 Chapter forty-four of He Knew He Was Right. This liper-voxed recording is in the public domain. Recording by Aria Lipshaw, He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trellop. Chapter forty-four, Brooke Burgess takes leave of Exeter. The time had arrived at which Brooke Burgess was to leave Exeter. He had made his tour through the county, and returned to spend his two last nights at Miss Danbury's house. When he came back, Dorothy was still at Nuncombe, but she arrived in the close the day before his departure. Her mother and sister had wished her to stay at Nuncombe. There is a bed for you now, and a place to be comfortable in, Priscilla had said, laughing, and you may as well see the last of us. But Dorothy declared that she had named a day to her aunt and that she would not break her engagement. I suppose you can stay if you like, Priscilla had urged, but Dorothy was of an opinion that she ought not to stay. She said not a word about Brooke Burgess, but it may be that it would have been a matter of regret to her not to shake hands with him once more. Brooke declared to her that had she not come back he would have gone over to Nuncombe to see her, but Dorothy did not consider herself entitled to believe that. On the morning of the last day, Brooke went over to his uncle's office. I've come to say good-bye, Uncle Barty, he said. Good-bye, my boy, take care of yourself. I mean to try. You haven't quarreled with the old woman, have you, said Uncle Barty? Not yet, that is to say, not to the knife. And you still believe that you are to have her money. I believe nothing one way or the other. You may be sure of this. I shall never count it mine till I've got it, and I shall never make myself so sure of it as to break my heart, because I don't get it. I suppose I've got as good a right to it as anybody else, and I don't see why I shouldn't take it if it come in my way. I don't think it ever will, said the old man after a pause. I shall be none the worse, said Brooke. Yes, you will. You'll be a broken-hearted man, and she means to break your heart. She does it on purpose. She has no more idea of leaving you her money than I have. Why should she? Simply because she takes the fancy. Fancy? Believe me, there is very little fancy about it. There isn't one of the names she wouldn't ruin if she could. She'd break all our hearts if she could get at them. Look at me in my position. I'm little more than a clerk in the concern. By God, I'm not so well off as a senior clerk in many a bank. If there came a bad time, I must lose as the others would lose, but a clerk never loses. And my share in the business is almost a nothing—it's just nothing, compared to what it would have been, only for her. Brooke had known that his uncle was a disappointed, or at least a discontented man, but he had never known much of the old man's circumstances, and certainly had not expected to hear him speak in the strain that he had now used. He had heard often that his uncle Barty disliked Miss Standbury, and had not been surprised at former sharp, biting little words spoken in reference to that lady's character. But he had not expected such a tirade of abuse as the banker had now poured out. Of course I know nothing about the bank, said he, but I did not suppose that she had had anything to do with it. Where do you think the money came from that she has got? Did you ever hear that she had anything of her own? She never had a penny—never a penny. It came out of this house. It is the capital on which this business was founded, and on which it ought to be carried on to this day. My brother had thrown her off. By Heaven's yes, had thrown her off. He had found out what she was, and had got rid of her. But he left her his money. Yes, she got near him when he was dying, and he did leave her his money—his money and my money and your father's money. He could have given her nothing, Uncle Barty, that wasn't his own. Of course that's true. It's true in one way. You might say the same of a man who was cousined into leaving every shilling away from his own children. I wasn't an exitor when the will was made. We none of us were here. But she was here. And when we came to see him die, there we found her. She had had her revenge upon him, and she means to have it on all of us. I don't believe she'll ever leave you a shilling, Brooke. You'll find her out yet, and you'll talk of her to your nephews as I do to you. Brooke made some ordinary answer to this, and bade his uncle a Jew. He had allowed himself to entertain a half-chivalrous idea that he could produce a reconciliation between Miss Stanbury and his Uncle Barty. And since he had been an exitor, he had said a word, to the one and then to the other, hinting at the subject. But his hints had certainly not been successful. As he walked from the bank into the High Street, he could not fail to ask himself whether there were any grounds for the terrible accusations which he had just heard from his uncle's lips. Something of the same kind, though in form much less violent, had been repeated to him very often by others of the family. Though he had as a boy known Miss Stanbury well, he had been taught to regard her as an ogreess. All the burgesses had regarded Miss Stanbury as an ogreess since that unfortunate will had come to light. But she was an ogreess from whom something might be gained, and the ogreess had still persisted in saying that a burgess should be her heir. It had, therefore, come to pass that Brooke had been brought up half to revere her and half to abhor her. She is a dreadful woman, said his branch of the family, who will not scruple at anything evil. But as it seems that you may probably reap the advantage of the evil that she does, it will become you to put up with her iniquity. As he had become old enough to understand the nature of her position, he had determined to judge for himself. But his judgment hitherto simply amounted to this, that Miss Stanbury was a very singular old woman, with a kind heart and good instincts, but so capricious with all that no sensible man would risk his happiness on expectations formed on her promises. Guided by this opinion, he had resolved to be attentive to her, and, after a certain fashion, submissive, but certainly not to become her slave. She had thrown over her nephew, she was constantly complaining to him of her niece, now and again she would say a very bitter word to him about himself. When he had left Exeter on his little excursion, no one was so much in favour with her as Mr. Gibson. On his return he found that Mr. Gibson had been altogether discarded, and was spoken of in terms of almost insolent abuse. If I were ever so humble to her, he had said to himself, it would do no good, and there is nothing I hate so much as humility. He had thus determined to take the goods the gods provided, should it ever come to pass that such god-like provision was laid before him out of Miss Danbury's coffers, but not to alter his mode of life, or put himself out of his way in obedience to her behests, as a man might be expected to do who was destined to receive so rich a legacy. Upon this idea he had acted, still believing the old woman to be good, but believing at the same time that she was very capricious. Now he had heard what his uncle Bartholomew Burgess had had to say upon the matter, and he could not refrain from asking himself whether his uncle's accusations were true. In a narrow passage between the high street and the close he met Mr. Gibson. There had come to be that sort of intimacy between the two men, which grows from closeness of position rather than from any social desire on either side, and it was natural that Burgess should say a word of farewell. On the previous evening Miss Danbury had relieved her mind by turning Mr. Gibson into ridicule in her description to Brooke of the manner in which the clergyman had carried on his love affair, and she had at the same time declared that Mr. Gibson had been most violently impertinent to herself. He knew therefore that Miss Danbury and Mr. Gibson had become two, and would on this occasion have passed on without a word relative to the old lady had Mr. Gibson allowed him to do so. But Mr. Gibson spoke his mind freely. "'Off to-morrow are you,' he said, "'Good-bye. I hope we may meet again, but not in the same house, Mr. Burgess.' "'There or anywhere I shall be very happy,' said Brooke. "'Not there certainly. While you were absent Miss Danbury treated me in such a way that I shall certainly never put my foot in her house again. "'Dear me, I thought that you and she were such great friends. I knew her very well, of course, and respected her. She is a good churchwoman and is charitable in the city, but she has got such a tongue in her head that there is no bearing it when she does what she calls giving you a bit of her mind. She has been indulgent to me and has not given me much of it. "'Your time will come, I've no doubt,' continued Mr. Gibson. "'Everybody has always told me that it would be so. Even her oldest friends knew it. You ask Mrs. McHugh or Mrs. French at Heavetry.' "'Mrs. French,' said Brooke, laughing, that would hardly be fair evidence. "'Why not? I don't know a better judge of character in all Exeter than Mrs. French, and she and Miss Danbury have been intimate all their lives. Ask your uncle at the bank.' "'My uncle and Miss Danbury never were friends,' said Brooke. "'Ask Hugh Danbury what he thinks of her. But don't suppose I want to say a word against her. I wouldn't for the world do such a thing. Only as we've met there and all that, I thought it best to let you know that she had treated me in such a way and has been altogether so violent that I never will go there again.' So saying, Mr. Gibson passed on, and was of opinion that he had spoken with great generosity of the old woman who had treated him so badly. In the afternoon, Brooke Burgess went over to the further end of the close, and called on Mrs. McHugh, and from thence he walked across to Heavetry and called on the French's. It may be doubted whether he would have been so well behaved to these ladies had they not been appealed to by Mr. Gibson as witnesses to the character of Miss Danbury. He got very little from Mrs. McHugh. That lady was kind and cordial, and expressed many wishes that she might see him again in Exeter. When he said a few words about Mr. Gibson, Mrs. McHugh only laughed, and declared that the gentleman would soon find a plaster for that sore. There are more fishes than one in the sea, she said. But I'm afraid they've quarreled, Mrs. McHugh. So they tell me. What should we have to talk about here if somebody didn't quarrel sometimes? She and I ought to get up a quarrel for the good of the public, only they know that I never can quarrel with anybody. I never see anybody interesting enough to quarrel with. But Mrs. McHugh said nothing about Miss Danbury. Except that she sent over a message with reference to a rubber of wist for the next night but one. He found the two French girls sitting with their mother, and they all expressed their great gratitude to him for coming to say goodbye before he went. It's so very nice of you, Mr. Burgess, said Camilla, and particularly just at present. Yes, indeed, said Arabella, because you know things have been so unpleasant. My dears, never mind about that, said Mrs. French. Miss Danbury has meant everything for the best, and it is all over now. I don't know what you mean by it's being all over Mama, said Camilla. As far as I can understand it has never been begun. My dear, the least said, the soonest mended, said Mrs. French. That's of course Mama, said Camilla. But yet one can't hold one's tongue altogether. All the city is talking about it, and I dare say Mr. Burgess has heard as much as anybody else. I've heard nothing at all, said Brooke. Oh, yes you have, continued Camilla. Arabella conceived herself at this moment to be situated in so delicate a position that it was best that her sister should talk about it and that she herself should hold her tongue, with the exception perhaps of a hint here and there which might be of assistance, for Arabella completely understood that the prize was now to be hers, if the prize could be rescued out of the Danbury clutches. She was aware, no one better aware, how her sister had interfered with her early hopes, and was sure in her own mind that all her disappointment had come from fratricidal rivalry on the part of Camilla. It had never however been open to her to quarrel with Camilla. There they were, linked together, and together they must fight their battles. As two pigs may be seen at the same trough, each striving to take the delicacies of the banquet from the other, and yet enjoying always the warmth of the same dung-hill in amicable contiguity, so had these young ladies lived in sisterly friendship, while each was striving to take a husband from the other. They had understood the position, and though for years back they had talked about Mr. Gibson, they had never quarreled. But now, in these latter days of the Danbury interference, there had come tacitly to be something of an understanding between them, that if any fighting were still possible on the subject, one must be put forward, and the other must yield. There had been no spoken agreement, but Arabella quite understood that she was to be put forward. It was for her to take up the running and to win, if possible, against the Danbury filly. That was her view, and she was inclined to give Camilla credit for acting in accordance with it, with honesty and zeal. She felt, therefore, that her words on the present occasion ought to be few. She sat back in her corner of the sofa, and was intent on her work, and showed by the pensiveness of her brow, that there were thoughts within her bosom of which she was not disposed to speak. You must have heard a great deal, said Camilla, laughing. You must know how poor Mr. Gibson has been abused, because he wouldn't. Camilla, don't be foolish, said Mrs. French. Because he wouldn't what, asked Brooke. What ought he to have done that he didn't do? I don't know anything about ought, said Camilla. That's a matter of taste altogether. I'm the worst hand in the world at a riddle, said Brooke. How sly you are, continued Camilla, laughing, as if dear Aunt Stanbury hadn't confided all her hopes to you. Camilla, dear, don't, said Arabella. But when