the old woman had said, but you haven't got any medicine for my complaint, Mr. Martin. The apothecary had assured her that the worst of her complaint was in the East Wind, and had gone away begging her to be very careful. It is not God's breezes that are hard to anyone, the old lady had said to herself, but our own hearts. After her lonely dinner she had fidgeted about the room, and had rung twice for the girl, not knowing what order to give when the servant came to her. She was very anxious about her tea, but would not have it brought to her till after Martha should have arrived. She was half-minded to order that a second cup in saucer should be placed there, but she had not the courage to face the disappointment which would fall upon her, should the cup in saucer stand there for no purpose. And yet, should she come, how nice it would be to show her girl that her old aunt had been ready for her. Thrice, she went to the window after the cathedral clock had struck seven, to see whether her ambassador was returning. From her window there was only one, very short space of pathway on which she could have seen her, and as it happened there came the ring at the door and no ambassador had as yet been viewed. Miss Stanbury was immediately off her seat and out upon the landing. Here we are again, Miss Dorothy, said Martha. Then Miss Stanbury could not restrain herself, but descended the stairs moving as she had never moved since she had first been ill. My bairn, she said, my dearest bairn. I thought that perhaps it might be so. Jane, another teacup in saucer upstairs. What a pity that she had not ordered it before. And get a hot cake, Jane. You will be ever so hungry, my darling, after your journey. Are you glad to see me, Aunt Stanbury? said Dorothy. Glad, my pretty one! Then she put up her hands and smoothed down the girl's cheeks and kissed her and padded Martha on the back, and scolded her at the same time for not bringing Miss Dorothy from the station in a cab. And what is the meaning of that little bag? she said. You shall go back for the rest yourself, Martha, because it is your own fault. Martha knew that all this was pleasant enough, but then her mistresses' moods would sometimes be changed so suddenly. How would it be when Miss Stanbury knew that Brooke Burgess had been left behind at Nuncomputney? You see, I didn't stay to eat any of the lamb, said Dorothy, smiling. You shall have a calf instead, my dear, said Miss Stanbury, because you are a returned prodigal. All this was very pleasant, and Miss Stanbury was so happily dispensing her tea and the hot cake and the clotted cream, and was so intent upon her little methods of caressing and petting her niece, that Dorothy had no heart to tell her story, while the plates and cups were still upon the table. She had not, perhaps, cared much for the hot cake, having such a weight upon her mind, but she had seemed to care, understanding well that she might so best conduce to her aunt's comfort. Miss Stanbury was a woman who could not bear that the good things which she had provided for a guest should not be enjoyed. She could taste with a friend's palette, and drink with a friend's throat. But when debarred these vicarious pleasures by what seemed to her to be the caprice of her guests, she would be offended. It had been one of the original sins of Camilla and Arabella French, that they would declare at her tea-table that they had dined late and could not eat tea-cake. Dorothy knew all this, and did her duty, but with a heavy heart. There was the story to be told, and she had promised Martha that it should be told to-night. She was quite aware, too, independently of her promise, that it was necessary that it should be told to-night. It was very sad, very grievous, that the dear old lady's happiness should be disturbed so soon, but it must be done. When the tea-things were being taken away, her aunt was still purring round her, and saying gentle, loving words. Dorothy bore it as well as she could, bore it well, smiling and kissing her aunt's hand, and uttering now and then some word of affection. But the thing had to be done, and as soon as the room was quiet for a moment, she jumped up from her chair and began, Aunt Standbury, I must tell you something at once. Who do you think is at Nuncomputney? Not Brooke Burgess. Yes, he is. He is there now, and is to be here with you tomorrow. The whole color and character of Miss Standbury's face was changed in a moment. She had been still purring up to the moment in which this communication had been made to her. Her gratification had come to her from the idea that her pet had come back to her from love of her, as in very truth had been the case. But now it seemed that Dorothy had returned to ask for a great favor for herself. And she reflected at once that Brooke had passed through Exeter without seeing her. If he was determined to marry without reference to her, he might at any rate have had the grace to come to her and say so. She, in the fullness of her heart, had written words of affection to Dorothy, and both Dorothy and Brooke had at once taken advantage of her expressions for their own purposes. Such was her reading of the story of the day. He need not trouble himself to come here now, she said. Dear Aunt, do not say that. I do say it. He need not trouble himself to come