a gentleman is hunted and can't be caught, I don't think he ought to be abused to his face. But who hunted him, and who abused him? asked Brooke. Mind, I don't mean to say a word against Miss Stanbury, Mr. Burgess. We've known her and loved her all our lives. Haven't we, Mama? And respected her, said Arabella. Quite so, continued Camilla. But you know, Mr. Burgess, that she likes her own way. I don't know anybody that does not, said Brooke. And when she's disappointed, she shows it. There's no doubt she is disappointed now, Mr. Burgess. What's the good of going on, Camilla, said Mrs. French? Arabella sat silent in her corner, with a conscious glow of satisfaction, as she reflected that the joint disappointment of the elder and the younger Miss Stanbury had been caused by a tender remembrance of her own charms. Had not, dear Mr. Gibson, told her, in the glowing language of truth, that there was nothing further from his thoughts than the idea of taking Dorothy's Stanbury for his wife. Well, you know, continued Camilla. I think that when a person makes an attempt, and comes by the worst of it, that person should put up with the defeat and not say all manner of ill-natured things. Everybody knows that a certain gentleman is very intimate in this house. Don't, dear, said Arabella in a whisper. Yes, I shall, said Camilla. I don't know why people should hold their tongues when other people talk so loudly. I don't care a bit what anybody says about the gentleman and us. We have known him for ever so many years, and Mama is very fond of him. Indeed I am, Camilla, said Mrs. French. And for the matter of that, so am I. Very, said Camilla, laughing bravely, I don't care who knows it. Don't be so silly, child, said Arabella. Camilla was certainly doing her best, and Arabella was grateful. We don't care what people may say, continued Camilla again. Of course we heard, as everybody else heard, too, that a certain gentleman was to be married to a certain lady. It was nothing to us, whether he was married or not. Nothing at all, said Arabella. We never spoke ill of the young lady. We did not interfere. If the gentleman liked the young lady, he was quite at liberty to marry her as far as we were concerned. We had been in the habit of seeing him here, almost as a brother, and perhaps we might feel that a connection with that particular young lady would take him from us. But we never hinted so much even as that, to him or to anyone else. Why should we? It was nothing to us. Now it turns out that the gentleman never meant anything of the kind, whereupon he is pretty nearly kicked out of the house and all manner of ill-natured things are said about us everywhere. By this time Camilla had become quite excited, and was speaking with much animation. How can you be so foolish, Camilla, said Arabella? Perhaps I am foolish, said Camilla, to care what anybody says. What can it all be to Mr. Burgess, said Mrs. French? Only this, that as we all like Mr. Burgess, and as he is almost one of the family in the clothes, I think he ought to know why we are not quite so cordial as we used to be. Now that the matter is over, I have no doubt things will get right again. And as for the young lady, I am sure we feel for her, we think it was the aunt who was in discreet. And then she has such a tongue, said Arabella. Our friend Brooke, of course, knew the whole truth, knew the nature of Mr. Gibson's failure, and knew also how Dorothy had acted in the affair. He was inclined, moreover, to believe that the ladies who were now talking to him were as well instructed on the subject as was he himself. He had heard, too, of the ambition of the two young ladies now before him, and believed that that ambition was not yet dead. But he did not think it incumbent on him to fight a battle even on behalf of Dorothy. He might have declared that Dorothy at least had not been disappointed, but he thought it better to be silent about Dorothy. Yes, he said, Miss Stanbury has a tongue, but I think it speaks as much good as it does evil, and perhaps that is a great deal to say for any lady's tongue. We never speak evil of anybody, said Camilla. Never. It is a rule with us. Then Brooke took his leave, and the three ladies were cordial and almost affectionate in their farewell greetings. Brooke was to start on the following morning before anybody would be up except Martha, and Miss Stanbury was very melancholy during the evening. We shall miss him very much, shall we not, she said, appealing to Dorothy. I am sure you will miss him very much, said Dorothy. We are so stupid here alone, said Miss Stanbury. When they had drank their tea she sat nearly silent for half an hour, and then summoned him up into her own room. So you are going, Brooke, she said. Yes, I must go now. They would dismiss me if I stayed an hour longer. It was good of you to come to the old woman, and you must let me hear of you from time to time. Of course all right. And Brooke, what is it, Aunt Stanbury? Do you want any money, Brooke? No, none, thank you. I've plenty for a bachelor. When you think of marrying Brooke, mind you tell me. I'll be sure to tell you, but I can't promise yet when that will be. She said nothing more to him, though she paused once more as though she were going to speak. She kissed him and bade him good-bye, saying that she would not go downstairs again that evening. He was to tell Dorothy to go to bed, and so they parted. But Dorothy did not go to bed for an hour after that. When Brooke came down into the parlor with his message she intended to go at once, and put up her work and lit her candle and put out her hand to him and said good-bye to him. But for all that she remained there for an hour with him. At first she said very little, but by degrees her tongue was loosened, and she found herself talking with a freedom which she could hardly herself understand. She told him how thoroughly she believed her aunt to be a good woman, how sure she was that her aunt was at any rate honest. As for me, said Dorothy, I know that I have displeased her about Mr. Gibson, and I would go away, only that I think she would be so desolate. Then Brooke begged her never to allow the idea of leaving Miss Stanbury to enter her head. Because Miss Stanbury was capricious, he said, not on that account should her caprices either be indulged or permitted. That was his doctrine respecting Miss Stanbury, and he declared that as regarded himself he would never be either disrespectful to her or submissive. It is a great mistake, he said, to think that anybody is either an angel or a devil. When Dorothy expressed an opinion that with some people angelic tendencies were predominant and with others diabolical tendencies, he assented, but declared that it was not always easy to tell the one tendency from the other. At last, when Dorothy had made about five attempts to go, Mr. Gibson's name was mentioned. I am very glad that you are not going to be Mrs. Gibson, said he. I don't know why you should be glad. Because I should not have liked your husband. Not as your husband. He is an excellent man, I'm sure, said Dorothy. Nevertheless I am very glad, but I did not think you would accept him, and I congratulate you on your escape. You would have been nothing to me as Mrs. Gibson. Shouldn't I, said Dorothy, not knowing what else to say? But now I think we shall always be friends. I'm sure I hope so, Mr. Burgess, but indeed I must go now. It is ever so late, and you will hardly get any sleep. Good night. Then he took her hand, and pressed it very warmly, and referring to a promise before made to her, he assured her that he would certainly make acquaintance with her brother as soon as he was back in London. Dorothy, as she went up to bed, was more than ever satisfied with herself in that she had not yielded in reference to Mr. Gibson. Chapter 45 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipshaw, He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 45. Travellion at Venice. Travellion passed on moodily and alone from tour into Venice, always expecting letters from Basel, and receiving from time to time the dispatches which that functionary forwarded to him, as must be acknowledged with great punctuality. For Mr. Basel did his work, not only with a conscience, but with a will. He was now, as he had declared more than once, altogether devoted to Mr. Travellion's interest, and as he was an active enterprising man, always on the alert to be doing something, and as he loved the work of writing dispatches, Travellion received a great many letters from Basel. It is not exaggeration to say that every letter made him for the time a very wretched man. This ex-policeman wrote of the wife of his bosom, of her who had been the wife of his bosom and who was the mother of his child, who was at this very time the only woman whom he loved, with an entire absence of delicacy. Basel would have thought reticence on his part to be dishonest. We remember Othello's demand of Iago. That was the demand which Basel understood that Travellion had made of him, and he was minded to obey that order. But Travellion, though he had in truth given the order, was like Othello also in this, that he would have preferred before all the prizes of the world to have had proof brought home to him exactly opposite to that which he demanded. But there was nothing so terrible to him as the grinding suspicion that he was to be kept in the dark. Basel could find out facts. Therefore he gave, in effect, the same order that Othello gave, and Basel went to work determined to obey it. There came many dispatches to Venice, and at last there came one which created a correspondence which shall be given here at length. The first is a letter from Mr. Basel to his employer. 55 Stony Walk, Union Street, borough, September 29, 1860, Blank, 4.30 PM. And, sir, since I wrote yesterday morning, something has occurred which it may be, and I think it will, will help to bring this melancholy affair to a satisfactory termination and conclusion. I had better explain, Mr. Travellion, how I have been at work from the beginning about watching the Colonel. I couldn't do nothing with the porter at the Albany, which he is always mostly muzzled with beer, and he wouldn't have taken my money, not on the square. So, when it was telegrammed to me as the Colonel was on the move in the north, I put on two boys as knows the Colonel, at eighteen pence a day, at each end, one Piccadilly end, and the other Savile Row end. And yesterday morning, as quick as ever could be after the limited express Edinburgh Mail Up was in, there comes the Savile Row end-boy here to say, as the Colonel was lodged safe in his Downey. Then I was off immediate myself to St. Diddalf's, because I knows what it is to trust two inferiors when matters gets delicate. Now there hadn't been no letters from the Colonel, nor none to him as I could make out, though that mightn't be so sure. She might have had him addressed to A. Z. or the like of that at any of the post offices as was distant, as nobody could give the notice to him all. Barring the money, which I know ain't an object when the end is so desirable, it don't do to be too ubiquitous, because things will go astray. But I've kept my eye on common open, and I don't think there have been no letters since that last which was sent, Mr. Trewillian, let any of them, Parsons, or what not, say what they will. And I don't see, as Parsons are better than other folk when they have to do with a lady as likes her fancy man. Trevellian, when he had read as far as this, threw down the letter and tore his hair in despair. My wife, he exclaimed, oh, my wife! But it was essential that he should read Basel's letter, and he persevered. Well, I took to the ground myself as soon as ever I heard that the Colonel was among us, and I hung out at the full moon. They had been quite on the square with me at the full moon, which I mentioned, because, of course, it has to be remembered, and it do come up as a item. And I'm proud, Mr. Trewillian, as I did take to the ground myself, for what should happen, but I see the Colonel as large as life ringing at the Parsons bell at 1.47 p.m. He was let in at 1.49, and he was let out at 2.17. He went away in a cab, which it was kept, and I followed him till he was put down at the arcade, and I left him having his head washed and greased at Truffitt's rooms, halfway up. It was a wonder to me when I see this, Mr. Trevellian, as he didn't have his head done first, as they most of them does when they're going to see their ladies, but I couldn't make nothing of that, though I did try to put two and two together, as I always does. What he did at the Parsons, Mr. Trewillian, I won't say I saw, and I won't say I know. It's my opinion the young woman there isn't on the square, though she's been remembered to, and is a item, of course. And Mr. Trewillian, it do go against the grain with me when they're remembered and ain't on the square. I doesn't expect too much of human nature, which is poor, as the saying goes, but when they're remembered and ain't on the square after that, it's too bad for human nature, it's more than poor, it's what I call beggarly. He ain't been there since, Mr. Trewillian, and he goes out of town tomorrow by the one-fifteen p.m. expressed to Bridport, so he lets on, but of course I shall see to that. That he's been at St. Diddalf's in the house from one-forty-seven to two-seventeen you may take as a fact. There won't be no shaking of that because I have it in my mem-book, and no council can get the better of it. Of course he went there to see her, and it's my belief he did. The young woman, as was remembered, says he didn't, but she isn't on the square. They never is when a lady wants to see her gentleman, though they comes round afterwards and tells of everything when it comes before his ordinary lordship. If you ask me, Mr. Trewillian, I don't think it's ripe yet for the court, but we'll have it ripe before long. I'll keep a look out, because it's just possible she may leave town. If she do, I'll be down upon them together and no mistake. Yours most respectful, S. Bosel. Every word in the letter had been a dagger to Trewillian, and yet he felt himself to be under an obligation to the man who had written it. No one else would or could make facts known to him. If she were innocent, let him know that she were innocent, and he would