now. When I said that I should be glad to see you, I did not intend that you should meet Mr. Burgess under my roof. I did not wish to have you both together. How could I help coming when you wrote to me like that? It is very well, but he need not come. He knows the way from none come to London without stopping at Exeter. Aunt Stanbury, you must let me tell it you all. There is no more to tell, I should think. But there is more. You knew what he thought about me and what he wished. He is his own master, my dear, and you are your own mistress. If you speak to me like that you will kill me, Aunt Stanbury. I did not think of coming, only when Martha brought your dear letter I could not help it. But he was coming. He meant to come to-morrow, and he will. Of course he must defend himself if you are angry with him. He need not defend himself at all. I told them, and I told him, that I would only stay one night, if you did not wish that we should be here together. You must see him, Aunt Stanbury. You would not refuse to see him. If you please, my dear, you must allow me to judge whom I will see. After that the discussion ceased between them for a while, and Miss Stanbury left the room that she might hold a consultation with Martha. Dorothy went up to her chamber, and saw that everything had been prepared for her with most scrupulous care. Nothing could be whiter, neater, cleaner, nicer than was everything that surrounded her. She had perceived while living under her aunt's roof, how gradually small, delicate feminine comforts had been increased for her. Martha had been told that Miss Dorothy ought to have this, and that Miss Dorothy ought to have that, till at last she, who had hitherto known nothing of the small luxuries that come from an easy income, had felt ashamed of the prettiness that had been added to her. Now she could see at once that infinite care had been used to make her room bright and smiling, only in the hope that she would return. As soon as she saw it all, she sat down on her bed and burst out into tears. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forced into such ingratitude? Every comfort prepared for her was a coal of hot fire upon her head. And yet, what had she done that she ought not to have done? Was it unreasonable that she should have loved this man when they too were brought together? And had she even dared to think of him otherwise than as an acquaintance, till he had compelled her to confess her love? And after that, had she not tried to separate herself from him, so that they too, her aunt and her lover, might be divided by no quarrel, had not Priscilla told her that she was right in all that she was doing? Nevertheless, in spite of all this, she could not refrain from accusing herself of ingratitude towards her aunt. And she began to think it would have been better for her now to have remained at home, and have allowed Brooke to come alone to Exeter, than to have obeyed the impulse which had arisen from the receipt of her aunt's letter. When she went down again, she found herself alone in the room, and she was beginning to think that it was intended that she should go to bed without again seeing her aunt. But at last Miss Stanbury came to her, with a sad countenance, but without that look of wrath which Dorothy knew so well. My dear, she said, it will be better that Mr. Burgess should go up to London tomorrow. I will see him, of course, if he chooses to come, and Martha shall meet him at the station and explain it. If you do not mind, I would prefer that you should not meet him here. I meant only to stay one night, aunt. That is nonsense. If I am to part with either of you, I will part with him. You are dearer to me than he is. Dorothy, you do not know how dear to me you are. Dorothy immediately fell on her knees at her aunt's feet, and hid her face in her aunt's lap. Miss Stanbury twined round her fingers the soft hair which she loved so well, because it was a grace given by God and not bought out of a shop, and caressed the girl's head, and muttered something that was intended for a prayer. If he will let me, aunt, I will give him up, said Dorothy, looking up into her aunt's face. If he will say that I may, though I shall love him always, he may go. He is his own master, said Miss Stanbury. Of course, he is his own master. Will you let me return to-morrow, just for a few days, and then you can talk to him as you please. I did not mean to come to stay. I wished him good-bye, because I knew that I should not meet him here. You always talk of going away, Dorothy, as soon as ever you are in the house. You are always threatening me. I will come again, the moment you tell me. If he goes in the morning I will be here the same evening. And I will write to him, aunt Stanbury, and tell him that he is quite free, quite free, quite free. Miss Stanbury made no reply to this, but sat, still playing with her niece's hair. I think I will go to bed, she said at last. It is past ten. You need not go to Nuncombe, Dorothy. Martha shall meet him, and he can see me here. But I do not wish him to stay in the house. You can go over and call on Mrs. McHugh. Mrs. McHugh will take it well of you that you should call on her. Dorothy made no further opposition to this arrangement, but kissed her aunt and went to her chamber. How was it all to be for her? For