proclaim her innocence and believe in her innocence, and sacrifice himself to her innocence if such sacrifice were necessary. But if she were guilty, let him also know that. He knew how bad it was, all that bribing of postmen and maid-servants who took his money, and her money also very likely, it was dirt, all of it. But who had put him into the dirt? His wife had at least deceived him, had deceived him and disobeyed him, and it was necessary that he should know the facts. Life without a Bosel would now have been to him a perfect blank. The Colonel had been to the parsonage at St. Diddalf's and had been admitted. As to that he had no doubt. Nor did he really doubt that his wife had seen the visitor. He had sent his wife first into a remote village on Dartmoor, and there she had been visited by her lover. How was he to use any other word? Iago! Oh, Iago! The pity of it, Iago! Then when she had learned that this was discovered, she had left the retreat in which she had placed her, without permission from him, and had taken herself to the house of a relative of hers. Here she was visited again by her lover! Oh, Iago! The pity of it, Iago! And then there had been between them an almost constant correspondence. So much he had ascertained his fact, but he did not for a moment believe that Bosel had learned all the facts. There might be correspondence, or even visits, of which Bosel could learn nothing. How could Bosel know where Mrs. Trevelyan was during all those hours which Colonel Osborne passed in London? That which he knew he knew absolutely, and on that he could act. But there was, of course, much of which he knew nothing. Gradually the truth would unveil itself, and then he would act. He would tear that Colonel into fragments, and throw his wife from him with all the ignominy which the law made possible to him. But in the meantime he wrote a letter to Mr. Outhouse. Colonel Osborne, after all that had been said, had been admitted at the parsonage, and Trevelyan was determined to let the clergyman know what he thought about it. The oftener he turned the matter in his mind, as he walked slowly up and down the piazza of St. Mark, the more absurd it appeared to him to doubt that his wife had seen the man, of course she had seen him. He walked there nearly the whole night thinking of it, and as he dragged himself off at last to his inn, had almost come to have but one desire, namely that he should find her out, that the evidence should be conclusive, that it should be proved and so brought to an end. Then he would destroy her, and destroy that man, and afterwards destroy himself so bitter to him would be his ignominy. He almost reveled in the idea of the tragedy he would make. It was three o'clock before he was in his bedroom, and then he wrote his letter to Mr. Outhouse before he took himself to his bed. It was as follows. Venice, October 4th, 1860 Blank. Sir. Information of a certain kind on which I can place a firm reliance has reached me, to the effect that Colonel Osborne has been allowed to visit at your house during the sojourn of my wife under your roof. I will thank you to inform me whether this be true, as although I am confident of my facts, it is necessary, in reference to my ulterior conduct, that I should have from you either an admission or a denial of my assertion. It is, of course, open to you to leave my letter unanswered. Should you think proper to do so I shall know also how to deal with that fact. As to your conduct in admitting Colonel Osborne into your house while my wife is there, after all that has passed and all that you know that has passed, I am quite unable to speak with anything like moderation of feeling. Had the man succeeded in forcing himself into your residence, you should have been the first to give me notice of it. As it is I have been driven to ascertain the fact from other sources. I think that you have betrayed the trust that a husband has placed in you and that you will find from the public voice that you will be regarded as having disgraced yourself as a clergyman. In reference to my wife herself I would wish her to know that after what has now taken place I shall not feel myself justified in leaving our child longer in her hands, even tender as are his years. I shall take steps for having him removed. Not further I shall do to vindicate myself and extricate myself as far as may be possible from the slough of despond in which I have been submitted, she and you will learn in due time. Your obedient servant, L. Trevelyan. A letter addressed post-Ristante, Venice, will reach me here. If Trevelyan was mad when he wrote this letter, Mr. Outhouse was very nearly as mad when he read it. He had most strongly desired to have nothing to do with his wife's niece when she was separated from her husband. He was a man honest, charitable, and sufficiently affectionate, but he was timid, and disposed to think ill of those whose modes of life were strange to him. Actuated by these feelings he would have declined to offer the hospitality of his roof to Mrs. Trevelyan had any choice been left to him. But there had been no choice. She had come nither unasked, with her boy and baggage, and he could not send her away. His wife had told him that it was his duty to protect these women till their father came, and he recognized the truth of what his wife said. There they were, and there they must remain throughout the winter. It was hard upon him, especially as the difficulties and embarrassments as to money were so disagreeable to him, but there was no help for it. His duty must be done, though it were ever so painful. Then that horrid colonel had come, and now had come this letter, in which he was not only accused of being an accomplice between his married niece and her lover, but was also assured that he should be held up to public ignominy and disgrace. Though he had often declared that Trevelyan was mad, he would not remember that now. Such a letter as he had received should have been treated by him as the production of a madman, but he was not sane enough himself to see the matter in that light. He gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist, and was almost beside himself as he read the letter a second time. There had been a method in Trevelyan's madness, for though he had declared to himself that without doubt Basel had been right in saying that as the colonel had been at the parsonage, therefore as a certainty Mrs. Trevelyan had met the colonel there, yet he had not so stated in his letter. He had merely asserted that colonel Osborne had been at the house, and had founded his accusation upon that alleged fact. The alleged fact had been in truth a fact. So far Basel had been right, the colonel had been at the parsonage, and the reader knows how far Mr. Outhouse had been to blame for his share in the matter. He rushed off to his wife with the letter, declaring at first that Mrs. Trevelyan, Nora and the child and the servant should be sent out of the house at once. But at last Mrs. Outhouse succeeded in showing him that he would not be justified in ill-using them, because Trevelyan had ill-used him. But I will write to him, said Mr. Outhouse, he shall know what I think about it. And he did write his letter that day, in spite of his wife's entreaties, that he would allow the son to set upon his wrath, and his letter was as follows. I have received your letter of the fourth, which is more iniquitous, unjust, and ungrateful than anything I ever before saw written. I have been surprised from the first at your gross cruelty to your unoffending wife, but even that seems to me more intelligible than your conduct in writing such words as those which you have dared to send me. For your wife's sake, knowing that she is in a great degree still in your power, I will condescend to tell you what has happened. When Mrs. Trevelyan found herself constrained to leave Nuncomputny by your aspersions on her character, she came here, to the protection of her nearest relatives within reach, till her father and mother should be in England. Sorely against my will I received them into my home, because they had been deprived of other shelter by the cruelty or madness of him who should have been their guardian. Here they are, and here they shall remain till Sir Marmadoug Rowley arrives. The other day, on the twenty-ninth of September, Colonel Osborne, who is their father's old friend, called, not on them, but on me. I may truly say that I did not wish to see Colonel Osborne. They did not see him, nor did he ask to see them. If his coming was a fault, and I think it was a fault, they were not implicated in it. He came, remained a few minutes, and went without seeing anyone but myself. That is the history of Colonel Osborne's visit to my house. I have not thought fit to show your letter to your wife, or to make her acquainted with this further proof of your want of reason. As to the threats which you hold out of removing her child from her, you can of course do nothing except by law. I do not think that even you will be sufficiently audacious to take any steps of that description. Whatever protection the law may give her and her child from your tyranny and misconduct cannot be obtained till her father shall be here. I have only further to request that you will not address any further communication to me. Should you do so, it will be refused. Yours in deep indignation, olefant outhouse. Trevalion had also written two other letters to England, one to Mr. Baidaweil and the other to Basel. In the former he acquainted the lawyer that he had discovered that his wife still maintained her intercourse with Colonel Osborne, and that he must therefore remove his child from her custody. He then inquired what steps would be necessary to enable him to obtain possession of his little boy. In the letter to Basel he sent a check, and his thanks for the ex-policeman's watchful care. He desired Basel to continue his precautions, and explained his intentions about his son. Being somewhat afraid that Mr. Baidaweil might not be zealous on his behalf, and not himself understanding accurately the extent of his power with regard to his own child, or the means whereby he might exercise it, he was anxious to obtain assistance from Basel also on this point. He had no doubt that Basel knew all about it. He had great confidence in Basel, but still he did not like to consult the ex-policeman. He knew that it became him to have some regard for his own dignity. He therefore put the matter very astutely to Basel, asking no questions, but alluding to his difficulty in a way that would enable Basel to offer advice. And where was he to get a woman to take charge of his child? If Lady Milborough would do it, how great would be the comfort, but he was almost sure that Lady Milborough would not do it. While his friends had turned against him and Lady Milborough among the number, there was nobody left to him but Basel. Could he entrust Basel to find some woman for him, who would take adequate charge of the little fellow till he himself could see to the child's education? He did not put this question to Basel in plain terms, but he was very astute, and wrote in such a fashion that Basel could make a proposal, if any proposal were within his power. The answer from Mr. Outhouse came first. To this Mr. Trevelyan paid very little attention. It was just what he expected. Of course Mr. Outhouse's assurance about Colonel Osborne went for nothing. A man who would permit intercourse in his house between a married lady and her lover would not scruple to deny that he had permitted it. Then came Mr. Bidowile's answer, which was very short. Mr. Bidowile said that nothing could be done about the child till Mr. Trevelyan should return to England, and that he could give no opinion as to what should be done then till he knew more of the circumstances. It was quite clear to Trevelyan that he must employ some other lawyer. Mr. Bidowile had probably been corrupted by Colonel Osborne. Could Basel recommend a lawyer? From Basel himself there came no other immediate reply than his duty, and that he would make further inquiries. CHAPTER 46 The American Minister In the second week in October Mr. Glasscock returned to Florence, intending to remain there till the weather should have become bearable at Naples. His father was said to be better, but was in such a condition as hardly to receive much comfort from his son's presence. His mind was gone, and he knew no one but his nurse, and though Mr. Glasscock was unwilling to put himself altogether out of the reach of returning in a day's notice, he did not find himself obliged to remain in Naples during the heat of the autumn. So Mr. Glasscock returned to the hotel at Florence, accompanied by the tall man who wore the buttons. The hotelkeeper did not allow such a light to remain long hidden under a bushel, and it was soon spread far and wide that the honorable Charles Glasscock and his suite were again in the beautiful city. And the fact was soon known to the American minister and his family. Mr. Spalding was a man who at home had been very hostile to English interests. Many American gentlemen are known for such hostility. They make anti-English speeches about the country, as though they thought that war with England would produce certain triumph to the states, certain increase to American trade, and certain downfall to a tyranny which no Anglo-Saxon nation ought to endure. But such is hardly their real opinion. There in the states, as also here in England, you shall from day to day hear men propounding in very loud language advanced theories of political action, the assertion of which is supposed to be necessary to the end which they have in view. Men whom we know to have been as mild as sucking doves in the political aspiration of their whole lives, suddenly jump up and with infuriated gestures declare themselves the enemies of everything existing. When they have attained to their little purpose, or have failed to do so, they revert naturally into their sucking-dove elements. It is so with Americans as frequently as with ourselves, and there is no political subject on which it is considered more expedient to express pseudo-enthusiasm than on that of the sins of England. It is understood that we do not resent it. It is presumed that we regard it as the Irishman regarded his wife's cuffs. In the state a large party, which