the last two days she had been radiant with new happiness. Everything had seemed to be settled. Her lover, in his high-handed way, had declared that in no important crisis of life would he allow himself to be driven out of his way by the fear of what an old woman might do in her will. When Dorothy assured him that not for worlds would she, though she loved him dearly, injure his material prospects, he had thrown it all aside, after a grand fashion, that had really made the girl think that all Miss Stanbury's money was as nothing to his love for her. She and Priscilla and her mother had been carried away so entirely by Brooks Oratory as to feel for the time that the difficulties were entirely conquered, but now the aspect of things was so different. Whatever Brooke might owe to Miss Stanbury, she, Dorothy, owed her aunt everything. She would immolate herself, if Brooke would only let her. She did not quite understand her aunt's stubborn opposition, but she knew that there was some great cause for her aunt's feeling on the matter. There had been a promise made, or an oath sworn, that the property of the Burgess family should not go into the hands of any Stanbury. Dorothy told herself that, were she married, she would be a Stanbury no longer, that her aunt would still comply with the obligation she had fixed for herself. But, nevertheless, she was ready to believe that her aunt might be right. Her aunt had always declared that it should be so, and Dorothy, knowing this, confessed to herself that she should have kept her heart under better control. Thinking of these things, she went to the table, where paper and ink and pens had all been prepared for her so prettily, and began her letter to Brooke. Dearest, dearest Brooke. But then she thought that this was not a fair keeping of her promise, and she began again. My dear Brooke, the letter, however, did not get itself written that night. It was almost impossible for her to write it. I think it will be better for you, she had tried to say, to be guided by my aunt. But how could she say this when she did not believe it? It was her wish to make him understand that she would never think ill of him for a moment, if he would make up his mind to abandon her. But she could not find the words to express herself. And she went, at last, to bed, leaving the half-covered paper upon the table. She went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. It had been so sweet to have a lover, a man of her own, to whom she could say what she pleased, from whom she had a right to ask for counsel and protection, a man who delighted to be near her and to make much of her. In comparison with her old mode of living, her old ideas of life, her life with such a lover was passed in an Elysium. She had entered from barren lands into so rich a paradise. But there is no paradise, as she now found, without apples which must be eaten, and which lead to sorrow. She regretted in this hour that she had ever seen Brooke Burgess. After all, with her aunt's love and care for her, with her mother and sister near her, with the respect of those who knew her, why should the lands have been barren, even had there been no entrance for her into that Elysium? And did it not all result in this, that the Elysium to be desired should not be here, that the paradise, without the apples, must be waited for till beyond the grave? It is when things go badly with us here, and for most of us only then, that we think that we can see through the dark clouds into the joys of heaven. But at last she slept, and in her dreams Brooke was sitting with her in Nidden Park, with his arm tight clasped round her waist. She slept so soundly, that when a step crept silently into her room, and when a light was held for a while over her face, neither the step nor the light awakened her. She was lying with her head back upon the pillow, and her arm hung by the bedside, and her lips were open, and her loose hair was spread upon the pillow. The person who stood there with the light thought that there never had been a fairer sight. Everything there was so pure, so sweet, so good. She was one whose only selfish happiness could come to her from the belief that others loved her. The step had been very soft, and even the breath of the intruder was not allowed to pass heavily into the air, but the light of the candle shone upon the eyelids of the sleeper, and she moved her head restlessly on the pillow. Dorothy, are you awake? Can you speak to me? Then the disturbed girl gradually opened her eyes and gazed upwards, and raised herself in her bed, and sat wondering. Is anything the matter, aunt, she said? Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet, of an old woman who cannot sleep in her bed. But what is it, aunt? Kiss me, dearest. Then, with something of slumber still about her, Dorothy raised herself in her bed, and placed her arm on her aunt's shoulder and embraced her. And now for my news, said Miss Stanbury. What news, aunt? It isn't morning yet, is it? No, it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I have thought of it, and you shall be Brooke's wife, and I will have it here, and we will all be friends. What? You will like that, will you not? And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I to do? She was in truth awake now, and not knowing what she did, she jumped out of bed and stood holding her aunt by the arm. It is not a dream, said Miss Stanbury. Are you sure that it is not a dream, and may he come here to-morrow? Of course he will come to-morrow. And may I see him, aunt Stanbury? Not if you go home, my dear. But I won't go home. And will you tell him, Oh dear, oh dear, aunt Stanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet. You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believe it. You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You will have time to think of it before the morning. Then Miss Stanbury went back to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realize her bliss. She thought of all her life for the last twelve months, of the first invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as to its acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to the possibility of her remaining, of Mr. Gibson's courtship and her aunt's disappointment, of Brooke's coming, of her love and of his, and then of her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had come the triumph of Brooke's visit, and then the terrible sadness of her aunt's displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. She did not care for money herself. She thought that she never could care much for being rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marrying him, that must always have been to her a matter of regret, if not of remorse. But now it was all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradise was to be opened to her, with no apples which she might not eat. No apples which might not, but still must be eaten. She thought that it would be impossible that she should sleep again that night, but she did sleep, and dreamed that Brooke was holding her in Nidden Park, tighter than ever. When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into the parlor. Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? Or what if her aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the first moment of her aunt's presence told her that there was nothing to fear. How did you sleep, Dorothy? said the old lady. Dear aunt, I do not know. Was it all sleep? What shall we say to Brooke when he comes? You shall tell him. No, dearest, you must tell him. And you must say to him that if he is not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling to her, and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, I will hold him to be the most ungrateful of human beings. And before Brooke came she spoke again. I wonder whether he thinks you as pretty as I do, Dolly. He never said that he thought me pretty at all. Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It was your looks when me first, Dolly, like an old fool as I am. It is so pleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice. In which latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Standbury was alluding to her enemies at Havatry. END OF CHAPTER 74 THE LIONESS ARROWSED Brooke Burgess had been to Exeter and had gone, for he only remained there one night, and everything was apparently settled. It was not exactly told through Exeter that Miss Standbury's heir was to be allowed to marry Miss Standbury's niece, but Martha knew it and Giles Hickbody guessed it, and Dorothy was allowed to tell her mother and sister, and Brooke himself, in his own careless way, had mentioned the matter to his uncle Barty. As Miss Standbury had also told the secret in confidence to Mrs. McHugh, it cannot be said that it was altogether well kept. Four days after Brooke's departure the news reached the Frenches at Havatry. It was whispered to Camilla by one of the shopmen, with whom she was still arranging her marriage, trusso, and was repeated by her to her mother and sister, with some additions which were not intended to be good-natured. He gets her and the money together as a bargain, of course, said Camilla. I only hope the money won't be found too dear. Perhaps he won't get it after all, said Erebella. That would be cruel, replied Camilla. I don't think that even Miss Standbury is so false as that. Things were going very badly at Havatry. There was war there, almost everlastingly, though such little playful conversations as the above showed that there might be an occasional lull in the battle. Mr. Gibson was not doing his duty. That was clear enough. Even Mrs. French, when she was appealed to with almost frantic energy by her younger daughter, could not but acknowledge that he was very remiss as a lover, and Camilla in her fury was very imprudent. That very frantic energy which induced her to appeal to her mother was, in itself, proof of her imprudence. She knew that she was foolish, but she could not control her passion. Twice had she detected Erebella in receiving notes from Mr. Gibson, which she did not see, and of which it had been intended that she should know nothing. And once, when she spent a night away at Ottery St. Mary with a friend, a visit which was specially prefatory to marriage and made in reference to Bridesmaid's dresses, Erebella had had—so at least Camilla was made to believe—a secret meeting with Mr. Gibson in some of the lanes which lead down from Havatry to the Topsham Road. I happened to meet him and spoke two words to him, said Erebella. Would you have me cut him? I'll tell you what it is, Bella. If