consists chiefly of those who have lately left English rule and who are keen to prove to themselves how wise they have been in doing so, is pleased by this strong language against England, and therefore the strong language is spoken. But the speakers, who are, probably, men knowing something of the world, mean it not at all. They have no more idea of war with England than they have of war with all Europe, and their respect for England and for English opinion is unbounded. In their political tones of speech and modes of action they strive to be as English as possible. Under Spalding's aspirations were of this nature. He had uttered speeches against England which would make the hair stand on end on the head of an uninitiated English reader. He had told his countrymen that Englishmen hugged their chains and would do so until American hammers had knocked those chains from off their wounded wrists and bleeding ankles. He had declared that, if certain American claims were not satisfied, there was nothing left for Americans to do but to cross the ferry with such a sheriff's officer as would be able to make restraint on the great English household. He had declared that the sheriff's officer would have very little trouble. He had spoken of Canada as an outlying American territory, not yet quite sufficiently redeemed from savage life to be received into the Union as a state. There is a multiplicity of subjects of this kind ready to the hand of the American orator. Mr. Spalding had been quite successful and was now a minister at Florence, but perhaps one of the greatest pleasures coming to him from his prosperity was the enjoyment of the society of well-bred Englishmen in the capital to which he had been sent. When, therefore, his wife and nieces pointed out to him the fact that it was manifestly his duty to call upon Mr. Glasscock after what had passed between them on that night under the Campanile, he did not rebel for an instant against the order given to him. His mind never reverted for a moment to that opinion which had gained for him such a round of applause when expressed on the platform of the Temperance Hall at Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois, to the effect that the English aristocrat, Thoreau-born and Thoreau-bred, who inherited acres and titles from his father, could never be fitting company for a thoughtful, Christian American citizen. He at once had his hat brushed and took up his best gloves and umbrella and went off to Mr. Glasscock's hotel. He was strictly enjoined by the ladies to fix a day on which Mr. Glasscock would come and dine at the American Embassy. "'C.G. has come back to see you,' said Olivia to her elder sister. They had always called him C.G. since the initials had been seen on his travelling-bag. "'Probably,' said Kerry, there is so very little else to bring people to Florence that there can hardly be any other reason for his coming. They do say it's terribly hot at Naples just now, but that can have had nothing to do with it. "'We shall see,' said Livy, I'm sure he's in love with you. He looked to me just like a proper sort of lover for you when I saw his long legs creeping up over our heads into the boncat. "'You ought to have been very much obliged to his long legs, so sick as you were at the time.' "'I like him amazingly,' said Livy, legs and all. I only hope Uncle Jonas won't bore him so as to prevent his coming. "'His father is very ill,' said Kerry, and I don't suppose we shall see him at all.' But the American minister was successful. He found Mr. Glasscock sitting in his dressing-gown, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. The English aristocrat seemed very glad to see his visitor, and assumed no heirs at all. The American altogether forgot his speech at Nubbly Creek, and found the aristocrat society to be very pleasant. He lit a cigar, and they talked about Naples, Rome, and Florence. Mr. Spaulding, when the marbles of old Rome were mentioned, was a little too keen in insisting on the merits of story, Miss Hosmer, and Hiram Powers, and hardly carried his listener with him in the parallel which he drew between Greeno and Phidias. And he was somewhat repressed by the apathetic curtness of Mr. Glasscock's reply. When he suggested that the victory gained by the gunboats at Vicksburg on the Mississippi, was vividly brought to his mind by an account which he had just been reading on the Battle of Actium. But he succeeded in inducing Mr. Glasscock to accept an invitation to dinner for the next day but one, and the two gentlemen pardoned on the most amicable terms. Everybody meets everybody in Florence every day. Kerry and Livy Spaulding had met Mr. Glasscock twice before the dinner at their uncle's house, so that they met at dinner quite as intimate friends. Mrs. Spaulding had very large rooms, up three flights of stairs on the Longarno. The height of her abode was attributed by Mrs. Spaulding to her dread of mosquitoes. She had not yet learned that people in Florence require no excuse for being asked to walk up three flights of stairs. The rooms when they were reached were very lofty, floored with what seemed to be marble, and were of a nature almost to warrant Mrs. Spaulding in feeling that nature had made her more akin to an Italian countess than to a matron of Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois, where Mr. Spaulding had found her and made her his own. There was one other Englishman present, Mr. Harris Hyde Granville Gore from the Foreign Office, now serving temporarily at the English Legation in Florence, and an American, Mr. Jackson Unthank, a man of wealth and taste, who was resolved on having such a collection of pictures at his house in Baltimore that no English private collection should in any way come near to it, and a Tuscan, from the Italian Foreign Office, to whom nobody could speak except Mr. Harris Hyde Granville Gore, who did not seem to enjoy the efforts of conversation which were expected of him. The Italian, who had a handle to his name, he was a count Buonorasi, took Mrs. Spaulding into dinner. Mrs. Spaulding had been at great trouble to ascertain whether this was proper or whether she should not entrust herself to Mr. Glasscock. There were different points to be considered in the matter. She did not quite know whether she was in Italy or in America. She had glimmerings on the subject of her privilege to carry her own nationality into her own drawing-room. And then she was called upon to deal with an Italian count with an elder brother, and an English Honorable, who had no such encumbrance. Which of the two was possessed of the higher rank? I found it all out, Aunt Mary, said Livy, you must take the count, for Livy wanted to give her sister every chance. How have you found it out, said the aunt? You may be sure it is so, said Livy. And the lady, in her doubt, yielded the point. Mrs. Spaulding, as she walked along the passage on the count's arm, determined that she would learn Italian. She would have given all Nubbly Creek to have been able to speak a word to Count Buonorasi. To do her justice it must be admitted that she had studied a few words, but her courage failed her and she could not speak them. She was very careful, however, that Mr. H. H. G. Gore was placed in the chair next to the count. We are very glad to see you here, said Mr. Spaulding, addressing himself especially to Mr. Glasscock, as he stood up at his own seat at the round table. In leaving my own country, sir, there is nothing that I value more than the privilege of becoming acquainted with those whose historic names and existing positions are of such inestimable value to the world at large. In saying this, Mr. Spaulding was not in the least insincere, nor did his conscience at all prick him in reference to that speech at Nubbly Creek. On both occasions he half thought as he spoke, or thought that he thought so. Unless it beyond subjects especially endeared to us, the thoughts of but few of us go much beyond this. Mr. Glasscock, who sat between Mrs. Spaulding and her niece, was soon asked by the elder lady whether he had been in the States. No, he had not been in the States. Then you must come, Mr. Glasscock, said Mrs. Spaulding, though I will not say, dwelling as we are now in the metropolis of the world of art, that we in our own homes have as much of the outer beauty of form to charm the stranger as is to be found in other lands. Yet I think that the busy lives of men and the varied institutions of a free country must always have an interest peculiarly their own. Mr. Glasscock declared that he quite agreed with her and expressed a hope that he might someday find himself in New York. You wouldn't like it at all, said Kerry, because you are an aristocrat. I don't mean that it would be your fault. Why should that prevent my liking it, even if I were an aristocrat? One half of the people would run after you, and the other half would run away from you, said Kerry. Then I'd take to the people who ran after me and would not regard the others. That's all very well, but you wouldn't like it. And then you would become unfair to what you saw. When some of our specifying people talk to you about our institutions through their noses, you would think that the institutions themselves must be bad, and we had nothing to show except our institutions. But our American institutions, asked Mr. Glasscock. Everything is an institution. Having iced water to drink in every room of the house is an institution. Having hospitals in every town is an institution. Traveling altogether in one class of railway cars is an institution. Saying sir is an institution. Teaching all the children mathematics is an institution. Plenty of food is an institution. Getting drunk is an institution in a great many towns. Lecturing is an institution. There are plenty of them and some are very good, but you wouldn't like it. At any rate I'll go and see, said Mr. Glasscock. If you do, I hope we may be at home, said Miss Spalding. Mr. Spalding in the meantime, with the assistance of his countrymen, the man of taste, was endeavouring to explain a certain point in American politics to the count. As in doing this they called upon Mr. Gore to translate every speech they made into Italian, and as Mr. Gore had never offered his services as an interpreter, and as the Italian did not quite catch the subtle meanings of the Americans in Mr. Gore's Tuscan version, and did not in the least wish to understand the things that were explained to him, Mr. Gore and the Italian began to think that the two Americans were boars. The truth is, Mr. Spalding, said Mr. Gore, I've got such a cold in my head that I don't think I can explain it anymore. Then Livy Spalding laughed aloud, and the two American gentlemen began to eat their dinner. It sounds ridiculous, don't it? said Mr. Gore in a whisper. I ought not to have laughed, I know, said Livy. The very best thing you could have done. I shan't be troubled any more now. The fact is, I know just nine words of Italian. Now there is a difficulty in having to explain the whole theory of American politics to an Italian who doesn't want to know anything about it, with so very small a repertory of words at one's command. How well you did it! Too well, I felt that. So well that unless I had stopped it I shouldn't have been able to say a word to you all through dinner. Your laughter clenched it, and Buonorashi and I will be grateful to you for ever. After the ladies went there was a rather bad half-hour for Mr. Glasscock. He was button-holed by the minister, and found it oppressive before he was enabled to escape into the drawing-room. Mr. Glasscock said the minister, an English gentleman sir like you, who has the privilege of a hereditary seat in your parliament. Mr. Glasscock was not quite sure whether he were being accused of having a hereditary seat in the House of Commons, but he would not stop to correct any possible error on that point. And who has been born to all the gifts of fortune, rank, and social eminence, should never think that his education is complete till he has visited our great cities in the West. Mr. Glasscock hinted that he by no means conceived his education to be complete, but the minister went on without attending to this. Till you have seen, sir, what men can do who are placed upon the earth with all God's gifts of free intelligence, free air, and a free soil, but without any of those other good things which we are accustomed to call the gifts of fortune, you can never become aware of the infinite ingenuity of man. There had been much said before, but just at this moment Mr. Gore and the American left the room, and the Italian followed them briskly. Mr. Glasscock at once made a decided attempt to bolt, but the minister was on the alert and was too quick for him, and he was by no means ashamed of what he was doing. He had got his guest by the coat, and openly declared his intention of holding him. Let me keep you for a few minutes, sir, said he, while I dilate on this point in one direction. In the drawing room, female spells are too potent for us male orators. In going among us, Mr. Glasscock, you must not look for luxury or refinement, for you will find them not. Nor must you hope to encounter the highest order of aridition, the lofty summits of acquired knowledge tower in your country, with an altitude we have not reached yet. It's very good of you to say so, said Mr. Glasscock. No, sir. In our new country and in our new cities, we still lack the luxurious perfection of Festidious Civilization. But sir, regard our level. That is what I say to every unprejudiced Britisher that comes among us. Look at our level. And when you have looked at our level, I think that you will confess that we live on the highest table land that the world has yet afforded to mankind. You follow my meaning, Mr. Glasscock? Mr. Glasscock was not sure that he did, but the minister went on to make that meaning clear. It is the multitude that with us is educated. Go into their houses, sir, and see how they thumb their books. Look at the domestic correspondence of our helps and servants, and see how they write and spell. We haven't got the mountains, sir, but our table lands are the highest on which the bright son of our almighty God has as yet shown with its illuminating splendor in this improving world of ours. It is because we are a young people, sir, with nothing as yet near to us of the decrepitude of age. The weakness of age, sir, is the penalty paid by the folly of youth. We are not so wise, sir, but what we too shall suffer from its effects as years roll over our heads. There was a great deal more, but at last Mr. Glasscock did escape into the drawing-room. My uncle has been saying a few words to you, perhaps," said Kerry Spalding. Yes, he has, said Mr. Glasscock. He usually does, said Kerry Spalding. CHAPTER 47 About Fishing and Navigation and Headdresses The feud between Miss Stanbury and Mr. Gibson raged violently in Exeter and produced many complications which were very difficult indeed of management. Each belligerent party felt that a special injury had been inflicted upon it. Mr. Gibson was quite sure that he had been grossly misused by Miss Stanbury the Elder and strongly suspected that Miss Stanbury the Younger had had a hand in this misconduct. It had been positively asserted to him, at least so he thought, but in this was probably an error, that the lady would accept him if he proposed to her. All Exeter had been made aware of the intended compact. He indeed had denied its existence to Miss French, comforting himself as best he might with the reflection that all is fair in love and war, but when he counted over his injuries he did not think of this denial. All Exeter, so to say, had known of it. And yet, when he had come with his proposal, he had been refused without a moment's consideration, first by the aunt and then by the niece. And after that had been violently abused and at last turned out of the house. Only no gentleman had ever before been subjected to ill usage so violent. But Miss Stanbury the Elder was quite as assured that the injury had been done to her. As to the matter of the compact itself, she knew very well that she had been as true as Steele. She had done everything in her power to bring about the marriage. She had been generous in her offers of money. She had used all her powers of persuasion on Dorothy and she had given every opportunity to Mr. Gibson. It was not her fault if he had not been able to avail himself of the good things which she had put in his way. He had first been, as she thought, ignorant and arrogant, fancying that the good things ought to be made his own without any trouble on his part, and then awkward, not knowing how to take the trouble when trouble was necessary. And as to that matter of abusive language and turning out of the house, Miss Stanbury was quite convinced that she was sinned against, and not herself, the sinner. She declared to Martha more than once that Mr. Gibson had used such language to her that coming out of a clergyman's mouth it had quite dismayed her. Martha, who knew her mistress, probably felt that Mr. Gibson had at least received as good as he gave, but she had made no attempt to set her mistress right on that point. But the cause of Miss Stanbury's sharpest anger was not to be found in Mr. Gibson's conduct either before Dorothy's refusal of his offer or on the occasion of his being turned out of the house. A base rumor was spread about the city that Dorothy's Stanbury had been offered to Mr. Gibson, that Mr. Gibson had civilly declined the offer, and that hence had arisen the wrath of the Juno of the close. Now this was not to be endured by Miss Stanbury. She had felt even in the moment of her original anger against Mr. Gibson that she was bound in honour not to tell the story against him. She had brought him into the little difficulty, and she at least would hold her tongue. She was quite sure that Dorothy would never boast of her triumph, and Martha had been strictly cautioned, as indeed also had Brooke Burgess. The man had behaved like an idiot, Miss Stanbury said, but he had been brought into a little dilemma, and nothing should be said about it from the house in the close. But when the other rumor reached Miss Stanbury's ears, when Mrs. Crumby condoled with her on her niece's misfortune, when Mrs. McHugh asked whether Mr. Gibson had not behaved rather badly to the young lady, then our Juno's celestial mind was filled with a divine anger. But even then she did not declare the truth. She asked a question of Mrs. Crumby, and was enabled, as she thought, to trace the falsehood to the French's. She did not think that Mr. Gibson could on a sudden have become so base a liar. "'Mr. Gibson, fast and loose with my niece,' she said to Mrs. McHugh, "'you have not got the story quite right, my dear friend. Pray, believe me, there has been nothing of that sort.' "'I dare say not,' said Mrs. McHugh, and I'm sure I don't care. Mr. Gibson has been going to marry one of the French girls for the last ten years, and I think he ought to make up his mind and do it at last. "'I can assure you he is quite welcome as far as Dorothy is concerned,' said Miss. Danbury. "'Without a doubt the opinion did prevail throughout Exeter that Mr. Gibson, who had been regarded time out of mind as the property of the Miss. French's, had been angled for by the ladies in the close, that he had nearly been caught, but that he had slipped the hook out of his mouth, and was now about to subside quietly into the net which had been originally prepared for him. Well a French had not spoken loudly on the subject, but Camilla had declared in more than one house that she had most direct authority for stating that the gentleman had never dreamed of offering to the young lady. "'Why he should not do so if he pleases, I don't know,' said Camilla. "'Only the fact is that he has not pleased. The rumour, of course, has reached him, and as we happen to be very old friends, we have authority for denying it altogether. All this came round to Miss. Danbury, and she was divine in her wrath. "'If they drive me to it,' she said to Dorothy, I'll have the whole truth told by the Bellman through the city, or I'll publish it in the county Gazette. "'Pray don't say a word about it, Aunt. Danbury. It is those odious girls. He's there now every day. Why shouldn't he go there, Aunt. Danbury? If he's fool enough, let him go. I don't care where he goes, but I do care about these lies. They wouldn't dare to say it, only they think my mouth is closed. They've no honour themselves, but they screen themselves behind mine. "'I'm sure they won't find themselves mistaken in what they trust to,' said Dorothy, with a spirit that her aunt had not expected from her. Miss Danbury at this time had told nobody that the offer to her niece had been made, and repeated, and finally rejected, but she found it very difficult to hold her tongue. In the meantime, Mr. Gibson spent a good deal of his time at Hevetry. It should not perhaps be asserted broadly that he had made up his mind that marriage would be good for him, but he had made up his mind at least to this, that it was no longer to be postponed without a balance of disadvantage. The Charybdis in the clothes drove him helpless into the whirlpool of the Hevetry Silla. He had no longer an escape from the perils of the latter shore. He had been so mauled by the opposite waves that he had neither spirit nor skill left to him to keep in the middle track. He was almost daily at Hevetry, and did not attempt to conceal from himself the approach of his doom. But still there were two of them. He knew that he must become a prey, but was there any choice left to him as to which siren should have him? He had been quite aware in his more gallant days, before he had been knocked about on that Charybdis rock, that he might sip and taste and choose between the sweets. He had come to think lately that the younger young lady was the sweeter. Eight years ago indeed the passages between him and the elder had been tender, but Camilla had then been simply a romping girl, hardly more than a year or two beyond her teens. Now with her matured charms Camilla was certainly the more engaging as far as outward form went. Arabella's cheeks were thin and long, and her front teeth had come to show themselves. Her eyes were no doubt still bright, and what she had of hair was soft and dark. But it was very thin in front, and what there was of supplemental mass behind, the band box by which Miss Standbury was so much aggrieved, was worn with an indifference to the lines of beauty, which Mr. Gibson himself found to be very depressing. A man with a fair burden on his back is not a grievous sight, but when we see a small human being attached to a bale of goods which he can hardly manage to move, we feel that the poor fellow has been cruelly over-weighted. Mr. Gibson certainly had that sensation about Arabella's chignon, and as he regarded it in a nearer and a dearer light, as a chignon that might possibly become his own, as a burden which in one sense he might himself be called upon to bear, as a domestic utensil which he himself might be called upon to inspect, and perhaps to aid the shifting on and the shifting off, he did begin to think that that side of the Siligulf ought to be avoided if possible. And probably this propensity on his part, this feeling that he would like to reconsider the matter dispassionately, before he gave himself up for good to his old love, may have been increased by Camilla's apparent withdrawal of her claims. He felt mildly grateful to the heavy-tree household in general for accepting him in this time of his affliction, but he could not admit to himself that they had a right to decide upon him in private conclave, and allot him either to the one or to the other nuptials without consultation with himself. To be swallowed up by Silla he now recognized as his doom, but he thought he ought to be asked on which side of the gulf he would prefer to go down. The way in which Camilla spoke of him as a thing that wasn't hers but another's, and the way in which Arabella looked at him as though he were hers and could never be another's, wounded his manly pride. He had always understood that he might have his choice, and he could not understand that the little mishap which had befallen him in the close was to rob him of that privilege. He used to drink tea at Havitree in those days. On one evening on going in he found himself alone with Arabella. Oh, Mr. Gibson, she said, we weren't sure whether you'd come, and Mama and Camilla have gone out to Mrs. Cammages. Mr. Gibson muttered some word to the effect that he hoped he had kept nobody at home, and as he did so he remembered that he had distinctly said that he would come on this evening. I don't know that I should have gone, said Arabella, because I am not quite, not quite myself at present, no, not ill, not at all. Don't you know what it is, Mr. Gibson, to be—to be not quite yourself? Mr. Gibson said that he had very often felt like that. And one can't get over it, can one, continued Arabella. There comes a presentiment that something is going to happen, and a kind of belief that something has happened, though you don't know what, and the heart refuses to be light, and the spirit becomes abashed, and the mind, though it creates new thoughts, will not settle itself to its accustomed work. I suppose it's what the novels have called melancholy. I suppose it is, said Mr. Gibson, but there's generally some cause for it. Debt, for instance—it's nothing of that kind with me—it's no debt at least that can be written down in the figures of ordinary arithmetic. Sit down, Mr. Gibson, and we will have some tea. Then, as she stretched forward to ring the bell, he thought that he never in his life had seen anything so unshapely as that huge wen at the back of her head. Monstrum horrendum informe ingens. He could not help quoting the words to himself. She was dressed with some attempt at being smart, but her ribbons were soiled, and her lace was tawdry, and the fabric of her dress was old and dowdy. He was quite sure that he would feel no pride in calling her Mrs. Gibson, no pleasure in having her all to himself at his own hearth. I hope we shall escape the bitterness of Miss Standbury's tongue if we drink tea, tet-a-tet," she said, with her sweetest smile. I don't suppose she'll know anything about it. She knows about everything, Mr. Gibson. It's astonishing what she knows. She has eyes and ears everywhere. I shouldn't care if she didn't see and hear so very incorrectly. I'm told now that she declares, but it doesn't signify. Declares what? asked Mr. Gibson. Never mind. But wasn't it odd how all Exeter believed that you were going to be married in that house and to live there all the rest of your life and be one of Miss Standbury's slaves? I never believed it, Mr. Gibson. This, she said with a sad smile, that ought to have brought him on his knees in spite of the sheenion. One can't help these things, said Mr. Gibson. I never could have believed it, not even if you had not given me an assurance so solemn and so sweet that there was nothing in it. The poor man had given the assurance and could not deny the solemnity and the sweetness. That was a happy moment for us, Mr. Gibson, because though we never believed it, when it was dined into our ears so frequently, when it was made such a triumph in the close, it was impossible not to fear that there might be something in it. He felt that he ought to make some reply, but he did not know what to say. He was thoroughly ashamed of the lie he had told, but he could not untell it. Camilla reproached me afterwards for asking you, whispered Arabella, in her softest, tenderest voice. She said that it was unmaidently. I hope you did not think it unmaidently, Mr. Gibson. Oh, dear no, not at all, said he. Arabella French was painfully alive to the fact that she must do something. She had her fish on the hook, but of what use is a fish on your hook if you cannot land him? When could she have a better opportunity than this of landing the scaly darling out of the fresh and free waters of his bachelor's stream, and sowsing him into the pool of domestic life to be ready there for her own household purposes? I had known you so long, Mr. Gibson, she said, and had valued your friendship so, so deeply. As he looked at her he could see nothing but the shapeless excrescence to which his eyes had been so painfully called by Miss Stanbury's satire. It is true that he had formerly been very tender with her, but she had not then carried about with her that distorted monster. He did not believe himself to be at all bound by anything which had passed between them in circumstances so very different. But yet he ought to say something. He ought to have said something, but he said nothing. She was patient, however, very patient, and she went on playing him with her hook. I am so glad that I did not go out to-night with Mama. It has been such a pleasure to me to have this conversation with you. Mama perhaps would say that I am unmaidently. I don't think so. That is all that I care for, Mr. Gibson. If you acquit me I do not mind who accuses. I should not like to suppose that you thought me unmaidently. Anything would be better than that, but I can throw all such considerations to the wind when true, true friendship is concerned. Don't you think that one ought, Mr. Gibson? If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head he would have done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain. It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, and abominable as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him the necessity of assisting to carry such an abortion through the world. One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship, said Mr. Gibson, except self-respect. He meant nothing personal, something special in the way of an opinion was expected of him, and therefore he had striven to say something special. But she was in tears in a moment. Oh, Mr. Gibson, she exclaimed. Oh, Mr. Gibson! What is the matter, Miss French? Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean? Certainly not, Miss French. Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me. Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me Bella. That was quite true, but it was long ago, not Mr. Gibson, before the monster had been attached. Will you not call me Bella now? He thought that he had rather not, and yet how was he to avoid it? On a sudden he became very crafty. Had it not been for the sharpness of his mother Witt, he would certainly have been landed at that moment. As you truly observed just now, he said, the tongues of people are so malignant. There are little birds that hear everything. I don't care what the little birds hear, said Miss French through her tears. I am a very unhappy girl. I know that, and I don't care what anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know what I feel. At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. The fish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could not land him. Her hopes before this had been very low, hopes that had once been high, but they had been depressed gradually, and in the slow, dull routine of her daily life she had learned to bear disappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without consciousness of acute pain. The task of her life had been weary, and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant, but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into a lethargy of lessening expectation, from which joy indeed had been banished, but in which there had been nothing of agony. Then had come upon the whole house at Havitry the great Standbury peril, and a rising out of that had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her again capable of all the miseries of a foiled ambition. She could again be patient if patience might be of any service, but in such a condition an eternity of patience is simply suicidal. She was willing to work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked? Poor young woman, perishing beneath an incubus which a false idea of fashion had imposed on her. I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy, pleaded Mr. Gibson. I'm sure I haven't meant it. But you have, she said, you make me very unhappy. You condemn me. I see you do. And if I have done wrong it has been all because—oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. But who says you have done wrong? You won't call me Bella, because you say the little birds will hear it. If I don't care for the little birds, why should you? There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman to answer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a lady, with that courageous simplicity which had come upon Miss French in this moment of her agonizing struggle. But nevertheless it is one which, in a more complicated form, is often put, and to which some reply, more or less complicated, is expected. If I, a woman, can dare for your sake to encounter the public tongue, will you a man be afraid? The true answer, if it could be given, would probably be this. I am afraid, though a man, because I have much to lose and little to get. You are not afraid, though a woman, because you have much to get and little to lose. But such an answer would be uncivil, and is not often given. Therefore men shuffle and lie and tell themselves that in love, love here being taken to mean all antinuptial contests between man and woman, everything is fair. Mr. Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though he did not frame it into words. He was neither sufficiently brave nor sufficiently cruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing for him, therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie. I only meant, said he, that I would not for worlds do anything to make you uneasy. She did not see how she could again revert to the subject of her own Christian name. She had made her little tender loving request, and it had been refused. Of course she knew that it had been refused as a matter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution, as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over which she had to climb were no more than she had expected to find in her way, but they were so very high and so very difficult. Of course she was aware that he would escape if he could. She was not angry with him on that account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed she did not price herself highly enough to make her feel that she would be justified in being angry. It was natural enough that he should not want her. She knew herself to be a poor, thin, vapid, tawdry creature, with nothing to recommend her to any man, except a sort of second-rate provincial town fashion, which, infatuated as she was, she attributed in a great degree to the thing she carried on her head. She knew nothing. She could do nothing. She possessed nothing. She was not angry with him because he so evidently wished to avoid her. But she thought that if she could only be successful she would be good and loving and obedient, and that it was fair for her at any rate to try. Each created animal must live and get its food by the gifts which the Creator has given to it. Let those gifts be as poor as they may. Let them be even as distasteful as they may to other members of the great created family. The rat, the toad, the slug, the flea, must each live according to its appointed mode of existence. Animals which are parasites by nature can only live by attaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella Mr. Gibson would be strong enough, and it seemed to her that if she could fix herself permanently upon his strength that would be her proper mode of living. She was not angry with him because he resisted the attempt, but she had nothing of conscience to tell her that she should spare him as long as they remain to her a chance of success. And should not her plea of excuse, her justification be admitted, there are tormentors as to which no man argues that they are iniquitous, though they be very troublesome. He either rids himself of them, or suffers as quiescently as he may. We used to be such great friends, she said, still crying, and I am afraid you don't like me a bit now. Indeed I do. I have always liked you, but—but what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that you bid me." Then it occurred to him that if after such a promise he were to confide to her his feeling that the chignon which she wore was ugly and unbecoming, she would probably be induced to change her mode of headdress. It was a foolish idea, because, had he followed it out, he would have seen that compliance on her part, in such a matter, could only be given with the distinct understanding that a certain reward should be the consequence. When an unmarried gentleman calls upon an unmarried lady to change the fashion of her personal adornments, the unmarried lady has a right to expect that the unmarried gentleman means to make her his wife. But Mr. Gibson had no such meaning, and was led into error by the necessity for sudden action. When she offered to do anything that he might bid her do, he could not take up his hat and go away. She looked up into his face, expecting that he would give her some order, and he fell into the temptation that was spread for him. If I might say a word, he began, you may say anything, she exclaimed. If I were you, I don't think. You don't think what, Mr. Gibson?" He found it to be a matter very difficult of approach. Do you know, I don't think the fashion that has come up about wearing your hair quite suits you, not so well as the way you used to do it. She became, on a sudden, very red in the face, and he thought that she was angry, vexed she was, but still accompanying her vexation, there was a remembrance that she was achieving victory even by her own humiliation. She loved her chignon, but she was ready to abandon even that for him. Nevertheless, she could not speak for a moment or two, and he was forced to continue his criticism. I have no doubt those things are very becoming in all that, and I dare say they are comfortable. Oh, very, she said, but there was a simplicity that I liked about the other. Could it be, then, that for the last five years he had stood aloof from her, because she had arrayed herself in fashionable attire? She was still very red in the face, still suffering from wounded vanity, still conscious of that soreness which affects us all, when we are made to understand that we are considered to have failed there, where we have most thought that we excelled, but her womanly art enabled her quickly to conceal the pain. I have made a promise, she said. And you will find that I will keep it. What promise? asked Mr. Gibson. I said that I would do as you bade me, and so I will. I would have done it sooner if I had known that you wished it. I would never have worn it at all if I had thought that you disliked it. I think that a little of them is very nice, said Mr. Gibson. Mr. Gibson was certainly an awkward man, but there are men so awkward that it seems to be their special province to say always the very worst thing at the very worst moment. She became redder than ever as she was thus told of the hugeness of her favorite ornament. She was almost angry now, but she restrained herself, thinking perhaps of how she might teach him taste in days to come as he was teaching her now. I will change it to-morrow, she said with a smile. You come and see, to-morrow." Upon this he got up and took his hat and made his escape, assuring her that he would come and see her on the morrow. She let him go now without any attempt at further tenderness. Certainly she had gained much during the interview. He had as good as told her in what had been her offense, and of course when she had remedied that offense he could hardly refuse to return to her. She got up as soon as she was alone and looked at her head in the glass and told herself that the pity would be great. It was not that the chignon was in itself a thing of beauty, but that it imparted so unmistakable an air of fashion. It divested her of that doubtiness which she feared above all things, and enabled her to hold her own among other young women without feeling that she was absolutely destitute of attraction. There had been a certain homage paid to it which she had recognized and enjoyed. But it was her ambition to hold her own, not among young women, but among clergyman's wives, and she would certainly obey his orders. She could not make the attempt now because of the complications, but she certainly would make it before she laid her head on the pillow, and would explain to Camilla that it was a little joke between her and Mr. Gibson. CHAPTER 48 Mr. Gibson is punished. Miss Stanbury was divine in her wrath, and became more and more so daily as new testimony reached her of dishonesty on the part of the French's and of treachery on the part of Mr. Gibson. And these people, so empty, so vain, so weak, were getting the better of her, were conquering her, were robbing her of her prestige and her ancient glory, simply because she herself was too generous to speak out and tell the truth. There was a martyrdom to her in this which was almost unendurable. Now there came to her one day at luncheon time, on the day succeeding that on which Miss French had promised to sacrifice her chignon, a certain Mrs. Clifford from Budley Salterton, to whom she was much attached. Perhaps the distance of Budley Salterton from Exeter added somewhat to this affection, so that Mrs. Clifford was almost closer to our friend's heart even than Mrs. McHugh, who lived just at the other end of the cathedral. And in truth Mrs. Clifford was a woman more serious in her mode of thought than Mrs. McHugh, and one who had more in common with Miss Stanbury than that other lady. Mrs. Clifford had been a miss-knoll of Dottiscombe-Lee, and she and Miss Stanbury had been engaged to be married at the same time, each to a man of fortune. One match had been completed in the ordinary course of matches, what had been the course of the other we already know, but the friendship had been maintained on very close terms. Mrs. McHugh was a gallio at heart, anxious chiefly to remove from herself and from her friends also all the troubles of life and make things smooth and easy. She was one who disregarded great questions, who cared little or nothing what people said of her, who considered nothing worth the trouble of a fight, Epicuri de Gregi porca. But there was nothing swinish about Mrs. Clifford of Budley Salterton. She took life thoroughly in earnest. She was a Tory who sorrowed heartily for her country, believing that it was being brought to ruin by the councils of evil men. She prayed daily to be delivered from dissenters, radicals, and wolves in sheep's clothing, by which latter bad name she meant especially a certain leading politician of the day, who had, with the cunning of the devil, tempted and perverted the virtue of her own political friends. And