there is any underhand game going on that I don't understand, all Exeter shall be on fire before you shall carry it out. Bella made no answer to this, but shrugged her shoulders. Camilla was almost at a loss to guess what might be the truth. Would not any sister, so accused on such an occasion, rebut the accusation with awful wrath? But Erebella simply shrugged her shoulders and went her way. It was now the fifteenth of April, and there wanted but one short fortnight to their marriage. The man had not the courage to jilt her. She felt sure that he had not hard enough to do a deed of such audacity. And her sister too was weak and a-coward, and would lack the power to stand on her legs and declare herself to be the perpetrator of such villainy. Her mother, as she knew well, would always have preferred that her elder daughter should be the bride, but her mother was not the woman to have the hardy-hood now, in the eleventh hour, to favour such an intrigue. Let her wish be what it might. She would not be strong enough to carry through the accomplishment of it. They would all know that that threat of hers of setting exitor on fire would be carried out after some fashion that would not be inadequate to the occasion. A sister, a mother, a promised lover, all false, all so damnably cruelly false. It was impossible. No history, no novel of most sensational interest, no wonderful villainy that had ever been wrought into prose or poetry would have been equal to this. It was impossible. She told herself so a score of times a day, and yet the circumstances were so terribly suspicious. Mr. Gibson's conduct as a lover was simply disgraceful to him as a man and a clergyman. He was full of excuses which she knew to be false. He would never come near her if he could help it. When he was with her, he was as cold as an archbishop both in word and in action. Nothing would tempt him to any outward manifestation of affection. He would talk of nothing but the poor women of Sir Peter Cumbumpkin in the city, and the fraudulent idleness of a certain colleague in the cathedral services who was always shirking his work. He made her no presence. He never walked with her. He was always gloomy, and he had indeed so behaved himself in public that people were beginning to talk of poor Mr. Gibson, and yet he could meet Arabella on the sly in the lanes and send notes to her by the greengrocer's boy. Poor Mr. Gibson indeed. Let her once get him well over the twenty-ninth of April, and the people of Exeter might talk about poor Mr. Gibson if they pleased. And Bella's conduct was more wonderful almost than that of Mr. Gibson. With all her cowardice she still held up her head, held it perhaps a little higher than was usual with her, and when that grievous accusation was made against her, made and repeated, an accusation the very thought and sound of which would almost have annihilated her had there been a decent feeling in her bosom, she would simply shrug her shoulders and walk away. Camilla, she had once said, you will drive that man mad before you have done. What is it to you how I drive him?" Camilla had answered in her fury. Then Arabella had again shrugged her shoulders and walked away. Between Camilla and her mother, too, there had come to be an almost internecine quarrel on a collateral point. Camilla was still carrying on a vast arrangement which she called the preparation of her true so, but which both Mrs. French and Bella regarded as a spoliation of the domestic nest for the proud purposes of one of the younger birds. And this had grown so fearfully that in two different places Mrs. French had found herself compelled to request that no further articles might be supplied to Miss Camilla. The bride-elect had rebelled, alleging that as no fortune was to be provided for her, she had a right to take with her such things as she could carry away in her trunks and boxes. Money could be had at the bank, she said, and, after all, what were fifty pounds more or less on such an occasion is this. And then she went into a calculation to prove that her mother and sister would be made so much richer by her absence, and that she was doing so much for them by her marriage, that nothing could be more mean in them than that they should hesitate to supply her with such things as she desired to make her entrance into Mr. Gibson's house respectable. But Mrs. French was obdurate, and Mr. Gibson was desired to speak to her. Mr. Gibson, in fear and trembling, told her that she ought to repress her spirit of extravagance, and Camilla at once foresaw that he would avail himself of this plea against her, should he find it possible at any time to avail himself of any plea. She became ferocious, and, turning upon him, told him to mind his own business. Was it not all for him that she was doing it? She was not, she said, disposed to submit to any control in such matters from him, till he had assumed his legal right to it by standing with her before the altar. It came, however, to be known all over Exeter that Miss Camilla's expenditure had been checked, and that, in spite of the joys naturally incidental to a wedding, things were not going well with the ladies at Hevetree. At last the blow came. Camilla was aware that on a certain morning her mother had been to Mr. Gibson's house, and had held a long conference with