she was one who thought that the slightest breath of scandal on a young woman's name should be stopped at once. An antique, pure-minded, anxious, self-sacrificing matron was Mrs. Clifford, and very dear to the heart of Miss Danbury. After lunch was over on the day in question, Mrs. Clifford got Miss Danbury into some closet retirement, and there spoke her mind as to the things which were being said. It had been asserted in her presence by Camilla French that she, Camilla, was authorized by Mr. Gibson to declare that he had never thought of proposing to Dorothy Danbury, and that Miss Danbury had been laboring under some strange misapprehension in the matter. Now, my dear, I don't care very much for the young lady in question, said Mrs. Clifford, alluding to Camilla French. Very little indeed, I should think, said Miss Danbury, with the shake of her head. Quite true, my dear, but that does not make the words out of her mouth the less efficacious for evil. She clearly insinuated that you had endeavored to make up a match between this gentleman and your niece, and that you had failed. So much was at least true. Miss Danbury felt this, and felt also that she could not explain the truth, even to her dear old friend. In the midst of her divine wrath, she had acknowledged to herself that she had brought Mr. Gibson into his difficulty, and that it would not become her to tell anyone of his failure. And in this matter she did not herself accuse Mr. Gibson. She believed that the lie originated with Camilla French, and it was against Camilla that her wrath raged the fiercest. She is a poor, mean, disappointed thing, said Miss Danbury. Very probably, but I think I should ask her to hold her tongue about Miss Dorothy, said Mrs. Clifford. The consultation in the closet was carried on for about half an hour, and then Miss Danbury put on her bonnet and shawl, and descended into Mrs. Clifford's carriage. The carriage took the Hevetry Road, and deposited Miss Danbury at the door of Mrs. French's house. The walk home from Hevetry would be nothing, and Mrs. Clifford proceeded on her way, having given this little help in counsel and conveyance to her friend. Mrs. French was at home, and Miss Danbury was shown up into the room in which the three ladies were sitting. The reader will doubtless remember the promise which Arabella had made to Mr. Gibson, that promise she had already fulfilled, to the amazement of her mother and sister, and when Miss Danbury entered the room, the elder daughter of the family was seen without her accustomed headgear. If the truth is to be owned, Miss Danbury gave the poor young woman no credit for her new simplicity, but put down the deficiency to the charge of domestic slatternliness. She was unjust enough to declare afterwards that she had found Arabella French only half-dressed at between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, from which this lesson may surely be learned, that though the way down of airness may be and customarily is made with great celerity, the return journey, if made at all, must be made slowly. A young woman may commence in chignons by attaching any amount of an edifice to her head, but the reduction should be made by degrees. Arabella's edifice had, in Miss Danbury's eyes, been the ugliest thing in art that she had known, but now its absence offended her, and she most untruly declared that she had come upon the young woman in the middle of the day, just out of her bedroom and almost in her dressing-gown. When the whole French family suffered a diminution of power from the strange fantasy which had come upon Arabella, they all felt, in sight of the enemy, that they had to a certain degree lowered their flag. One of the ships at least had shown signs of striking, and this element of weakness made itself felt through the whole fleet. Arabella herself, when she saw Miss Danbury, was painfully conscious of her head and wished that she had postponed the operation till the evening. She smiled with a faint watery smile, and was aware that something ailed her. The greetings at first were civil, but very formal, as are those between nations which are nominally at peace, but which are waiting for a sign at which each may spring at the other's throat. In this instance the Juno from the close had come quite prepared to declare her casus belly as complete, and to fling down her gauntlet, unless the enemy should at once yield to her everything demanded with an abject submission. Mrs. French, she said, I have called to-day for a particular purpose, and I must address myself chiefly to Miss Camilla. Oh, certainly, said Mrs. French. I shall be delighted to hear anything from you, Miss Danbury, said Camilla, not without an air of bravado. Arabella said nothing, but she put her hand up almost convulsively to the back of her head. I have been told to-day by a friend of mine, Miss Camilla, began Miss Danbury, that you declared yourself in her presence, authorized by Mr. Gibson to make a statement about my niece Dorothy. May I ask who was your friend, demanded Mrs. French? It was Mrs. Clifford, of course, said Camilla. There is nobody else would try to make difficulties. There need be no difficulty at all, Miss Camilla, said Miss Danbury. If you will promise me that you will not repeat the statement, it can't be true. But it is true, said Camilla. That is true, asked Miss Danbury, surprised by the audacity of the girl. It is true that Mr. Gibson authorized us to state what I did state when Mrs. Clifford heard me. And what was that? Only this, that people had been saying all about Exeter that he was going to be married to a young lady, and that as the report was incorrect, and as he had never had the remotest idea in his mind of making the young lady his wife, Camilla, as she said this, spoke with a great deal of emphasis, putting forward her chin and shaking her head. And as he thought it was uncomfortable, both for the young lady and for himself, and as there was nothing in it the least in the world, nothing at all, no glimmer of a foundation for the report, it would be better to have it denied everywhere. That is what I said. And we had authority from the gentleman himself. Arabella can say the same, and so can Mama. Only Mama did not hear him. Or had Camilla heard him, but that incident she did not mention. The circumstances were in Miss Danbury's judgment becoming very remarkable. She did not for a moment believe Camilla. She did not believe that Mr. Gibson had given to either of the French's any justification for the statement just made. But Camilla had been so much more audacious than Miss Danbury had expected, that that lady was for a moment struck dumb. I'm sure Miss Danbury, said Mrs. French, we don't want to give any offence to your niece, very far from it. My niece doesn't care about it too straws, said Miss Danbury. It is I that care, and I care very much. The things that have been said have been altogether false. How false, Miss Danbury, asked Camilla. Altogether false, as false as they can be. Mr. Gibson must know his own mind, said Camilla. My dear, there's a little disappointment, said Miss French, and it don't signify. There's no disappointment at all, said Miss Danbury, and it does signify very much. Now that I've begun, I'll go to the bottom of it. If you say that Mr. Gibson told you to make these statements, I'll go to Mr. Gibson, I'll have it out somehow. You may have what you like out for us, Miss Danbury, said Camilla. I don't believe Mr. Gibson said anything of the kind. That's civil, said Camilla. But why shouldn't he, asked Arabella. There were the reports, you know, said Mrs. French. And why shouldn't he deny them, when there wasn't a word of truth in them, continued Camilla. For my part I think the gentleman is bound for the lady's sake to declare that there's nothing in it when there is nothing in it. This was more than Miss Danbury could bear. Hitherto the enemy had seemed to have the best of it. Camilla was firing broadside after broadside, as though she was assured of victory. Even Mrs. French was becoming courageous, and Arabella was forgetting the place where her chignon ought to have been. I really do not know what else there is for me to say, remarked Camilla, with a toss of her head, and an air of impudence that almost drove poor Miss Danbury frantic. It was on her tongue to declare the whole truth, but she refrained. She had schooled herself on this subject vigorously. She would not betray Mr. Gibson. Had she known all the truth, or had she believed Camilla French's version of the story, there would have been no betrayal. But looking at the matter with such knowledge as she had at present, she did not even yet feel herself justified in declaring that Mr. Gibson had offered his hand to her niece, and had been refused. She was, however, sorely tempted. Very well, ladies, she said, I shall now see Mr. Gibson, and ask him whether he did give you authority to make such statements as you have been spreading abroad everywhere. Then the door of the room was opened, and in a moment Mr. Gibson was among them. He was true to his promise, and had come to see Irobella with her altered headdress. But he had come at this hour thinking that escape in the morning would be easier and quicker than it might have been in the evening. His mind had been full of Irobella and her headdress even up to the moment of his knocking at the door. But all that was driven out of his brain at once when he saw Miss Danbury. Here is Mr. Gibson himself, said Mrs. French. How do you do, Mr. Gibson, said Miss Danbury, with a very stately courtesy. They had never met since the day on which he had been, as he stated, turned out of Miss Danbury's house. He now bowed to her, but there was no friendly greeting, and the Frenches were able to congratulate themselves on the apparent loyalty to themselves of the gentlemen who stood among them. I have come here, Mr. Gibson, continued Miss Danbury, to put a small matter right in which you are concerned. It seems to me to be the most insignificant thing in the world, said Camilla. Very likely, said Miss Danbury, but it is not insignificant to me. Miss Camilla French has asserted publicly that you have authorized her to make a statement about my niece Dorothy. Mr. Gibson looked into Camilla's face doubtingly, inquisitively, almost piteously. You had better let her go on, said Camilla. She will make a great many mistakes, no doubt, but you had better let her go on to the end. I have made no mistakes as yet, Miss Camilla. She so asserted Mr. Gibson in the hearing of a friend of mine, and she repeated the assertion here in this room to me just before you came in. She says that you have authorized her to declare that—that—that—I had better speak it out plainly at once. Much better, said Camilla, that you never entertained an idea of offering your hand to my niece. Miss Danbury paused, and Mr. Gibson's jaw fell visibly, but he was not expected to speak as yet, and Miss Danbury continued her accusation. Beyond that, I don't want to mention my niece's name if it can be avoided. But it can't be avoided, said Camilla. If you please, I will continue. Mr. Gibson will understand me. I will not, if I can help it, mention my niece's name again, Mr. Gibson, but I still have that confidence in you that I do not think that you would have made such a statement in reference to yourself and any young lady, unless it were some young lady who had absolutely thrown herself at your head. And in saying this, she paused, and looked very hard at Camilla. That's just what Dorothy Stanbury has been doing, said Camilla. She has been doing nothing of the kind, and you know she hasn't, said Miss Danbury, raising her arm as though she were going to strike her opponent. But I am quite sure, Mr. Gibson, that you never could have authorized these young ladies to make such an assertion publicly on your behalf. Whatever there may have been of misunderstanding between you and me, I can't believe that of you. Then she paused for a reply. If you will be good enough to set us right on that point, I shall be obliged to you. Mr. Gibson's position was one of great discomfort. He had given no authority to anyone to make such a statement. He had said nothing about Dorothy Stanbury to Camilla, but he had told Arabella, when hard-pressed by that lady, that he did not mean to propose to Dorothy. He could not satisfy Miss Stanbury because he feared Arabella. He could not satisfy the Frenches because he feared Miss Stanbury. I really do not think, said he, that we ought to talk about a young lady in this way. That's my opinion, too, said Camilla, but Miss Stanbury will. Exactly so. Miss Stanbury will, said that lady. Mr. Gibson, I insist upon it, that you tell me whether you did give any such authority to Miss Camilla French or to Miss French. I wouldn't answer her if I were you, said Camilla. I really don't think this can do any good, said Mrs. French. And it is so very harassing to our nerves, said Arabella. Nerves? Poo! exclaimed Miss Stanbury. Mr. Gibson, I am waiting for an answer. My dear Miss Stanbury, I really think it better. The situation is so peculiar, and upon my word I hardly know how not to give a fence, which I wouldn't do for the world. Do you mean to tell me that you won't answer my question, demanded Miss Stanbury? I really think that I had better hold my tongue, pleaded Mr. Gibson. You are quite right, Mr. Gibson, said Camilla. Indeed, it is wisest, said Mrs. French. I don't see what else he can do, said Arabella. Then was Miss Stanbury driven altogether beyond her powers of endurance. If that be so, said she, I must speak out, though I should have preferred to hold my tongue. Mr. Gibson did offer to my niece the week before last, twice, and was refused by her. My niece, Dorothy, took it into her head that she did not like him, and upon my word I think she was right. We should have said nothing about this, not a word, but when these false assertions are made on Mr. Gibson's alleged authority, and Mr. Gibson won't deny it, I must tell the truth. Then there was silence among them for a few seconds, and Mr. Gibson struggled hard, but vainly, to clothe his face in a pleasant smile. Mr. Gibson, is that true, said Miss Stanbury? But Mr. Gibson made no reply. It is as true as heaven, said Miss Stanbury, striking her hand upon the table, and now you had better all of you hold your tongues about my niece, and she will hold her tongue about you. And as for Mr. Gibson, anybody who wants him after this is welcome to him for us. Good morning, Mrs. French, good morning, young ladies. And so she stalked out of the room and out of the house, and walked back to her house in the close. Mama, said Arabella, as soon as the enemy was gone, I have got such a headache that I think I will go upstairs. And I will go with you, dear, said Camilla. Mr. Gibson, before he left the house, confided his secret to the maternal ears of Mrs. French. He certainly had been allured into making an offer to Dorothy Stanbury, but was ready to atone for this crime by marrying her daughter, Camilla, as soon as might be convenient. He was certainly driven to make this declaration by intense cowardice, not to excuse himself, for in that there could be no excuse, but how else should he dare to suggest that he might as well leave the house? Shall I tell the dear girl?" asked Mrs. French. But Mr. Gibson requested a fortnight in which to consider how the proposition had best be made. CHAPTER 49 Mr. Brooke Burgess after supper Brooke Burgess was a clerk in the office of the ecclesiastical commissioners in London, and as such had to do with things very solemn, grave, and almost melancholy. He had to deal with the rents of episcopal properties, to correspond with clerical claimants, and to be at home with the circumstances of underpaid vickers and perpetual curates with much less than three hundred pounds a year. But yet he was as jolly and pleasant at his desk as though he were busy about the collection of the malt tax, or wrote his letters to admirals and captains, instead of to deans and pre-benderies. Brooke Burgess had risen to be a senior clerk and was held in some respect in his office, but it was not perhaps for the amount of work he did, nor yet on account of the gravity of his demeanor, nor for the brilliancy of his intellect. But if not clever he was sensible, though he was not a dragon of official virtue he had a conscience, and he possessed those small but most valuable gifts by which a man becomes popular among men, and thus it had come to pass in all those battles as to competitive merit which had taken place in his as in other public offices that no one had ever dreamed of putting a junior over the head of Brooke Burgess. He was tractable, easy, pleasant, and therefore deservedly successful. All his brother clerks called him Brooke, except the young lads who, for the first year or two of their service, still denominated him Mr. Burgess. Brooke, said one of his juniors, coming into his room and standing before the fireplace with a cigar in his mouth, have you heard who is to be the new commissioner? Colenzo to be sure, said Brooke. What a lark that would be, and I don't see why he shouldn't, but it isn't Colenzo, the name has just come down. And who is it? Old Proudy from Barchester. Why we had him here years ago and he resigned. But he's to come on again now for a spell. It always seems to me that the bishops ain't a bit of use here. They only get blown up and snubbed and shoved into corners by the others. You young reprobate, to talk of shoving an archbishop into a corner. Well, don't they? It's only for the name of it they have them. There's the bishop of Broomsgrove. He's always sauntering about the place, looking as though he'd be so much obliged if somebody would give him something to do. He's always smiling and so gracious, just as if he didn't feel above half sure that he had any right to be where he is, and he thought that perhaps somebody was going to kick him. And so Old Proudy is coming up again, said Brooke. It certainly is very much the same to us whom they send. He'll get shoved into a corner, as you call it, only that he'll go into the corner without any shoving. Then there came in a messenger with a card, and Brooke learned that Hugh Stanbury was waiting for him in the stranger's room. In performing the promise made to Dorothy, he had called upon her brother as soon as he was back in London, but had not found him. Now was the return visit. I thought I was sure to find you here, said Hugh. Pretty nearly sure from eleven till five, said Brooke. A hard stepmother like the civil service does not allow one much chance of relief. I do get across to the club sometimes for a glass of sherry and a biscuit, but here I am now at any rate, and I'm very glad you have come. Then there was some talk between them about affairs at Exeter, but as they were interrupted before half an hour was over their heads by a summons brought for Burgess from one of the secretaries, it was agreed that they should dine together at Burgess's club on the following day. We can manage a pretty good beef steak, said Brooke, and have a fair glass of sherry. I don't think you can get much more than that anywhere nowadays, unless you want a dinner for eight at three guineas ahead. The magnificence of men has become so intolerable now that one is driven to be humbled in one's self-defense. Stanbury assured his acquaintance that he was anything but magnificent in his own ideas, that cold beef and beer was his usual fare, and at last allowed the clerk to wait upon the secretary. I wouldn't have any other fellow to meet you, said Brooke, as they sat at their dinners, because in this way we can talk over the dear old woman at Exeter. Yes, our fellow does make good soup, and it's about all that he does do well. As for getting a potato properly boiled, that's quite out of the question. Yes, it is a good glass of sherry. I told you we'd afferished half of sherry on, while I was there backwards and forwards for nearly six weeks. And how did you get on with the old woman? Like a house on fire, said Brooke. She didn't quarrel with you? No, upon the whole she did not. I always felt that it was touch and go. She might or she might not. Every now and then she looked at me and said a sharp word, as though it was about to come. But I had determined when I went there altogether to disregard that kind of thing. It's rather important to you, is it not? You mean about her money. Of course I mean about her money, said Stanbury. It is important, and so it was to you. Not in the same degree, or nearly so. And as for me it was not on the cards that we shouldn't quarrel. I am so utterly a Bohemian in all my ideas of life, and she is so absolutely the reversed, that not to have quarrelled would have been hypocritical on my part or on hers. She had got it into her head that she had a right to rule my life. And of course she quarreled with me when I made her understand that she should do nothing of the kind. Now she won't want to rule you. I hope not. She has taken you up, continued Stanbury, on altogether a different understanding. You are to her the representative of a family to whom she thinks she owes the restitution of the property which she enjoys. I was simply a member of her own family to which she owes nothing. She thought it well to help one of us out of what she regarded as her private purse, and she chose me. But the matter is quite different with you. She might have given everything to you as well as to me, said Brooke. That's not her idea. She conceives herself bound to leave all she has back to a Burgess, except anything she may save, as she says off her own back or out of her own belly. She has told me so a score of times. And what did you say? I always told her that let her do as she would, I should never ask any question about her will. But she hates us all like poison, except me, said Brooke. I never knew people so absurdly hostile as are your aunts and my uncle Barty. Each thinks the other the most wicked person in the world. I suppose your uncle was hard upon her once. Very likely he is a hard man, and has very warmly all the feelings of an injured man. I suppose my uncle Brooke's will was a cruel blow to him. He professes to believe that Miss Stanbury will never leave me a shilling. He is wrong, then, said Stanbury. Oh, yes, he's wrong, because he thinks that's her present intention. I don't know that he's wrong as to the probable result. Who will have it then? There are ever so many horses in the race, said Brooke. I'm one. You're the favorite, said Stanbury. For the moment I am, then there's yourself. I've been scratched, and am altogether out of the betting. And your sister continued, Brooke. She's only entered to run for the second money, and if she'll trot over the course quietly and not go the wrong side of the posts, she'll win that. She may do more than that. Then there's Martha. My aunt will never leave her money to a servant. What she may give to Martha would come from her own savings. The next is a dark horse but one that wins a good many races of this kind. He's apt to come in with a fatal rush at the end. Who is it? The hospitals. When an old lady finds in her latter days that she hates everybody and fancies that the people around her are all thinking of her money, she's uncommon likely to indulge herself in a little bit of revenge and solace herself with large-handed charity. But she's so good a woman at heart, said Hugh. And what can a good woman do better than promote hospitals? She'll never do that. She's too strong. It's a maudlin sort of thing, after all, for a person to leave everything to a hospital. But people are maudlin when they're dying, said Brooke, or even when they think they're dying. How else did the church get the estates of which we are now distributing so bountifully some of the last remnants down at our office? Come into the next room and we'll have a smoke. They had their smoke, and then they went at half price to the play. And after the play was over they ate three or four dozen of oysters between them. Brooke Burgess was a little too old for oysters at midnight in September, but he went through his work like a man. Hugh Standbury's powers were so great that he could have got up and done the same thing again, after he had been an hour in bed, without any serious inconvenience. But in truth Brooke Burgess had still another word or two to say before he went to his rest. They supped somewhere near the hay market, and then he offered to walk home with Standbury to his chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Do you know that Mr. Gibson at Exeter, he asked, as they passed through Leicester Square? Yes, I knew him. He was a sort of tame cat parson at my aunt's house in my days. Exactly, but I fancied that has come to an end now. Have you heard anything about him lately? Well, yes I have, said Standbury, feeling that dislike to speak of his sister which is common to most brothers when in company with other men. I suppose you've heard of it, and as I was in the middle of it all, of course I couldn't but know all about it too. Your aunt wanted him to marry your sister. So I was told. But your sister didn't see it, said Brooke. So I understand, said Standbury. I believe my aunt was exceedingly liberal, and meant to do the best she could for poor Dorothy, but if she didn't like him I suppose she was right not to have him, said Hugh. Of course she was right, said Brooke, with a good deal of enthusiasm. I believe Gibson to be a very decent sort of fellow, said Standbury. A mean, paltry dog, said Brooke. There had been a little whiskey toddy after the oysters, and Mr. Burgess was perhaps moved to a warmer expression of feeling than he might have displayed had he discussed this branch of the subject before supper. I knew from the first that she would have nothing to say to him. He is such a poor creature. I always thought well of him, said Standbury, and was inclined to think that Dolly might have done worse. It is hard to say what is the worst a girl might do, but I think she might do perhaps a little better. What do you mean, said Hugh? I think I shall go down and ask her to take myself. Do you mean it in earnest? I do, said Brooke. Of course I hadn't a chance when I was there. She told me. Who told you? Dorothy? No, your aunt. She told me that Mr. Gibson was to marry your sister. You know your aunt's way. She spoke of it as though the thing were settled as soon as she had got it into her own head, and she was as hot upon it as though Mr. Gibson had been an archbishop. I had nothing to do then but to wait and see. I had no idea of Dolly being fought for by rivals. Brothers never think much of their sisters, said Brooke Burgess. I can assure you I think a great deal of Dorothy, said Hugh. I believe her to be as sweet a woman as God ever made. She hardly knows that she has a self belonging to herself. I am sure she doesn't, said Brooke. She is a dear, loving, sweet-tempered creature who is only too ready to yield in all things. But she wouldn't yield about Gibson, said Brooke. How did she and my aunt manage? Your sister simply said she couldn't, and then that she wouldn't. I never thought from the first moment that she'd take that fellow. In the first place he can't say boo to a goose. But Dolly wouldn't want a man to say boo. I'm not so sure of that, old fellow. At any rate I mean to try myself. Now what'll the old woman say? She'll be pleased as punch I should think, said Stanbury. Either that or else she'll swear that she'll never speak another word to either of us. However I shall go on with it. Does Dorothy know anything of this, asked Stanbury? Not a word, said Brooke. I came away a day or so after Gibson was settled, and as I had been talked to all through the affair by both of them I couldn't turn round and offer myself the moment he was gone. You won't object, will you? Who, I, said Stanbury, I shall have no objection as long as Dolly pleases herself. Of course you know that we haven't as much as the brass farthing among us. That won't matter if the old lady takes it kindly, said Brooke. Then they parted at the corner of Lincoln's infields, and Hugh as he went up to his own rooms reflected with something of wonderment on the success of Dorothy's charms. She had always been the poor one of the family, the chick out of the nest which would most require assistance from the stronger birds, but now it appeared that she would become the first among all the Stanburys. Wealth had first flowed down upon the Stanbury family from the will of old Brooke Burgess, and it now seemed probable that poor Dolly would ultimately have the enjoyment of it all. End of Chapter 49. Being by Aria Lipshaw in New York City.