him. She could learn nothing of what took place there, for at that moment she had taken upon herself to place herself on non-speaking terms with her mother, in consequence of those disgraceful orders which had been given to the tradesmen. But Bella had not been at Mr. Gibson's house at the time, and Camilla, though she presumed that her own conduct had been discussed in a manner very injurious to herself, did not believe that any step was being then arranged which would be positively antagonistic to her own views. The day fixed was now so very near that there could, she felt, be no escape for the victim. But she was wrong. Mr. Gibson had been found by Mrs. French in a very excited state on that occasion. He had wept and pulled his hair and torn open his waistcoat, had spoken of himself as a wretch, pleading, however, at the same time that he was more sinned against than sinning, had paced about the room with his hands dashing against his brows, and at last had flung himself prostrate on the ground. The meaning of it all was, that he had tried very hard and had found at last that he couldn't do it. I am ready to submit, said he, to any verdict that you may pronounce against me, but I should deceive you and deceive her if I didn't say it once that I can't do it. He went on to explain that since he had unfortunately entered into his present engagement with Camilla, of whose position he spoke in quite a touching manner, and since he had found what was the condition of his own heart and feelings, he had consulted a friend, who, if any merely human being was capable of advising, might be implicitly trusted for advice in such a matter, and that his friend had told him that he was bound to give up the marriage, let the consequences to himself or to others be what they might. Although the sky should fall on me, I cannot stand at the hymenial altar with a lie in my mouth, said Mr. Gibson, immediately upon his rising from his prostrate condition on the floor. In such a position as this a mother's fury would surely be very great, but Mrs. French was hardly furious. She cried and begged him to think better of it, and assured him that Camilla, when she should be calmed down by matrimony, would not be so bad as she seemed. But she was not furious. The truth is, Mr. Gibson, she said through her tears, that after all you like Bella best. Mr. Gibson owned that he did like Bella best, and although no bargain was made between them then and there, and such making of a bargain then and there would hardly have been practicable, it was understood that Mrs. French would not proceed to extremities if Mr. Gibson would still make himself forthcoming as a husband for the advantage of one of the daughters of the family. So far Mr. Gibson had progressed towards a partial liberation from his thralldom with a considerable amount of courage, but he was well aware that the great act of daring still remained to be done. He had suggested to Mrs. French that she should settle the matter with Camilla, but this Mrs. French had altogether declined to do. It must, she said, come from himself. If she were to do it she must sympathize with her child, and such sympathy would be obstructive of the future arrangements which were still to be made. She always knew that I liked Bella best, said Mr. Gibson, still sobbing, still tearing his hair, and still pacing the room with his waistcoat torn open. I would not advise you to tell her that, said Mrs. French. Then Mrs. French went home, and early on the following morning it was thought good by Arabella that she also should pay a visit at Ottery St. Mary's. Good-bye, Cammie, said Arabella, as she went. Bella, said Camilla, I wonder whether you are a serpent. I do not think you can be so base a serpent as that. I declare, Cammie, you do say such odd things that no one can understand what you mean. And so she went. On that morning Mr. Gibson was walking at an early hour along the road from Exeter to Cowley, contemplating his position and striving to arrange his plans. What was he to do, and how was he to do it? He was prepared to throw up his living, to abandon the cathedral, to leave the diocese, to make any sacrifice rather than take Camilla to his bosom. Within the last six weeks he had learned to regard her with almost a holy horror. He could not understand by what miracle of self-neglect he had fallen into so perilous and abyss. He had long known Camilla's temper. But in those days in which he had been beaten like a shuttlecock between the Stanbury's and the French's, he had lost his head and had done, he knew not what. Those whom the God chooses to destroy he first maddens, said Mr. Gibson to himself, of himself, throwing himself back upon early erudition and pagan philosophy. Then he looked across to the river Ex, and thought that there was hardly water enough there to cover the multiplicity of his sorrows. But something must be done. He had proceeded so far in forming a resolution, as he reached St. David's Church on his return homewards. His sagacious friend had told him that as soon as he had altered his mind he was bound to let the lady know of it without delay. You must remember, said the sagacious friend, that you will owe her much, very much. Mr. Gibson was perplexed in his mind when he reflected how much he might possibly be made to owe her if she should decide on appealing to a jury of her countrymen for justice. But anything would be better than his home at St. Peter's Cumpumpkin, with Camilla sitting opposite to him as his wife. Were there not distant lands in which a clergyman, unfortunate but still energetic, might find work to do? Was there not all America? And were there not Australia, New Zealand, Natal all open to him? Would not a missionary career among the Chinese be better for him than St. Peter's Cumpumpkin with Camilla French for his wife? By the time he had reached home his mind was made up. He would write a letter to Camilla at once, and he would marry Arabella at once, on any day that might be fixed, on condition that Camilla would submit to her defeat without legal redress. If legal redress should be demanded, he would put in evidence the fact that her own mother had been compelled to caution the tradesmen of the city in regard to her extravagance. He did write his letter in an agony of spirit. I sit down, Camilla, with a sad heart and a reluctant hand, he said, to communicate to you a fatal truth. But truth should be made to prevail, and there is nothing in man so cowardly, so detrimental, and so unmanly as its concealment. I have looked into myself, and have inquired of myself, and have assured myself that were I to become your husband, I should not make you happy. It would be of no use for me now to dilate on the reasons which have convinced me, but I am convinced, and I consider it my duty to inform you so at once. I have been closeted with your mother, and have made her understand that it is so. I have not a word to say in my own justification but this, that I am sure I am acting honestly in telling you the truth. I would not wish to say a word and inverting on yourself, if there must be blame in this matter, I am willing to take it all on my own shoulders. But things have been done of late, and words have been spoken, and habits have displayed themselves, which would not, I am sure, conduce to our mutual comfort in this world, or to our assistance to each other in our struggles to reach the happiness of the world to come. I think you will agree with me, Camilla, that when a man or a woman has fallen into such a mistake as that which I have now made, it is best that it should be acknowledged. I know well that such a change of arrangements as that which I now propose will be regarded most unfavorably, but will not anything be better than the binding of a matrimonial knot which cannot be again unloosed and which we should both regret. I do not know that I need add anything further. What can I add further? Only this, that I am inflexible. Having resolved to take this step, and to bear the evil things that may be said of me, for your happiness and for my own tranquility, I shall not now relinquish my resolution. I do not ask you to forgive me. I doubt much whether I shall ever be quite able to forgive myself. The mistake which I have made is one which should not have been committed. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I do ask you to pray that I may be forgiven. Yours, with feelings of the truest friendship, Thomas Gibson. The letter had been very difficult, but he was rather proud of it than otherwise when it was completed. He had felt that he was writing a letter which not improbably might become public property. It was necessary that he should be firm, that he should accuse himself a little in order that he might excuse himself much, and that he should hint at causes which might justify the rupture, though he should so veil them as not to appear to defend his own delinquency by ungenerous counter-accusation. When he had completed the letter, he thought that he had done all this rather well, and he sent the despatch off to Hevetry by the clerk of St. Peter's Church, with something of that feeling of expressible relief which attends the final conquest over some fatal and all but insuperable misfortune. He thought that he was sure now that he would not have to marry Camilla on the twenty-ninth of the month, and there would probably be a period of some hours before he would be called upon to hear or read Camilla's reply. Camilla was alone when she received the letter, but she rushed at once to her mother. There, said she, there, I knew that it was coming. Mrs. French took the paper into her hands, and gasped, and gazed at her daughter without speaking. You knew of it, mother. Yesterday, when he told me, I knew of it. And Bella knows it. Not a word of it. She does. I am sure she does. But it is all nothing. I will not accept it. He cannot treat me so. I will drag him there, but he shall come. You can't make him, my dear. I will make him. And you would help me, Mama, if you had any spirit. What! A fortnight before the time, when the things are all bought? Look at the presents that have been sent. Mama, he doesn't know me. And he never would have done it if it had not been for Bella. Never! She had better take care, or there shall be such a tragedy that nobody ever heard the like. If she thinks that she is going to be that man's wife, she is… mistaken. Then there was a pause for a moment. Mama, she said, I shall go to him at once. I do not care in the least what anybody may say. I shall go to him at once. Mrs. French felt that at this moment it was best that she should be silent.